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“Totally fine,” I say, flashing a smile I hope reads cool and approachable instead of deranged and sleep-deprived. “Just trying to find Human Resources. I’ve got my paperwork for the badge and all that fun stuff.”

He gestures down the hallway. “Right this way. Congrats, by the way. Always nice to see new faces.”

“Thanks!” I follow him, trying not to trip on my own feet or stare too hard at everything like a starstruck tourist. “Everyone says the Cyclones are a great group.”

He glances over his shoulder and grins. “They are. Most of the time. Hockey players can get rowdy, but it’s all part of the charm.”

I raise a brow. “Charm, huh? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He chuckles and waves me toward a hallway. “HR’s at the end. Can’t miss it.”

I thank him and make my way down the corridor, passing half-empty offices and closed doors. Some muffled voices drift out, but otherwise, it’s quiet.

I knock, and the door swings open to reveal Martin from my interview.

“Katarina! So glad you made it.”

“Happy to be here,” I chirp, genuinely excited—if also mildly terrified I’m going to screw this up in spectacular fashion.

Martin introduces me to Gerald, a silver-fox type who looks like he belongs on a cereal box in a rocking chair. Apparently, he was a team nutritionist for decades and now consults for the Cyclones. Basically, the Gandalf of athlete diets.

“Anything I should look out for?” I ask, shaking Gerald’s hand.

He gives a warm smile. “Couple allergies to watch. And some of the boys like to push boundaries, but nothing dangerous.”

Martin snorts. Gerald winks. I file both reactions under noted.

“Anyone likely to throw a tantrum over kale?” I ask.

“Not kale,” Gerald muses. “But maybe the idea of fewer fried chicken tenders.”

Fair.

“Biggest tip?” Gerald adds. “Don’t let them see you sweat. Especially not the ones who think they’re gods on skates.”

I nod. That’s advice I’ve heard before. Kitchens and locker rooms have one thing in common: a few too many men who test your patience just to see if you’ll break.

But I don’t break easy.

By the time I leave, I’ve got my badge, my office keys, and enough adrenaline to power a small country.

I hop in my car, planning to treat myself to something greasy and celebratory. Maybe fries. Or tacos. Or both. I start to back out—

CRUNCH.

“Oh shit.” My stomach plummets. That wasn’t a curb. That was a car.

I slam it in park and jump out, already fumbling for my insurance card and practicing my bestI swear I’m not usually this clumsy smile.

Then I hear it.

“You better fucking have insurance.”

The voice is deep. Sharp. Laced with enough barely restrained fury to make my fight-or-flight instinct start scanning for exits.

I look up—and damn near swallow my tongue.

Six-foot-something. Cyclones jacket. Arms crossed over a chest built like a Greek tragedy. And those eyes—icy, electric, and glaring straight through me.