Page 3

Chapter three

~LIVIA~

Walking through the halls of the arena the next day, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting to Rowan DiMarco again. Infuriating . That’s the word that comes to mind when I think about him. Big, tattooed, and handsome. A trifecta of trouble that seems to have everyone hanging on his every word. The kind of man who probably never has to ask for anything because the world just hands it to him on a silver platter. Well, not me.

I’m not here to feed his ego or cater to his mood swings. I’m here to prove—to this team, myself, and my parents, who said I wouldn’t last in this job—that I belong. And if Rowan thinks he can throw a wrench in my plans because he woke up on the wrong side of the bed, he’s sorely mistaken.

Still, his image lingers in my head—that towering frame, those sharp green eyes that seem to notice everything, and that maddening smirk. I shake the thoughts away with a small sigh.

The faint sounds of blades scraping against ice catch my attention as I pass by the practice rink. I step inside, my eyes drawn to the team already deep into their drills.

As I step inside, the steady hum of activity echoes through the arena. The air of the halls fades into the raw energy of the rink. It’s freezing in here, but seeing the players out on the ice makes me forget about the chill.

I spot an empty seat near the middle of the stands, next to a young woman with auburn hair tied in a loose braid, green eyes framed by long lashes, and a scattering of freckles across her nose. She’s watching the ice intently, her lips curved into a small smile.

“Mind if I sit here?” I ask, my voice low so I don’t disturb her.

“Oh, not at all! Go ahead.” She glances up, her smile widening.

I slide into the seat, my attention immediately being pulled to the ice. The guys are split into two teams for practice, and the play is fast—so fast that my eyes struggle to keep up. I’ve seen hockey games before, but this is different. These are professional players honing their skills, and these are some of the best in the league.

Ares Black, number 8, barrels down the ice like a freight train, his sheer size defying the laws of physics as he weaves past defenders with startling agility.

“Wow,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

The girl beside me chuckles. “Yeah, they’re something else, aren’t they? No matter how many times I watch, I still have that same reaction.”

I nod absently, my gaze shifting to number 13. That’s Damien Colton, from what I remember. He’s lightning-quick, his skates carving sharp turns as he races across the ice. His passes are so precise they seem premeditated, each one landing perfectly on his teammates’ sticks.

But then there’s number 19. Rowan DiAsshole.

He’s everywhere at once, orchestrating chaos like a maestro conducting a symphony. He moves with an uncanny grace, his powerful strides eating up the ice. At one point, he takes the puck, his eyes scanning the ice like a predator sizing up its prey.

Two defenders close in on him, but he doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he feigns left, drawing them both out of position before cutting sharply to the right and slipping the puck through their legs.

My breath catches as he speeds toward the net, his stick dancing with the puck like it’s an extension of his body. The goalie braces, but Rowan doesn’t even give him a chance. He fires a shot so clean, so calculated, that it’s in the back of the net before the goalie’s gloves can move.

“Langley, you’re distracted again,” Rowan barks at him. “Wake the fuck up!”

“Holy…” I trail off, my words stolen by the display.

“Impressive, isn’t he?” the girl says beside me, a knowing smile on her lips.

I can only nod, my eyes still glued to Rowan. There’s a reason he’s the captain, and it’s written in every move he makes.

When I finally tear my gaze away, I glance at the girl beside me. “Sorry, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Livia, team PR.”

“It’s really nice to meet you, Livia.” Her smile widens. “I’m Avery. It’s nice to have someone to watch them with, finally.” She lets out a little laugh.

“You work with the team?” I ask, curiosity piqued.

“Not exactly,” she says, her tone casual. “I’m just here a lot.”

So, one of the players’ girlfriends, I’m assuming.

My eyes drift back to the ice, where Rowan barks orders to his teammates, his voice cutting through the cacophony like a whip.

“He’s a pain in the ass, though. That one,” I say, nodding toward Rowan. “The captain.”

“Yeah, that’s Rowan for you.” Avery laughs again, a light, melodic sound. “Though the same thing can be said about all of them from time to time.”

“He’s got the biggest ego I’ve ever encountered.” I shake my head. “It’s like he’s trying to sabotage me. And I get it; he’s used to everyone bending over backward for him. But his attitude? It’s not going to work with me.” I glance over at the girl, Avery, and catch her looking at me with amusement. “Sorry, I guess I just need to vent.”

“Vent all you need.” She waves a hand with a sweet smile before turning her attention back to the ice. “But you might be surprised. He’s not as bad as he seems.”

“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “All I’ve seen so far is a guy who thinks the world revolves around him.”

Avery laughs again, shaking her head. “He can be a tough nut to crack, sure. But Rowan takes care of his team like family. He’s fiercely loyal. And yeah, he’s stubborn, but he’s also got a big heart. That’s why I love him.”

Her words make me pause. Love him? My stomach twists uncomfortably, a pang of something I don’t want to acknowledge stabbing through me.

“You love him?” I ask carefully.

She nods.

Oh. No. Is she his girlfriend? God, of course, she is. That’s why she’s here.

