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All that confidence and control I usually carry around like a badge of honor? Poof. Gone the second the door clicked shut behind him.

I’d never come twice before with anyone but myself, and here this mystery man shows up and makes me see God. Twice. With just his hands and that dirty little mouth. Maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe it’s just science. Either way, the man might act like a dick, but he sure as hell knows how to use the one he’s got.

His thick, long cock had me begging to be stripped of every ounce of dignity I had, and I’ loved every second of it.

But that’s old news. I’ve moved on. I’m fine.

Totally. Absolutely. Fine.

Even if I still dream about those hands on my hips and the way his voice scraped over my skin like velvet over broken glass.

“Not now, brain,” I mutter, yanking the steering wheel harder than necessary as I pull into the Cyclones’ arena lot.

We’re not doing this today.

Because today? Today is the first day of my dream job. And if I have any self-respect left, I am not going to waste it thinking about a man who clearly didn’t care enough to check if I was still breathing after he made me see stars.

Never thought I’d end up in this small Florida town surrounded by palm trees and sweaty, ego-driven athletes, instead the hustle of the city, but here I am.

The Canyon Bay Cyclones might be the NHL’s new baby franchise, just a couple years in,but they’re building something big—and now I’m officially part of it.

“You sure you don’t want me to have Aiden call someone to get you in?” Aurora asks—because of course she did. Best friend duties and all. But I just smiled and did what I always do when someone offers a shortcut, I dig in my heels and take the long way—running.

I wanted this on my own. Iearnedthis. And when I texted Griffin that I landed the Cyclones gig all by myself, his reaction waschef’s kiss.Mostly because he couldn’t argue without sounding like a condescending jackass…typical brother shit.

When I got the offer, I danced like a freaking gremlin in my kitchen. Full chaos mode. Then I tried to call Aurora—no answer. Typical. Probably mid-makeout session with Aiden.So I shrieked barefoot into the void and called my parents instead, still sounding like I’d won the lottery.

Dad cried. Griffin tried to act supportive but mostly just grunted like a damn caveman. He’s always hated the Cyclones. Says it’s a “culture thing,” whatever that means. He even went as far as to try to get me hired with the Reapers—his team—crazy thing… they didn’t even have a nutritionist opening. The guy practically offered to invent a job for me to stop me from applying to the Cyclones, and when I said no…he was livid.

But this time, he’s especially pissed—apparently, there’s some new asshole on their roster who just got traded from the Reapers. Someone hereallycan’t stand.

Honestly? That might’ve made the whole thing taste even sweeter. He’s such an asshole.

Growing up with a chef for a dad meant I was basically raised with a spatula in one hand and a cutting board in the other. Griffin whined through every meal prep lesson. I thrived. Especially when Dad got diagnosed with diabetes and I got to turn our kitchen into a culinary lab of low-sugar genius. That’s when I realized I didn’t just love food—I loved making it work for people.

Let food be thy medicine.

Now I get to do that for professional athletes. How wild is that?

I park, inhale a deep breath, and try not to sweat through my blouse. First impressions are important, and I’m not showing up looking like I lost a fight with the Florida sun.

Spoiler: I already did. My foundation is halfway to puddle territory.

I step into the arena’s blast of AC like I’ve been reborn.

Holy hell, the place looks incredible. Smells like new paint. Polished floors. Gleaming signage. Not a single stray cup or scrap of tape in sight.

Definitely a glow-up since the last time I was here—back when it looked like a frigging construction site with a hockey problem.

It’s wild. Ice and palm trees, sitting on the edge of the ocean.

Only in Canyon Bay.

“Hey, can I help you?”

I jump so hard I nearly scream. A security guard—mid-thirties, friendly face—backs up with both hands raised like I’m a startled raccoon.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”