Page 18 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Ace

The locker room clears out in waves, but Tanner lingers. I catch him leaning against the wall, jaw tight, eye already bruising from last night’s bullshit. He’s not talking. Not smiling. Just standing there like someone shoved replays of every mistake he’s ever made into his head.

I jerk my chin. “Office. Now.”

He doesn’t argue. That’s one thing about Tanner. Stubborn, reckless, but when I use the voice, he listens.

Inside, the door clicks shut behind him, and I fold my arms across my chest, watching him take the same chair he did when he was a rookie. The kid’s grown into a hell of a player. Strong on the puck, smarter than he looks. But today? Today, he looks like a man who knows he fucked up.

“What the hell was last night?” I ask. “Why were you fighting your brother?”

He rubs a palm over the back of his neck. “It’s complicated.”

Of course it is.

“Family drama is for the offseason,” I say. “Right now, you’re in uniform, on my bench. I don’t care what Cam said or did. Handle your shit.”

He nods once. “Yes, coach.”

I pause. Let the quiet stretch. “You focused?”

He meets my eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. Stay that way.”

I dismiss him with a nod, then head out to talk with Leo about roster shifts for next week.

There’s too much tension in the air and not enough tape on the sticks.

This season’s been a goddamn soap opera, and I’m over it.

I need players who show up clean and leave blood on the ice. That’s it. That’s all.

After the meetings, I drive out to my burger spot.

No crowd. Just grease, spice, and peace.

I order the usual—double patty, caramelized onions, extra pickles—and step off to the side to wait.

My mind’s still on strategy, post-season PR, and whether Deke’s shoulder is healing fast enough.

The bell above the door rings behind me, and I glance back by habit.

She’s there.

Brooke.

Alone in a booth, curled slightly in on herself, staring down at her half-eaten fries.

One elbow on the table, hand toying with her phone.

Her expression is tight. Guarded. Lips painted but smudged like she’s pressed them together too many times tonight.

Even from across the room, she looks wrecked in the quiet way people try to hide.

I curse under my breath.

I should leave. Not my place. She might not want to talk.

Might not want to see anyone connected to the team, let alone me.

But that doesn’t stop my feet from moving.

Doesn’t stop the slow, even breath I take before walking across the dining room and sliding into the booth beside her without asking.

She looks up, startled. Her eyes widen for a second. Then drop.

“Coach.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask, not bothering to sugarcoat it. She’s not the type who needs coddling.

She doesn’t answer. Just presses her head into my shoulder like something broke open in her, and I’m the only thing solid enough to lean on. I freeze.

Her body’s warm against mine, softer than I expected. I don’t move at first, because Christ, my cock responds like a dumb teenager’s. Surges in my jeans, thick and insistent, like it heard something it liked and wants to ruin everything with it.

I grit my teeth and force my voice to stay level. “Brooke.”

She doesn’t speak. Just stays there, tucked into me like maybe I’m not a coach or a boss. Like I’m just someone who showed up when she needed it. I slide my arm around her back slowly, the way you’d hold a live wire. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t pull away.

“Bad night?” I ask quietly.

She nods. No details. No defense. That’s enough.

I wave over the waiter, still holding her close. “Wrap her food up. To-go. Mine too.”

He gives me a nod and scurries off. I glance down at her. “C’mon. Let me take you home.”

She lifts her head slowly, eyes still shining but dry now. “You don’t have to?—”

“I know.”

The bag comes. I pay. We leave without another word.

Outside, the air’s cooler, but not enough to do shit about the heat still pooling low in my gut from the way she leaned into me. I walk with her to the curb.

“Where’s your car?”

She exhales. “At the car wash. Got stuck behind some weekend line, left it there.”

I nod once. “We’ll take mine.”

I open the passenger side of my SUV and wait as she climbs in, skirts her bag across her lap, legs tucked neatly to the side. She looks smaller now. Not fragile. Just... unfinished. Like her armor cracked somewhere, and she doesn’t know how to patch it yet.

As I round the front, I adjust my jeans. My cock’s still heavy against my thigh, annoyed with me for not doing anything about her body against mine earlier. I ignore it.

Once I’m in and the engine’s humming, I glance over. She’s looking out the window.

“You want music?”

She shakes her head.

I don’t press. Just drive.

The silence is thick but not awkward. Her thigh brushes mine every time we hit a bump. The bag shifts in her lap. Her lashes cast shadows across her cheeks in the glow of the dashboard lights.

I want to ask what happened. What made her drop her guard enough to press into someone like me. We are not exactly friends, are we?

We pull into my building’s underground lot, and I ease the SUV into its usual spot. The engine ticks when I kill it. She’s still quiet, looking out the windshield like maybe if she stares long enough, she’ll disappear into the concrete wall. I turn toward her.

“Where’s your kid tonight?”

She doesn’t flinch. “With the nanny. Overnights are rare, but I needed it.”

I nod once. “You’d rather come up to mine for a bit?”

Her head tilts, lashes lifting just enough for her eyes to meet mine. “Why are you being nice to me?”

