Page 4

Chapter four

~ROWAN~

The last bite of eggs vanishes from my plate as I lean back in my chair, watching Avery scrape the last bit of avocado out of the shell for her toast.

“You don’t have any oat milk,” she says without looking up.

“I don’t buy oat milk,” I reply dryly. “What even is oat milk? Cereal water?”

“It’s for people who don’t want to die of cholesterol at thirty-five.” She tilts her head at me with a small laugh.

“You—” I stare at her in mock horror. “You mean I only have a couple more years left?”

She lets out a real laugh this time, tossing a napkin straight at me. I catch it mid-air, breaking into a laugh myself.

“How’s it there?” I ask, nodding toward the window. I have the perfect view of her house. Well, their house.

“Very good,” she says with a grin, her cheeks turning red. She’s dating and living with one of my best friends now. A fact I fought like hell against at first. I didn’t think my little sister would end up with someone like…him.

But here we are. And truth be told? I couldn’t picture her with anyone else now.

I let out a hum, standing to clear the table. Avery follows, leaning against the counter as I rinse the dishes.

“So,” she starts, her voice casual, but there’s a glint of mischief in her eyes. “I met your new PR agent. She seems really sweet and talkative.”

“She’s annoying.” I glance over my shoulder, one brow arching.

Avery furrows her brows. “She didn’t seem like that to me. Though she did call you a pain in the ass,” she finished off with a mumble.

“A pain in the ass?” My eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. I turn off the water and dry my hands, facing her fully. It wasn’t the nicest thing she could’ve called me, but it wasn’t the worst I’ve been called by any means.

“And I told her how good a heart you have, despite it.” Avery nods as she talks, fighting back a laugh.

“Instead of a big heart, why didn’t you tell her I have a big—” I close my mouth, reminding myself that this is my little sister. Not Damien, Ares, or one of our other teammates.

“Gross.” Avery scrunches her nose the same way she’s been doing since she was little.

I lean against the counter and cross my hands.

“Rowan.” Her expression softens, her teasing fading into something more serious. “I know you have issues with the press. But maybe you’re being a bit harsh. Maybe you need to give this another chance.”

I sigh, shaking my head. “The media doesn’t change, Av. I don’t want to contribute to it any more than I already have. They’ve stolen enough from us.”

Avery doesn’t respond right away, just watching me with those eyes that see too much. Finally, she steps closer, wrapping her arms around my waist and resting her head on my chest.

“It wasn’t your fault, Rowan,” she murmurs against my chest.

I stay silent and kiss the top of her head, my lips lingering against her hair.

I can feel the smile against my shirt before I glance down at my watch. Shit .

“Alright, I have to go,” I say, ruffling her hair the way I used to when she was small enough to climb up on my shoulders like a monkey. “This pain in the ass is on a schedule.”

The rink is alive with the sharp sound of blades carving into the ice, the snap of sticks against pucks, and the low hum of our coach barking drills from the sidelines. It smells like sweat, rubber, and ice. It is my space, my battlefield.

“Rowan, set it up!” Damien shouts from the blue line, his husky voice carrying over the chaos. He and Ares are the only ones that call me Rowan in here—a habit they couldn’t drop.

I see Damien, solid as a wall, waiting for the puck. I’m already ahead of the play, reading the ice. Ares is sprinting to the net, his speed making him impossible to pin down. Perfect.

I fake a pass toward Damien, pulling a defenseman just enough out of position to slip the puck through his legs. Ares catches it clean and fires it home. Top shelf.

“Textbook.” Damien grins as he skates toward me.

“We’re not here for applause,” I growl. “Again.”

We reset, the drill rolling into another burst of movement.

Damien plants himself in front of the crease, a fortress daring anyone to challenge him. Ares weaves through defenders like it’s a damn ballet. I’m everywhere, forechecking, quarterbacking the play from the neutral zone, barking orders when someone’s too slow to react.

“Stick down, Harper! You playing hockey or sweeping floors?”

It’s brutal, the kind of practice that separates NHL players from the wannabes. But that’s the point.

I hear a whistle blow and glance toward the bench. That’s when I see her.

