Page 105 of Pucking Around

“Six,” he mutters.

“And if you’re not trying to put on a brave face for me so you can stay on that ice? What is it then?”

He jerks his blocker free but doesn’t move away. “Eight.”

“Oh, Mars…let me help you,” I plead.

“You are helping me.”

“No, let mereallyhelp you. Let me get you scans—”

“No.”

“We can’t keep doing this! I need to know what’s wrong. And I have an idea—”

“I saidno,” he growls.

I take a breath. He’s in fight mode. Well, I’m a fighter too. I pop my hands on my hips and lift my chin. “Well, I’m sayingyes.”

He scoffs, turning away.

“Walk away from me, Kinnunen, and just see what happens.”

He stomps forward, crowding me. “Are you threatening me, Doctor Price?”

“You’re damn right I am,” I growl right back. “I don’t think you understand the position you’re in here, Mars. You’re skating around likeyoucall the shots. ButI’min charge,” I say, jabbing a thumb at my chest. “Did you forget that I sign your medical release forms? The FIHA wants your records, Mars.I’mthe one that gets to fax them over. What I write on those forms depends on you. So, do you have a labral tear that will require emergent surgery, benching you for the rest of the season? Or do you have a mild groin pull and you’re sitting out for two weeks as a simple precaution?”

“You can’t bench me. I have to play—”

“No, you idiot. You have tolive,” I cry, fisting his jersey with both hands. “You may look like a hockey Thor, but you’re not a god, Ilmari. You’re flesh and blood and you’re grinding yourself into that ice. And I won’t allow it.”

“What does that mean?” he growls.

I hold his gaze, letting the hammer fall. “It means you’re done. You’re benched, Mars—”

“No!”

“For the rest of this gameandyour Tuesday game at a bare minimum,” I add.

“Saatana,” he curses, punching the concrete wall. I doubt he feels it through the blocker. “I trusted you. I came to you for help.”

“And thisisme helping,” I counter, not giving him a single inch.

“You said you would keep me on the ice—”

“I said I would try,” I correct. “You get to think about the game first. Every single person in this arena right now is thinking about the damn game. I’m thinking aboutyou—”

The words are barely out of my mouth when he slings his massive, padded arm around my shoulders, pulling me against him. He crouches down in one swoop, pressing me closer, and then he’s kissing me. The stubble of his beard tickles my mouth. He tastes like salt and sweat, and something sweetly spiced, honey and menthol.

Oh, holy fuck—I’m kissing him back.

Yep, my lips are definitely moving. I’m tasting him. My fingers are clutching to his jersey. One minute we were standing in the dark, shouting at each other, and now we’re kissing. I gasp, slapping at his pads as I tilt my head back, breaking our kiss. He lets me go and I dart back a step. “What the fuck was that?”

He’s panting too, eyes locked on me.

I feel like the stupid fox who wanders into a sleeping bear’s den.

Don’t poke the bear, Rachel.Don’t poke the desperately attractive, sexual magnet of a man-bear.

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