Page 10

Morgan

Two weeks of training and I've learned three things: Max Dalton is freakishly good with dogs, Stanley's smarter than half my clients, and Otto may or may not be part vampire.

I swear he appears out of shadows just to say "Zat's too romantic" whenever Max and I get within three feet of each other.

Not that we do. Get close, I mean. Much.

“You should come watch practice,” Max said yesterday, after Otto caught us definitely-not-flirting during water breaks. “For authenticity. You know, since you’re supposed to be my fiancée and all.”

Which is how I end up at the Nashville Nighthawks’ practice facility at 6 A.M. on my day off, sitting in the front row with a to-go coffee and the lingering suspicion that this man’s idea of “authenticity” involves violence.

Because that’s what this is.

Violence on ice.

I’ve never been to a hockey practice. I thought they’d do drills, run plays, maybe skate around cones or something.

But the second the whistle blows, it’s war.

The Nighthawks are scrimmaging a visiting farm team—guys clawing for a shot at the pros. Which means no one’s being gentle.

I’ve watched hockey on TV—but this is different. Louder. Meaner. Real.

Blades carve into the ice like weapons. Sticks clash with sharp cracks that echo off the boards. Helmets collide. Bodies slam. One guy goes down hard in the corner, and no one stops. They just keep moving—fast, brutal, relentless.

And in the middle of it all is Max.

Max moves like water, yes—but not the peaceful kind. He’s a riptide. Controlled destruction. Muscles coiled tight, his jersey clinging to his back like it’s trying to hold on.

A player twice his size charges him.

My heart stops.

Max sees him at the last second, pivots hard, and throws his shoulder—not to dodge. To hit.

The impact cracks like a gunshot. The bigger guy flies backward, slamming into the glass so hard my seat shakes.

The puck’s already gone.

Because Max took it. Without breaking stride.

“Damn, Dalton!” someone yells. “Save some for the season!”

He doesn’t even look back—just smirks behind his mask and bolts toward the goal.

The scrimmage intensifies. Max scores once, twice—dekes out the goalie like it’s nothing and threads impossible shots through gaps I can’t even see.

One defender tries to slash his stick from behind—Max slams the brakes, reverses so fast the guy wipes out, and flicks the puck into the net without even looking.

His teammates cheer like it’s a goddamn playoff game.

He coasts toward center ice, loose and cocky, tapping gloves as he goes. Pure alpha. All swagger and bite.

“Your boy’s showing off,” a woman beside me laughs.

I start to correct her—he’s not my boy—but she’s already halfway down the bleachers, probably another player’s wife or girlfriend.

Then Max drops his gloves.

I blink. Wait—what?

The guy he checked earlier says something. Max says something back. And suddenly it’s fists. No ref, no whistle, no one pulling them apart—just Max grabbing the guy’s jersey and swinging.

Hard.

The entire bench bangs their sticks against the boards, shouting encouragement like it’s just another part of training. The coaches let it go—maybe because they want to see if the rookie can handle it.

It’s not graceful. It’s not strategic.

It’s animal.

And Max wins.

He doesn’t just win—he dominates. One punch to the cheek. One to the jaw. Then he yanks the guy off balance, drops him to the ice, and skates off like nothing happened.

I realize I haven’t blinked in thirty seconds.

My thighs press together involuntarily.

Max strips off his practice jersey, sweat making his black compression shirt cling to every inch of muscle. He catches me watching.

And winks.

I definitely don’t blush.

“That’s our star!” a reporter materializes with a camera crew. “Max, got a minute?”

His media smile appears instantly. "Always."

“Word is you’re entering America’s Top Team Dog Show. Any truth to the rumors about a mystery partner?”

My stomach tightens. We haven’t announced anything yet.

“There’s no mystery—everyone knows Stanley’s my girl.”

“We want to know about your dating life—”

“What you need to know is that Stanley Puck and I are going to kill it at the show.” He flashes that signature grin. “And then the Nighthawks will crush it on the ice.”

There it is—the Max Dalton mask. Slick, charming, press-ready. It’s weird how different he is when no one’s watching. I notice. Of course I notice.

The reporter's face falls, but Max is already gone.

Ten minutes later, he emerges in jeans and a crisp white button-down, untucked, the sleeves casually rolled up to his forearms. The open collar shows just enough skin to make me want to rip his shirt open with my teeth.

And those forearms—God. Solid and tan, like he moonlights as a lumberjack when he's not ruining my ability to form complete thoughts.

"Ready for the best damn barbecue in Nashville? "

"At nine AM?"

"Best time—no lines." He leads me to his car. "Unless you're scared of a little morning meat."

"That's what she said."

He actually stumbles. "Did you just—"

"Drive, Dalton."

The barbecue joint he picked is exactly what I imagined—plastic chairs, paper napkins, heavenly smells. The owner greets Max by name, no cameras, no fuss.