Little Miss Hellcat, perched on the edge of the stands with a tablet in her hands. She’s wearing a maroon polo today, probably having learned from yesterday’s practice not to wear a T-shirt in here.

She’s watching us, her expression assessing, her fingers flying over the screen like she’s taking inventory of every second.

What the hell is she doing here again?

I force my focus back to the drill, but it’s like her stare follows me.

Damien takes a slap shot, and I catch the rebound on my blade. One of our rookie defenders closes in too slow. I pull a quick toe drag, faking him out so badly he nearly trips over his own skates.

The puck is mine, and so is the moment. I flick it into the corner of the net, clean and precise.

Yells rumble through the rink, but my eyes drift back to Livia again. She’s still watching, her head tilting slightly like she’s analyzing me under a microscope. Her gaze on me is unnerving, but what’s more unnerving is the way my body reacts to it. With a grunt, I push off and get into position again.

Thirty minutes later, the whistle blows, signaling the end of practice, but my focus is split. I feel the usual burn in my legs, the satisfaction of knowing we pushed ourselves hard, but it’s muted, dimmed by something else. That’s never happened before. I’ve had countless puck bunnies watching me from the stands, stripping my gear off in their minds, and it’s never stolen my focus. Ever.

I look up, feeling sweat on my brow. Livia’s still there, perched on the bench, already looking way too comfortable for her second day in this place. Her tablet rests in her lap, but she’s not typing away anymore. Now, it’s abandoned, forgotten, because she’s talking to one of the rookies.

Davidson. The kid is barely out of diapers, still green from the AHL.

Whatever he’s saying, it must be fucking riveting because she’s laughing. Not a polite chuckle either. No, this is head-tilted-back, eyes-bright kind of laughter. The kind that makes her look…carefree.

And even more beautiful.

The realization hits like a body check, and I hate it. I hate the way my gaze lingers on the curve of her mouth, the way her caramel-blonde hair sways as she throws her head back. Davidson shifts closer, leaning casually against the boards like he’s trying to edge into her space.

What the hell is he saying to make her laugh like that?

My jaw tightens. I realize too late that my teeth are clenched, the pressure radiating up to my temples. My grip on my stick tightens until the shaft creaks in protest.

Am I jealous?

Over fucking Davidson?

No. That can’t be it. It’s not like I give a shit who makes Ms. Moody…less moody. It’s not like her laugh should even matter or have my heart racing.

Fuck.

I force myself to look away, skating over to grab a stray puck near the boards. The motion helps and gives me something to focus on besides the knot twisting in my gut.

But I can still hear the faint echoes of her laughter, and it crawls under my skin.

The ice is quiet now, empty except for me.

Everyone else has gone to shower, stretch, or eat. The rink is eerily still in the way it only gets after practice. My legs burn, and my shoulders ache, but I’m not leaving yet. I like being here alone.

I lean into the glide of my skates, tapping the puck lazily along the ice, but then I catch a flicker of movement from the corner of my eye. I glance toward the rink's edge, and apparently, I’m not the only one left. There she is, standing just outside the boards, clipboard in hand, lips pressed into a determined line.

“DiMarco.” Her voice carries across the rink, clear and steady.

Of course.

Livia’s watching me, waiting for me to come to her. Not happening.

I circle back toward the net, dragging the puck in a lazy figure-eight.

I don’t stop. I don’t even look at her.

“Rowan.” She tries again, and fuck, if my name out of her mouth doesn’t do something. I don’t like this.

I let the puck clatter into the boards and glance her way, eyebrows raised in mock surprise.

“Oh, were you calling me?”

Her mouth tightens, and I catch the faintest spark of irritation in her eyes. Good.

“Can we talk, please?” she asks, her voice firm, even as her gaze flickers to the ice beneath her.

“Of course, Ms. Moody.” I smirk, skating closer but not close enough to make it easy for her. “Come on out.” I come to a stop in the center of the rink, right across from her.

Her mouth opens and closes, realization hitting her.

Let me show you what a pain in the ass I am, little hellcat.

“DiMarco, I’m serious.” She hesitates, looking down at her shoes. Plain sneakers that are definitely not made for ice.

