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“Patience,” I snap. “Even with the oversized egos.”

He grunts. “Any of ’em giving you shit?”

“You know I can't give you intel on my team. That’s called espionage, Griffin. You're the enemy now.”

“The enemy? Your own brother?” He sounds genuinely offended, which only makes me grin. “I should’ve tried harder to get you on my team.”

“Not a chance in hell. I’ve dealt with your attitude for twenty-six years. If I had to see you at work and at home, I’d probably commit fratricide.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a pain in the ass who refuses to eat vegetables.”

He makes a gagging noise that only proves my point.

“I’m not asking for secrets. Just wondering if the assholes are still assholes.”

My silence answers him.

“Liam,” he bites out like the name’s rotten. “Didn’t peg you for the type to cater to guys who torched every bridge and still think they’re the victim.”

“Griffin.” My voice is all warning now.

“What? I'll never forget what that motherfucker pulled. Blew up two seasons, disrespected everyone any chance he got, didn’t give a shit who he steamrolled. He’s not misunderstood—he’s just an asshole. And you’re next if he decides to make you collateral damage. He’s straight poison, Kat.”

“I don’t get to choose who the hell I work with, Griff.”

“Yeah, well... stay the hell out of his orbit. Guys like him don’t change. They just get better at lying.”

A loaded pause stretches between us.

I shift. “How’s Vanessa?” While mentally rehearsing exactly how I'm going to tear Liam a new one for wasting my time. Being the team nutritionist means dealing with egos the size of hockey arenas, but punctuality isn’t negotiable. Not when his performance directly reflects on my competence.

“Gone. Hooked up with some trainer. Real cliché.”

“Griff, I’m sor—”

“I’m not. Met someone else. Doesn’t even know I play.”

“Already? That’s fast.”

“So?” His voice goes clipped, defensive.

“How new are we talking?”

“Her name's Alexis. Met her a couple weeks ago when the guys dragged me out to drown my sorrows. She’s different—didn't even recognize me, which was refreshing as hell. We've been hanging out pretty regularly.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little fast—”

I want to press, but the door creaks open—and he walks in like he owns the damn room.

Six-foot-two of coiled muscle, cocky swagger, and a fuckboy smirk. Dark hair damp at the edges like he just stepped out of the shower. All attitude.

He’s decked out in Cyclones gear, and his T-shirt clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal.

Liam Steele.

The overhead vent hums, pushing out recycled air tinged with locker room musk and sharp antiseptic. The kind of scent that clings to sweat and stubborn ambition.