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Too sharp. Too smug. Too... fuckable.

And fuckin’ off-limits. Full stop.

And yet, somehow it only makes me want her more.

The smart move would be to shut this down—file her undercareer-ending temptationsand walk the hell out.

But logic’s never done shit for me.

Every time she fucking smirks, she reminds me of the ghost of the girl who wrecked me that night— like she’s daring me.

I want what I want.

And right now? I want her bent over that desk— the one her big brother probably helped her land— moaning for the guy he’d rather have buried in the penalty box.

The puck’s dropped.

And I’m not leaving the ice until I fuckin’ score.

Two hours later, I’m in the equipment room, trying to work off the tension that’s been eating me alive since I walked out of her office. The room reeks of sweat, leather, and that sharp bite of freshly sharpened steel. I’m retaping my stick for the third time today, muscle memory taking over while my brain spirals. Griffin fucking Novak’s sister.

The tape tears under my fingers. I start over. Seventeen wraps around the blade. Always seventeen. Some habits die hard, even when everything else is going to shit.

That’s when she walks in.

Katarina steps through the doorway with her clipboard, all business, but I catch the way her eyes find me immediately. Like she knew I’d be here.

“Your grip pressure’s off,” she says, nodding toward my stick.

I pause mid-wrap. “What?”

“During drills today. You were gripping too tight. Tension travels up your arms, affects your shot release.”

She steps closer, and I smell that scent that’s been driving me crazy—clean and warm and dangerously distracting.

“Nutritionally, it suggests elevated cortisol. Stress.”

I laugh, harsh. “You can diagnose stress from stick grip?”

“I can diagnose a lot of things you don’t think I notice.”

The tape tears again. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like the fact that you’ve been avoiding carbs because you think they’ll slow you down, but really you’re just running on empty. Like how you tape your stick exactly seventeen times around the blade—I’ve counted. Like how you haven’t slept more than four hours a night since we started this whole charade.”

I stare at her. She’s been watching me that closely?

“Your body’s a machine, Liam. But machines break down when you don’t maintain them properly.”

“And you think you know how to maintain me?”

Her cheeks flush, but her voice stays steady. “I think you’re self-destructing, and you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

I should tell her she’s wrong. Should grab my gear and walk away. Instead, I grip the edge of the equipment rack, knuckles white.

“You want to help? Stay the fuck out of my head during practice.”

Chapter fourteen