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I stare at that tattoo. At him.

And the professional distance I’ve built crumbles like broken glass.

The man from that night. Half-naked. Right here.

The one who's been wrecking my sleep for weeks.

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

Griffin's warnings explode in my head like grenades. But my body's already made its choice. Heat floods my veins before I can stop it.

Liam's eyes find my name tag, and everything changes.

That's not surprise in his expression.

It's recognition.

And that terrifies me.

“‘Novak,’ he murmurs, rolling the name around like a puzzle piece that just snapped into place. ‘Huh. Worked with a real bastard named Novak. Self-righteous. Explosive fucker. He’s the reason I was traded to begin with.” Our eyes meet, “Any relation?”

My pulse stutters.

His stare cuts like a blade—predatory. Like he’s just found something he wasn’t supposed to.

Does he know?

Does he realize the woman who unraveled in his arms is sitting across from him now—with the same last name as his biggest enemy pinned to her chest?

I don’t answer. I can’t.

He leans forward. Huffs a laugh—slow, jagged.

“Well, shit. Griffin fuckin’ Novak.”

Everything in me stills.

A memory—his mouth, that cock—slams into me.

I blink. Once. Twice.

I can’t let him see the quake beneath my ribs.

Because just like that, the man who wrecked me— looks ready to go to war.

Against my brother.

Against me?

I've been dreading this moment for three days. Twenty-three pairs of eyes track my every move as I set up my laptop. The conference room smells like pure testosterone.

My first team meeting starts with a player asking if keto means he can eat bacon for breakfast.

"Technically yes," I say, setting up my laptop at the front of the conference room. "Practically, you'll crash harder than your rookie season stats."

Christ there he is. I'm ready to crawl under a rock.

A few guys laugh. Good. Humor helps the medicine go down.