Page 6 of Ice Cold, Red Hot (Coldwater Firehawks Hockey #1)

SHEPHERD

She was at the game.

I hadn’t expected to see her there, and yet, from the moment I stepped onto the ice, I could feel her. Could feel her eyes on me, could practically feel her heartbeat. What the fuck was that about?

I’d spent one week with the girl, but it was like she’d infected every part of me, wound her way beneath my skin, through my veins. It was like we were connected.

I think that was part of why I lost it on Rodriguez out there. Maybe. Or maybe losing it is just a regular part of who I am. Wasn’t like this was the first time it’s happened.

But I’d really only meant to hit him once.

And then… I just couldn’t stop. And knowing she was up there? Those dark eyes on me?

It was like I needed some kind of physical release.

And since I can’t have what I really want—her—I took that release in a different form.

And once I started, it felt so good to let go that I couldn’t stop.

That cost me the rest of the game. And might’ve cost Rodriguez a tooth, though I didn’t feel too bad about that after the dirty hit on Griff.

The lecture I’d gotten after the game was expected, though it still stung when Coach was pissed at me. I’d taken it in silence, and left the locker room as soon as I’d showered. Even though I lived to be here, in the rink, on the ice, I’d had enough for tonight.

I grabbed my bag and stepped out of the locker room. Directly into the path of the one person I needed to stay away from.

Celeste.

Her wide eyes mirrored the surprise I felt at finding her in the dim hallway, but her expression flared and then softened. She opened her mouth, but I was talking before she could say a word.

“You here to offer an official faculty reprimand or something?” I bit out. “Feel like practicing your lecture on aggressive behavior in athletes?”

“What? No?—”

“What the hell are you doing in here?” The anger in my voice made her flinch, but then her shoulders straightened and her chin lifted. “Just thought you’d come down and tell me I shouldn’t fight?”

“You think I give a shit about your fight?”

I felt the smirk settle on my lips as I watched her steel her spine, saw her find that spark I’d been drawn to this summer. “Maybe not, but you watched, didn’t you? Couldn’t look away. Did it turn you on? Watching me pound that guy into the ice?”

Celeste held my gaze for a long moment, and I couldn’t read whatever was going on in the caramel depths of her eyes. And then she turned and walked away and my chest tightened.

I pushed a hand through my wet hair. What the fuck was wrong with me? First Rodriguez and now Celeste?

I stalked to my truck and drove home, glad I didn’t see her walking back, happy not to bump into her in the hallway.

Griff was out with some guys from the team, which meant I had the apartment to myself.

I stepped in, not bothering to turn on the lights.

The scant illumination from the parking lot lights was enough—I didn’t want the place to feel bright and alive.

The dark matched my mood. I pulled a beer from the fridge and laid back on my bed, just as my phone rang in my pocket.

Dad.

Perfect.

“Hey Dad.”

“What the hell was that tonight, Shepherd? You get kicked off this team, and then what?”

Because hockey was all there was in my life. At least according to my dad’s values.

“I didn’t get kicked off the team.”

“This time.” There was a long pause as my father chose the speech he was going to fire off next. I took a long swig of beer to prepare myself. “You’re a legacy, Shepherd,” he began.

I knew this one. It went like this: I was part of a hockey legacy at Coldwater.

My dad had been team captain, and my older brother played here before going pro his sophomore year.

Now Blake played in the NHL, and had achieved everything my father had ever dreamed for himself but hadn’t achieved because of his injury senior year.

The next part was about how I’d been accepted here without even a glance at my grades because of my family name, because of the sizable endowment my grandfather had made, which allowed them to build the rink on campus, and because of Blake’s ridiculous talent.

Notice how none if it had a goddamned thing to do with me? With who I actually am? That’s because none of that matters. The only things that matter about me are that I’m a Renshaw, that I’m good at hockey, and that my father is the esteemed Darren Renshaw, son of richer-than-god Palmer Renshaw.

When Dad wound down, I apologized for the fight, which he watched via the streaming link the coach sent him ahead of every game he didn’t attend in person.

“Just tell me it’s not gonna happen again, Shepherd.”

“It won’t.”

“Let Griff do his job. You do yours.”

I didn’t point out that the enforcer was down on the ice and that Griff getting hit was the whole reason I jumped into it in the first place. It wouldn’t matter.

“Yeah.”

“All right. Get a good night’s sleep. Practice hard this week and let’s see something good on Thursday against Jackson U.”

“Right.”

Dad hung up.

My family didn’t do the mushy sign off. No “I love you” for the Renshaws. Maybe from my mom after a few glasses of chardonnay. Somehow that never felt totally sincere. I think she loved the wine. Still not sure about me.

I finished the beer, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

The next morning I was up early for psych lab.

The only section I could get into was Friday mornings at eight, which was a time slot I’d managed to avoid for four years until now.

But the lab was a required part of the last psych class I needed for my degree, and the other sections were full when I finally registered.

So I rolled through the kitchen to make an enormous cup of coffee and then headed out of the building to campus.

The sun was shining brightly, which helped chase away some of the lingering anger I’d taken to bed the night before.

It didn’t matter what anyone else thought—even my dad.

What mattered was that I accomplished my goals.

On my own. I’d get to the NHL, I was sure of that.

But not because of my name. Not because of who my brother was or because my grandfather bought my way in.

I’d get there because of who I am, what I am inside.

And I’d do it with a degree in my hand that would allow me a backup plan after hockey.

My head was on right and my mood was high when I stepped into the little room where my section was being held.

There was a long table in the center of the room with chairs on either side, and five or six other students were already there.

I nodded hello to John Stork, another guy on the team, and took the chair next to him.

“Sup,” he said .

I was about to answer when the door to the room opened once more and Celeste walked in.

“Hi guys, apologies for being a couple minutes late. I’m Celeste Moreno, your TA…

” Celeste trailed off when she turned and saw me sitting at the table.

Her eyes held mine for a long beat and then she cleared her throat.

“I’ll be guiding you through a variety of research studies and helping you select a project to present at the end of the semester.

We’ll work on your projects together in lab each week, and I can offer hands-on support where needed. ”

“Hands-on support, yes please,” Stork whispered in my ear before letting out a laugh that made me want to punch him.

“Shut it,” I bit back.

Celeste’s eyes slid across me again, and I felt it like a physical touch.

Fuck. I couldn’t be in her section. And I couldn’t skip section, or I’d fail this class…

I bit the inside of my lip for the rest of the hour as Celeste walked back and forth in front of us, her perfect ass on display in a pair of tight dark jeans.

She had on a button down shirt that looked completely professional with them, but I couldn’t stop picturing her this summer—short shorts and a bikini top, falling into my arms on the dock looking over the lake as the sun set.

When she finally dismissed us, I moved out of the chair like a spring had ejected me, and I was out the door and halfway to the administration building before I even caught my breath.

I had to switch sections. There was no way I’d survive being that close to her, having to talk to her, having her be my fucking teacher all semester .

The woman behind the registration desk shook her head and gave me a dramatic frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Renshaw, all the other sections are full.”

“It’s one spot,” I said. “I’ll literally take any other time. Anything.”

She smiled sympathetically. “I really am sorry. Everything’s full.”

“Thanks,” I managed before storming out of the office.

I thought of Celeste all the time as it was. This was not going to make things better.