Page 11 of Dirty Play

I fake a pass toward Damien, pulling a defenseman just enough out of position to slip the puck through his legs. Ares catches it clean and fires it home. Top shelf.

“Textbook.” Damien grins as he skates toward me.

“We’re not here for applause,” I growl. “Again.”

We reset, the drill rolling into another burst of movement.

Damien plants himself in front of the crease, a fortress daring anyone to challenge him. Ares weaves through defenders like it’s a damn ballet. I’m everywhere, forechecking, quarterbacking the play from the neutral zone, barking orders when someone’s too slow to react.

“Stick down, Harper! You playing hockey or sweeping floors?”

It’s brutal, the kind of practice that separates NHL players from the wannabes. But that’s the point.

I hear a whistle blow and glance toward the bench. That’s when I see her.

Little Miss Hellcat, perched on the edge of the stands with a tablet in her hands. She’s wearing a maroon polo today, probably having learned from yesterday’s practice not to wear a T-shirt in here.

She’s watching us, her expression assessing, her fingers flying over the screen like she’s taking inventory of every second.

What the hell is she doing here again?

I force my focus back to the drill, but it’s like her stare follows me.

Damien takes a slap shot, and I catch the rebound on my blade. One of our rookie defenders closes in too slow. I pull a quick toe drag, faking him out so badly he nearly trips over his own skates.

The puck is mine, and so is the moment. I flick it into the corner of the net, clean and precise.

Yells rumble through the rink, but my eyes drift back to Livia again. She’s still watching, her head tilting slightly like she’s analyzing me under a microscope. Her gaze on me is unnerving, but what’s more unnerving is the way my body reacts to it. With a grunt, I push off and get into position again.

Thirty minutes later, the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, but my focus is split. I feel the usual burn in my legs, the satisfaction of knowing we pushed ourselves hard, but it’s muted, dimmed by something else. That’s never happened before. I’ve had countless puck bunnies watching me from the stands, stripping my gear off in their minds, and it’s never stolen my focus. Ever.

I look up, feeling sweat on my brow. Livia’s still there, perched on the bench, already looking way too comfortable for her second day in this place. Her tablet rests in her lap, but she’s not typing away anymore. Now, it’s abandoned, forgotten, because she’s talking to one of the rookies.

Davidson. The kid is barely out of diapers, still green from the AHL.

Whatever he’s saying, it must be fucking riveting because she’s laughing. Not a polite chuckle either. No, this is head-tilted-back, eyes-bright kind of laughter. The kind that makes her look…carefree.

And even more beautiful.

The realization hits like a body check, and I hate it. I hate the way my gaze lingers on the curve of her mouth, the way her caramel-blonde hair sways as she throws her head back. Davidson shifts closer, leaning casually against the boards like he’s trying to edge into her space.

What the hell is he saying to make her laugh like that?

My jaw tightens. I realize too late that my teeth are clenched, the pressure radiating up to my temples. My grip on my stick tightens until the shaft creaks in protest.

Am I jealous?

Over fucking Davidson?

No. That can’t be it. It’s not like I give a shit who makes Ms. Moody…less moody. It’s not like her laugh should even matter or have my heart racing.

Fuck.

I force myself to look away, skating over to grab a stray puck near the boards. The motion helps and gives me something to focus on besides the knot twisting in my gut.

But I can still hear the faint echoes of her laughter, and it crawls under my skin.

The ice is quiet now, empty except for me.

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