Page 7 of On Thin Ice

Stryker looked me up and down appraisingly, his gaze lingering a beat too long to be purely professional. The intensity in those bright blue eyes made my breath catch in my throat. “Big opportunity to learn from one of the best in the game,” he said eventually.

I nodded, forcing a tight smile. My ego wanted to believe the compliment was sincere, but I was a far cry from the best at anything anymore. Hadn’t been for a few seasons now, to be honest. “Hmm, we’ll see.”

If my indifference bothered him, the rookie didn’t let on.

“This is where I’m probably supposed to say I’m sorry about breaking your record at Thackery,” he continued, his eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “But I’m really not.” He tossed me a slow, knowing grin and sauntered back over to his stall, basking the entire way in chirps from nearby teammates.

“Had to happen sooner or later,” I murmured to myself while trying to ignore the way my skin tingled where we had touched.

I couldn’t remember the last time someone had affected me like this, and it was more than a little unsettling.

Once out on the ice, it became immediately apparent that Stryker’s bravado was well-earned. He was like a rocket—blowing past guys with blazing speed, sniping pucks from every angle, and hitting anything that moved. His hands were incredibly soft for such a physical player.

After a while, Coach Mackenzie split us into two teams for a scrimmage, Stryker and I going head-to-head on opposing sides. I didn’t know if I was being paranoid, but it felt like a deliberate choice from the coaching staff—a test of sorts.

So much for easing us into things.

When the puck dropped, everyone jumped into action, the sound of skates cutting across ice filling the air. Oscar hit me with a crisp pass, and I immediately felt the pressure of Stryker’s forecheck.

I shielded the puck with my body, just like I’d done countless times before. But the kid was relentless. His stick waseverywhere, constantly threatening to pry the puck free. I managed to chip it past him to Cian O’Leary just as Stryker’s body slammed into mine, pinning me against the boards.

For a moment, we were tangled up, breath and muscle and heat. My body stiffened, but Stryker barely seemed to notice.

And then, as quickly as it happened, he was gone, racing away with that incredible speed of his.

A few moments later, when my side had regained possession, I couldn’t resist taunting him as I skated past. “Nice try, rook, but you’re gonna need to work on your control.”

Stryker’s answering grin was absolutely filthy with promise. “Oh, I’ve got plenty of control.” His voice dipped just low enough to make it sound like a challenge. “Maybe I’ll get to show you someday.”

I stared at him, my brain short-circuiting and my mouth suddenly incapable of speech. For a second, I forgot how to skate. My grip tightened around my stick, my pulse kicking up in response to his stupid fucking smirk.

He was still grinning when I finally forced myself to move.

“You wish, kid,” I said, brushing past him and definitelynotthinking about what it would feel like to let him take control in the one place I longed to give it up.

Fuck. I needed to get my mind out of the gutter.

If I survived this practice, it’d be a miracle.

CHAPTER2

ETHAN

Stryker Bell was a goddamn menace. While the rest of us ran through our plays with military-like precision, he improvised, dangling through defenders, his edge work so sharp his turns and transitions were some of the most precise I’d ever seen. At the blue line, he caught a stretch pass and, instead of making the chip to center like we’d practiced a hundred fucking times this week, he spun off Johannsen and ripped a shot top shelf, sending the puck past Keats before he could react.

“Kid’s a showboating little shit, but you can’t deny he can skate.” O’Leary exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

It was the kind of move that would go viral on HockeyTube within minutes if our PR crew decided to share it out—the kind of cocky, selfish bullshit that had steam practically shooting out of my ears.

I slammed my stick against the ice in frustration, the sharp crack echoing through the space. In my periphery, I saw Coach Mack shoot me a warning glance, but my focus stayed locked on Stryker, my jaw clenched so hard I could feel my molars grinding.

“Jesus,” Oscar said as we lined up for another drill. “The rookie’s got moves.”

“Yeah,” I admitted begrudgingly.

Skating backward, Stryker caught my eye, smirked, then turned his attention to Miller, flicking him a two-finger salute before adding a little shimmy for good measure.

“For fuck’s sake.” My grip tightened on my stick. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

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