“Are you two…together?” I plaster on a polite smile.

She stares at me for a second before bursting into laughter. “Oh my god, no! No, he’s my brother.”

“Oh!” Heat rushes to my face. “Oh my god,” I try to laugh it off, but the embarrassment is real. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t…Great,” I sigh, resigned. “And here I am, insulting your brother.”

“Don’t worry.” Avery grins, leaning closer. “You’re not the first person to have a problem with him.”

“Well, thanks for not letting me dig myself into a deeper hole,” I say, managing a sheepish smile. The question comes out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Does he hate everyone, or is it just PR agents?”

Avery laughs, shaking her head, the strands loose from her braid swaying.

“He doesn’t hate anybody. He’s just had issues with the media for a while,” she says, her tone softer. “Don’t take it personally and…try to ease him into it.”

The players are still on the ice, wrapping up practice, and I use the moment to pull out my phone and glance at the email thread from this morning. Sports Weekly fell over themselves when I pitched the idea of an exclusive interview with the Panthers’ elusive captain. Rowan, who notoriously avoids interviews like the plague, is a media goldmine waiting to be tapped.

There’s just one tiny problem.

I haven’t told Rowan about it yet.

My gaze flicks to the ice, where he’s skating toward the bench. Even from here, he looks enormous, the sharp black and gold of his practice jersey stretched over his gear, making him appear more like a tank than a man. He’s pulling his helmet off as he steps off the ice, his green eyes scanning the room.

I steel myself and make my move, intercepting him as he heads toward the locker rooms.

“DiMarco,” I call, my voice steady despite the nerves creeping up my spine.

He stops mid-step, turning to face me. Up close, he’s even bigger, his shoulder pads and chest protector making him look like a damn bear. A bear with tattoos, sweat-slick hair, and an expression that says, I dare you to waste my time.

“Ah, Ms. Moody,” he replies, his tone flat as his eyes sweep over me.

I take a breath and try to soften my approach. Try to ease him into it, Avery’s words echo in my head. Okay, then.

“You played well out there,” I say, offering what I hope looks like a genuine smile.

He quirks an eyebrow, his mouth curling into something between a smirk and a sneer.

“I know.”

No thank you. Of course not. Why would I expect that?

“I saw you and Avery up there.” His lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile.

“Yes, we just met,” I say a little too enthusiastically. “Definitely the better sibling.”

The almost-smile fades, replaced by something darker, something dangerous. “That so?”

“She’s sweet and charming. And cooperative. Unlike her brother.” I shrug, my pulse quickening under his gaze.

“Why don’t you stop stalling, Ms. Moody?” He leans in slightly, enough to crowd my space, and my breath catches.

Now or never. I lift my chin, channeling every ounce of confidence I have.

“You have an interview with Sports Weekly tomorrow.”

“No, I don’t.” His eyebrows dip together.

Shit, of course.

“Yes, you do,” I counter. “It’s scheduled. They’re thrilled, by the way. Said you never do interviews.”

“That’s because I don’t.” He flashes his white teeth as a fake smile graces his face.

“Well, you do now.”

“Not happening.” He exhales sharply, the sound halfway between a laugh and a growl.

“You’re the captain of this team,” I press. “It’s your job to do press before the season starts. This isn’t optional, DiMarco.”

“What are you gonna do, Moody? Tie me up and drag me there yourself?” He tilts his head, his eyes narrowing.

His words send a jolt through me, electricity sparking down my spine as my mind briefly wanders to places it definitely shouldn’t. I snap myself out of it and meet his gaze head-on.

“I’ll do whatever I have to.”

His eyes drop, sweeping down my body slowly, deliberately, sending heat rushing to my cheeks.

Is he checking me out?

But then his gaze returns to mine.

“All five-foot-two of you?” he asks, looking like he’s fighting back a smile.

“If I have to, I’ll get some of your teammates to help me.” I bristle, ignoring the way my pulse flutters.

“Ah, yes. Your little pack of puppies.” His smirk deepens.

“They’re your teammates,” I fire back. “And they understand the importance of their captain actually doing his job. I don’t know what problems you have with the media, but it’s time to put your big boy pants on, DiMarco.”

That wipes the smirk off his face. He steps closer, his green eyes locking onto mine, making my mouth go dry.

“You think you’ve got me all figured out, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice low and rough.

The air between us feels heavier all of a sudden. I swallow hard, refusing to back down, even as his presence wraps around me like a storm cloud.

“I don’t need to figure you out,” I say, my voice steady despite my heart racing. “I just need you to do the damn interview.”

For a moment, he doesn’t respond. He just stares at me, his eyes burning into mine like he’s trying to peel back my layers and see what’s underneath.

Then, finally, he leans in, so close I can smell his cologne under all his gear.

“Have fun tying me up,” he says, his voice a dark whisper. “And dragging me there.”

And with that, he straightens up and walks past me, leaving me standing there, my pulse pounding in my ears and my cheeks flaming.

Damn it.