"Your usual?"

"And whatever the lady wants." Max slides into a booth. "Trust me, their brisket will change your life."

He's right. The meat melts in my mouth, and watching Max devour ribs like a normal guy, sauce on his chin, is oddly endearing.

"You've got a little..." I gesture to my face.

He grabs a napkin, misses completely.

"Here." I reach across the table, wiping the sauce away before I can think better of it.

His eyes darken. The air changes.

"Stay," he says. "Spend the day with me."

"After waking up at 3 AM to drive here? I'll fall asleep standing up."

"You could’ve come to Nashville with me yesterday after practice." His voice drops, low and steady. "Stayed at my place. Saved yourself the early drive."

"Right. Because that would have been ‘so professional.’"

"We're supposed to be engaged." He grins. "Nothing more professional than that."

I roll my eyes, but I'm smiling. "Fine. What's your big plan for this... preparation day?"

Turns out Max Dalton off-duty is full of surprises. We walk the river trail and then he takes me to a tiny music shop that still sells vinyl, hunting through dusty bins while telling me about his first concert—some indie band I've never heard of.

"No way you like The Midnight Orchids."

"Their early stuff." He holds up a record. "Before they sold out."

"You're such a snob."

"Says the woman who just lectured me for twenty minutes about proper kibble brands."

At the farmer's market, he buys local honey ("Stanley's allergies"), fresh peaches ("best in the state"), and insists I try every free sample ("research shows shared food experiences build trust").

"You're making that up."

"Maybe." He pops a piece of cheese in my mouth. "Is it working?"

It is, but I'm not telling him that.

We end up at a dog park, watching other people's pets play while ours are probably learning German commands from Otto.

"I miss Spookie," I admit.

"Stanley's probably teaching him bad habits."

"Please. Spookie's too dignified."

"That's what you think. My girl can corrupt anyone."

The way he says it—proud but tender—makes me look at him differently. This Max, relaxed and real, is nothing like the tabloid version.

When the sun starts to set, he stretches beside me on the bench. "Hungry?"

"After all those samples? I'm stuffed."

"There's this place," he says quietly. "On the river. Good whiskey, better view. Private."

I should say no.

"Okay."

The bar is hidden in an old warehouse, all exposed brick and soft jazz. Max orders something aged and expensive, then leads me to a secluded corner. The booth is shadowed and warm, the city glowing faintly through the rain-streaked window.

"How'd you find this spot?"

"Sometimes I need somewhere..." He trails off.

"Real?"

He meets my eyes. "Yeah."

We talk. Really talk. About cases I've lost—the ones that still haunt me. About his childhood dog, a rescue that taught him more about loyalty than any human.

“Stanley was supposed to be my sister’s,” he says softly. “A Christmas gift from Santa, because she'd been the best girl ever—or so the tag said.”

His tone is light, almost teasing—but his fingers tighten around the glass.

And his eyes…

His eyes tell a different story.

It stops me from asking more.

"My first save was a puppy," I tell him instead. "Found him in a ditch, barely breathing. My parents said he wouldn't make it, but..." I smile at the memory. "Three days of force-feeding formula, sleeping on the garage floor next to his box. He pulled through."

"Of course he did. He had you."

The way he says it—like he knows exactly who I am, what drives me—makes my chest tight.

"The reporter today," I say. "About your dating life..."

"Most of those stories? Pure fiction." His fingers brush mine on the table. "The real me is pretty boring. Training, hockey, Stanley. Maybe a hidden barbecue joint." His thumb traces my knuckles. "Maybe a small-town vet who's making me rethink everything."

"Max..."

"I know." He pulls back slightly. "This is just for show. Six weeks, split the money, go our separate ways."

"Right."

"But Morgan?" His voice drops. "What if I don't want to?"

I meet his eyes. The hunger there matches mine, but it’s different from that first night. Deeper. More dangerous. My pulse stumbles as his fingers trace down my arm, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing me.

His thumb brushes the inside of my wrist, and suddenly my skin feels too tight, my breath too shallow.

The world narrows to this moment.

To him.

To us.

“Take me to your place,” I whisper.

His gaze drops to my mouth, then drags back up—slow, deliberate, hungry. “You sure?”

I nod.

“Good.” He leans in, voice low and thick with promise. “Otto’s watching the dogs for as long as we need.”

Then comes the smirk, wicked as sin. “Long enough to ruin you twice... and maybe make you forget about Spookie.”

I arch a brow. “Not possible.”

He steps closer, breath hot against my ear. “I know. I’d never want you to.”

A beat.

“But the ruining you twice part?” His lips brush my skin. “That’s still on the table.”

In his car, his hand finds my thigh. Heat pools low in my belly.

This is a bad idea. This will complicate everything.

But when he opens his door, pulls me inside, presses me against the wall...

I stop thinking at all.