“So am I,” I say, my tone light but laced with challenge. “If you want to talk to me, you’ve got to meet me halfway.”

Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, I think she’ll back down. But then she surprises me.

Setting her clipboard down, she steps onto the ice, one foot sliding awkwardly forward.

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my lips from parting, sucking in a breath.

Well, well.

The way she shuffles toward me is almost funny, her arms outstretched for balance. Almost. Except there’s something truly admirable about how she’s doing it, determination etched into every cautious step.

I stay rooted in place, fighting my body’s urge to skate up to her and put her out of her misery. Instead, I take off my gloves and helmet and toss them on the ice.

She finally reaches me, her nostrils slightly flared as she glares up at me. Cute.

“Can we talk about that interview?” she huffs out, her arms stretched out.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” I shrug. “I don’t see any rope on you, and I doubt you can drag me off the ice. You’re barely walking on it as is.”

“Meet me halfway,” she says, finally letting her hands fall to her sides. “Isn’t that what you just said? Meet me halfway? How about we do that, Rowan? I can reschedule it.” I see something else in her eyes now. They’re softer, her brows no longer pinched together.

God, she really wants this to work out. And fuck if I don’t want to give it to her. But I don’t do press. Everybody knows I don’t do press. And if she was as good as everything I found about her claims, she should know why I don’t do press. Or at least have a good fucking guess.

“How about you cancel it instead?” I say, pointing my chin at her.

She rolls her eyes, frustration etched on her features. “Why are you acting like such a toddler?”

“A toddler?” I arch a brow, crossing my arms.

“A very grumpy, very big toddler,” she huffs out.

“My job is to play hockey, not entertain useless leeches.” I lift my chin, expecting to see those blue eyes ablaze with anger. But instead of that, what I see catches me off guard. I see her lips close, her chest expanding as she takes in a breath, and her blue eyes flicking down before returning to mine.

I watch her, my brows twitching toward each other in confusion. Where’s my hellcat?

“Is that what you think of me?” she asks, her tone steady and low. “I’m a useless leech?”

The words sound ugly coming out of her, and for the first time in a while, I take a mental step back.

“No,” I finally say with a slight shake of my head. That’s definitely not what you are, little hellcat. “Is there a purpose to this conversation, Ms. Moody?” I add, a bit louder to distract myself from my rapid heartbeat.

She narrows her eyes at me, a spark finally igniting.

“If you would just let me do my job, we might actually get somewhere.”

“I told you, I’m not interested in interviews,” I insist with a slow blink.

“Look, the way I see it.” She takes a step closer, determination in her stride, but she miscalculates on the slick ice, and I watch, half in horror.

“Shit!” Instinct kicks in, and I dart forward, closing the distance in a heartbeat. My hands catch her just before she hits the ice, one gripping her elbow, the other settling against her waist.

For a second, everything freezes.

Her body is warm against the cold of the rink, and I can feel her breath catch as she looks up at me. Those striking blue eyes are wide and searching. My heart races, and the unexpected rush of her scent floods my senses.

Her full lips part as she tries to say something, her hand gripping my arm through my gear. It sends a jolt straight to my dick, and I curse silently, trying to push it away. What is this woman doing to me?

“Maybe stick to the stands next time,” I say, keeping my voice low. I can see the depth of color in her eyes, the darker shades of blue swirling within.

A strand of her caramel-blonde hair has fallen across her lips, and without thinking, I reach out to tuck it behind her ear. Her eyes dart left to where my hand is before returning to my face. She swallows, her chest rising and falling with each breath.

I straighten us both, making sure she’s stable before I do something reckless.

“Rowan,” she starts, but I cut her off.

“I’m not doing the interview,” I say, my voice low as I let go of her waist, stepping back before I lose my damn mind.

As I glide away, I can feel her eyes on my back, silently thanking the gear for hiding my unexpected arousal.

“DiMarco, wait!” The sound of her voice follows me, persistent and frustrated, but I can’t focus on anything but the need to get away from her. I can still feel the warmth and weight of her body, her sweet scent clinging to me, even as I skate away.