Page 6 of Cross Check Daddies (Miami Icemen #3)

CHAPTER SIX

Brooke

The dream shouldn’t linger, but it does. It clings to me like sweat against silk sheets, every flash of heat and moan still vivid. My skin hums with memory, my body aching in places I shouldn’t be aching first thing in the morning.

I jolt upright, chest rising and falling, thighs clenched and slick. Damn. I drag a hand down my face, willing the images to fade.

Tanner. It was Tanner in the dream. Not Cam. Not the man I actually slept with days ago. His younger brother. The one who calls himself T and flashes that too-pretty smile like he knows exactly what it does to people.

I groan and throw the covers off. I shouldn’t be thinking about him. I definitely shouldn’t be dreaming about him. Not after Cam.

I push the thought away like I’m clearing a browser history.

My phone lights up on the nightstand.

7:48 AM.

Damn it.

I spring out of bed, grab a hoodie off the chair, and rush into Jackson’s room.

“Up, buddy,” I say, nudging him gently. “We’re late.”

He rubs his eyes and mumbles something unintelligible while Buddy lets out a dramatic yawn from the foot of his bed.

Breakfast is chaos. I toss a granola bar at Jackson, refill Buddy’s bowl, and shove my foot into one heel while I zip his backpack with the other hand.

We’re out the door in ten minutes. I don’t remember if I brushed my hair, but I do remember the text from Lisa flashing across my screen while I’m at a red light.

Photographer’s already waiting at the rink. Where are you??

I grit my teeth and press the gas pedal as soon as the light turns green.

Once Jackson is dropped off at school with a kiss to the top of his head and a very quick apology for the morning rush, I hit the highway and try to breathe.

The dream still lingers in the back of my mind like a sin I’m not ready to admit. It doesn’t help that I can still picture the way Tanner looked last night, smudged with road dust and smiling at my kid like he’d known him for years.

I shake it off and make it to the Miami Icemen facility in just under fifteen minutes. The parking lot is busy but not chaotic, which is a small miracle. I park, swipe on tinted balm, and pray my mascara hasn’t smudged.

Lisa meets me at the entrance, sleek in black slacks and a GameHatch tee. “Photographer’s already inside. Vega’s waiting.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, adjusting my blouse and straightening my spine. I’m supposed to look like I have my shit together.

Inside, it smells like cold air and adrenaline. I spot Leo Vega almost immediately—tall, lean, clipboard in hand, and sharp eyes that miss nothing. He waves me over, gaze flicking to the watch on his wrist as I approach.

“Brooke?”

“Hi,” I offer with a sheepish smile. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Yeah,” he replies, tone even but unimpressed. “The team’s already on the ice. You’re welcome to go watch while they finish up.”

“Is that okay?”

“They won’t mind.” His eyes twinkle just slightly before he turns and starts walking. “But wear flats next time.”

I follow him down a narrow hallway, heels clicking over the rubber mat. I’m regretting the shoes already, but it’s too late to change now.

The rink opens before us, expansive and bright under the overhead lights. My eyes search the ice automatically, and I catch sight of number 22—King. I clear my throat, looking away, pretending like I didn’t just imagine him pressed up behind me in a dream a few hours ago.

But my gaze betrays me. It keeps sliding back to where he moves, all raw strength and reckless precision, like the ice was built for him. He spins and slashes through it, face set in total concentration. My stomach twists.

“Morning,” a low voice says beside me.

I turn to find a man approaching, mid-forties with dark brown hair, streaked silver at the temples. Steel-gray eyes. Broad chest. Smells like leather.

Ace Carter.

He doesn’t offer a smile. Just a firm nod and a voice that doesn’t waste time.

“You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I had to get my son to school. I won’t let it happen again.”

We shake hands, his grip solid. Dominant. My wrist tingles when he releases it. He’s every bit as sexy as I remember him being on the internet, but in person, the grump levels are off the charts.

“You spoken to the coordinator yet?” he asks.

“We talked on the phone. That’s why I’m here today—to get reference photos for the avatar work.” I gesture toward the photographer Lisa’s already directing.

Ace just grunts and walks off like he’s got a game to win, and I’m just another scheduling hiccup. I exhale and turn to Leo, who gives me a sympathetic smile before heading toward the benches.

A movement on the ice catches my eye. Tanner. He spots me and lifts his hand in a quick wave. My stomach flutters in a way I wish it wouldn’t. I lift mine, fingers loose, and return it with a soft smile.

There’s something in his gaze—familiarity mixed with curiosity. He’s grown since high school. More solid. More intense. The way he looks at me now is nothing like the way he did back then. It’s hotter. Heavier.

I step closer to the edge, careful not to slip. My heels aren’t meant for rink life. I stay at the barrier, smiling as the players skate by in fast, brutal lines. Someone skids to a stop in front of me, sending a spray of ice near my shoes.

“Hey,” the guy says, tugging off his helmet with a cocky grin. “You the game lady?”

“Depends,” I say, amused. “You one of the puck boys?”

He grins wider. “Beau Callahan. I heard you’re building us a video game or something.”

I nod, opening the slim portfolio tucked under my arm. “These are early concept sketches. I want to base the avatars on your actual facial structure and motion range. Think less cartoon, more stylized realism. This way, fans can really play as you.”

“Damn,” he says, leaning over the barrier to study the sketches. “That’s me?”

“It will be,” I say, then glance around at the others. “I’ll be collecting photos today and finalizing the art direction this week. This is just a mock draft.”

Another player skates over. A third one calls out something about wanting his abs to be ‘super accurate’. They’re already hamming it up for the camera. Beau smirks. “So, what’s the game gonna be? NHL clone?”

“More like a hybrid,” I reply. “Part team sim, part lifestyle RPG. The core gameplay will be on-ice action, but the players will also have individual storylines, choices, relationships, fan interactions.”

Kieran whistles. “You’re gonna make us look hot, huh?”

“I mean... that’s up to you.”

He laughs, clearly enjoying himself. I catch Cam watching from across the rink, arms folded. He doesn’t smile, just watches, sharp-eyed and silent. The weight of it makes my skin flush.

This was supposed to be just a job. I remind myself of that with every step I take around the rink, every name I note, every camera shutter click. But something’s shifting beneath it all.

Between Cam’s heavy stares and Tanner’s devastating grin, I can already tell I’m in trouble.

And we haven’t even started yet.