I lean my elbow against the steering wheel, watching her face, the little twist at the corner of her mouth, the effort it takes her to ask that, like she doesn’t already know the answer. “Truth? I’m not sure,” I say. “But I don’t feel like letting you eat cold fries alone.”

She stares at me for another beat, then opens the door. That’s answer enough.

The elevator hums on the way up. She pulls a wipe from her bag and cleans her face like she’s scrubbing off the day. The lipstick comes off in one swipe. The liner too. She presses her lips together, and I glance away, watching the numbers tick higher.

Inside the loft, the door swings open to soft lighting and clean lines. The space is warm. Leather, polished concrete, muted navy accents, and tall windows that frame the skyline like it was hung there for show.

The walls are a mix of vintage hockey memorabilia, a mounted pair of old skates, and black-and-white photos from my playing days. A wide sectional wraps around a low table. The kitchen’s open, industrial, stainless steel with matte cabinets. Nothing fancy.

She steps inside and pauses by the sitting area up the short staircase, eyes sweeping the space. “You have quite the setup,” she calls, dropping her bag near the edge of the couch.

I take the food bag from her hand. “I’ll throw these in the oven. Won’t take long.”

From the kitchen, I watch her settle, pulling her legs up beside her, eyes still darting around the room like she’s trying to read me through my furniture.

“You want a beer?”

She nods. “Yeah. Thanks.”

I hand her one, crack mine open, and lean on the kitchen island as I sip. She takes a drink, wipes condensation from her palm against her jeans, then looks at me over the bottle.

“You play games?” she asks.

“Yeah. Nothing pro or weird. Just to unwind.”

Her mouth quirks. “That’s funny.”

“What?”

She shifts her legs, curling tighter into the couch. “You, being nice. Today was shit. And now I’m sitting in your apartment, drinking your beer, and I just didn’t expect to find out we had anything in common.”

“You calling me old, Brooke?”

She laughs, and it’s real this time, sharp around the edges but clean. She grabs the remote off the coffee table. “No, Coach. Just... surprised.”

She flicks through the game menu. “Let’s see what kind of Super Mario games you’ve got loaded.”

But when she clicks into my library, the screen floods with something else entirely.

Call of Duty. Most recent version. Loaded. Waiting.

She blinks. “No way.”

I arch a brow. “What?”

“I play this all the time.”

I raise my beer again. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says, leaning forward like she’s forgotten she was miserable a few minutes ago.

“And whoever designed the A.I. for the bots needs a refresher on basic aggression hierarchy. Like, the spawn points are total garbage in multiplayer unless you reroute based on team ratio, and don’t even get me started on the weapon customization limits—they broke the sniper balance just to favor SMGs, and that’s lazy as hell. ”

She’s animated now, eyes sharp, mouth moving fast. Her hands gesture like she’s sketching the code in midair. I lean against the back of the couch and just watch as her voice fills the space.

“You want to play?” I ask when she pauses for breath. “I’ve got an extra controller.”

“Yeah,” she says, grabbing the controller before I’ve even moved.

I boot the game, log in. She shifts closer on the couch, brushing her knee against mine without noticing. Her profile pops up in the corner of the screen. PixelVixen. The name rings familiar. Too familiar.

My jaw goes tight. “Wait. No. That’s you?”

She glances at me, smug. “You know me?”

I stare at the screen. I’ve been playing against her for months. Trash talk in the lobby. Clutch kill steals. Endless matches where I swear and sweat and fantasize about knocking her out of first place.

Holy shit.

She’s that PixelVixen.

“You’re IceVice?” she asks suddenly, putting it together. “Wait— you’re the one who rage-quit that ranked round last week?”

I exhale. “You glitched the extraction point with a grenade loop. That’s not skill. That’s petty sabotage.”

She throws her head back and laughs, full-on belly laugh now, no reserve. “You got so pissed. Holy crap.”

“I’m pissed now,” I mutter, my cock stirring hard against my zipper as she keeps laughing, that sound winding its way straight through me.

She’s right here. On my couch. Giddy, flushed, sharp-tongued, and barefoot, like she’s belonged in this room for years. I watch her tuck her feet under her again, scrolling through game modes like she owns the place.

And my cock—traitorous bastard—presses against my jeans again, thickening with every passing second.

Fuck.

PixelVixen is sitting next to me, laughing, cheeks pink, neck exposed. I want to reach out and tilt her face toward mine, press my mouth to hers until she forgets about the game and gives me something else to win.

And judging by the way she’s glancing at me now, mouth still curved, pupils darker, I’m not the only one remembering those dirty messages we typed once during a match at two a.m.

“Coach,” she says softly, eyes flicking down, then up again. “You okay?”

I shift slightly, clearing my throat, adjusting my jeans under the guise of leaning forward. “Yeah. Just... processing.”

“You gonna be a sore loser again?”

I look at her. Really look. At the curve of her thigh. The tilt of her smile. The glow in her eyes that wasn’t there at the burger joint.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I say, voice low, curling around the edge of a growl. “I don’t plan on losing.”