Page 1 of Accidentally Fudging the Beast
Chapter One
Dani
If hell froze over,took over the North Pole, and then staffed it exclusively with athletic trainers and physical therapists, you'd have a pretty good idea of what the Chicago Wind's training facility looks like the day before Christmas Eve.
Festive red and green scream from every corner of the facility, with LEDs blinking like our Christmas souls depend on it. I just got here, and it's already giving me a headache.
But, as usual, we're out of ibuprofen. We're out of ice. And we're definitely out of regular creamer, because the entire team has, apparently, made it their personal goal to drink me into a lactose-intolerant rage.
Yay for me.
I balance a tray of homemade fudge between my hip and the sticky glass door to the PT suite, praying the ediblestacked bricks don't slide off. If they land on the floor, my eternal soul is landing in hell. It's inevitable at this point. I did not slave over a burning oven and a recipe crafted in the pits of doom just to drop it now.
There's already a crowd on the other side of the door. Some of the guys are in team beanies and joggers. Some are still half-padded. One of the players, Colt Brisbane, is in nothing but compression shorts and a Santa hat, which is both anatomically impressive and emotionally scarring.
It's eight thirty in the morning, and I've had no caffeine. I am not mentally prepared for Colt—or not-so-little Colt—in compression shorts.
"Hey, Dani!" he shouts, waving at me.
I grunt a response as I pass by, too focused on not dropping the fudge to be polite. Somehow, I find a patch of counter not buried under athletic tape and set the fudge down, then suck in air precisely like a deranged woman who spent half the night cursing at an oven that runs ten degrees too hot.
I instantly regret my decision to practice deep breathing in here. It smells like ass.
I lean close to the fudge and inhale a big whiff to chase the ass stench.
So much better.
Honestly, if my new job as the team's glorified massage therapist doesn't pan out, I can always apply to be a contestant on The Great British Fudge-Off, right?
I eye the massive batch of fudge and quickly decide I probably shouldn't risk it. I hate making fudge. But desperate times and all of that.
This qualifies.
Apparently, the whole organization does a thrifty Secret Santa every year—and I drew Sandra's name. She hates everything. She's also the team's nutritionist, which means she'll probably sniff the fudge, groan thatit's just so bad for her, and then immediately regift it to her carb-loading boyfriend.
But I did not spend a whole paycheck on Ghirardelli and then nearly singe off my own eyebrow just so her boyfriend can eat fudge in a locker room while doing hip thrusts.
Hell, no. I made this fudge for science.
If Trent Kirk—six-foot-three, beast of a hockey god—eats a piece of my fudge, I officially have at least one advantage over the models who haunt his DMs.
If he likes it, I get bonus points.
And if he asks for the recipe? Well, I will be writing that into my future wedding vows.
I have the whole wedding planned out already. He's shirtless and oiled up. I'm naked. There's a Jumbotron, and we're the only audience.
Best. Wedding. Ever.
"Frost!" A glove slaps my ass, and I almost faceplantinto the fudge.
I whip around to see Ryan Clarke, one of the team's defensemen, grinning like a two-year-old who has just discovered the destructive potential of permanent markers. It's an apt description for the man. He's an overgrown terrorist with impulse control issues and a troublemaking reputation.
"Stop slapping my ass, Ryan," I growl, swatting him with an empty tape roll. "Or I'm swapping out your jock for one covered in jalapeno juice."
He just chuckles and shoulders past me, immediately plucking two squares of fudge off the plate.
"Sandra's gonna flip when you give her these," he says, shoving one in his mouth.
