Page 2 of Pucking Sweet

“It can be, if you know how to be careful,” she hedges. “Novikov clearly doesn’t . . . or he just doesn’t care.”

I close my laptop and push away from my desk, slipping my feet back into my patent leather Saint Laurent slingbacks. “Okay, Clary-B. Give it to me straight. What’s the fallout?”

“Pretty much what we expected. They’re calling the Rays a bunchof party boys and players. The fan groups are split between wishing they were invited and wishing the team was setting a better example for the city.”

I stand, slipping into my heels like armor. “Did Novikov post any of those photos to his own social media?”

“No, he hasn’t posted anything since he announced his trade.” That’s a relief at least.

“You know, Angela Whitney over at the Bruins warned me about him,” I say, stuffing my laptop into my purse. “The moment they announced, she was in my emails asking for a call. I’d hoped he’d at least wait until the season started before he pulled this crap here.”

“Maybe it’s a one-off. Just letting off some end-of-summer steam

before the season starts.”

“Yeah, and maybe he’s a party-loving pretty boy with more charisma than sense, determined to make my job here impossible.” I sling my heavy bag over my shoulder, clutching my buzzing phone in my manicured hand. Whoever they are and whatever they need, they’re going to have to wait.

Claribel watches me round the desk. “What are you gonna do, boss?”

“I’ll tell you what I’mnotgonna do. I’m not giving Novikov the long leash he had up in Boston.” I snatch my facility access pass off the hook by the door. “He thinks he can behave here the way he did up there? I intend to educate.”

“You gonna tug on his leash a little, Pop?”

I slip the lanyard around my neck. “If I have to.”

She leans against the wall by the door. “You gonna call him a ‘bad boy?’ Make him crawl?”

“I’m not above treating these grown men like naughty children,” I say, freeing my ponytail from under the lanyard. “Athletes crave structure. Sometimes they just need a firm hand.”

“Kinky. Can I watch?”

I step past her and shrug. “Sure.”

Her expression brightens just a little. “Can I record it?”

“No.”

She shuts my door and follows me down the hall. “What about just audio?”

My heels click as I head for the elevator. “No, Claribel.”

“What about a picture?” she says at my shoulder. “Trust me, boss, there’s nothing hotter than seeing a man who deserves it get reprimanded by a female superior.”

I laugh, jabbing my thumb on the elevator’s shiny silver down button. The elevator doors open and we both step inside. I hate elevators, but it can’t be helped. I am simply not climbing four flights of stairs every time I need something from one of the players.

As the doors close, I smile. “Fine. One picture. We look at it, then we delete it.”

Her eyes are already back on her phone, but I see her smirk. “Consider it done, boss.”

2

Well, hot goddamn. I am on fire. Training camp is going exceptionally well for me. Thanks to my grueling summer cardio routine, I’m as fast as I’ve ever been out on the ice. Strong too. At twenty-six, I’m seven years into my NHL career, and I’m in the best shape of my life. I feel like a bull only just hitting my prime.

As if I need the affirmation, the next words out of the physical therapy intern’s mouth are: “You’ve been looking great out there, man.”

“Thanks.”

“Seriously, you’re really fun to watch.” Teddy O’Connor stands at the end of the massage table, my feet cupped in his hands as he gently jiggles my legs. It always helps me to get some of the lactic acid moving before I hit the ice.

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