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“ W ould you take a job in Hershey this weekend? It’s going to be hectic, but it pays well. And you’ll be near chocolate.”

I strained to hear my best friend over the sounds of whining and crying.

“This weekend? In Hershey? I’m nowhere near Pennsylvania.

” I finished uploading the wedding photos from that weekend to my website and looked at my calendar.

I’m usually booked, but February is a slow time for weddings, and there was a gap for the next five days marked “Editing/Wildlife/Freelance/Enter comps.”

So... I was technically free—but driving my RV/motorhome across a half-dozen states in the middle of winter sounded unpleasant, to put it mildly.

“It’s Puck Con. I know you secretly love sports photography.”

Midwest winters be damned. My legs immediately did their telltale crisscross as I squirmed on my black ergonomic chair.

“What do you mean, secretly? That’s no secret.

I’m probably the only woman you know who gets turned on watching baseball players spit in the dugout.

Tennis will do it for me! Anything but football—I mean, soccer. ”

“Your Brazilian is showing. Ooh, sorry, that sounded wrong. I can’t help it.

My brain is mush. The twins both have strep throat and double ear infections.

Nora has her second molars coming in. My husband might actually divorce me for leaving him alone with infectious two-year-old twins.

This is like the terrible twos on steroids. Oh, Noah—not Mommy’s laptop!”

I winced. “You’re putting my biological clock back by five years with one phone call.”

“It’ll start ticking again the next time you do a newborn shoot. Pleeeeeease? Lots of shirtless hockey players,” Lynn wheedled.

“I... I’m in Grand Rapids! The governor’s niece just got married.”

“I not only have a contract for the fan photos and some meet and greets, but I have an exclusive contract to do headshots for several teams like the Devil Birds and the Pine Ridge Lumberjacks.”

I’m already bringing up the map site I always use to plot my drives. “Any chance to do some freelancing while I’m there, or does Puck Con own the rights to anything I shoot?”

“Only during set hours. You can shoot on location during free time at the expo or set your RV up as your traveling studio and get extras all weekend.”

I switch tabs. The RV life (a big step up from van life, if you ask me) means that I make my own schedules, my own rules, my own money—and that I can choose when to go home.

I always make it home to Fortaleza, Brazil, in time for Carnival.

The tab with flights and dates sits open, mocking me, reminding me that I need to book soon—something that I’ve been putting off, needing to choose between my insurance (which is crazy high) or my ticket.

This gig will let me pay for both. “I’ll take it.”

“Thank God! Hold on. Let me hit send.”

“Huh?”

“I already had an email written up to the organizer. Don’t worry, they told me I could subcontract as long as I provided references, and yours are pristine. To die for.”

“You really thought I’d come through, didn’t you?”

“You never let me down.”

“But one of these days...”

“Never, ever,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, even though my godkids sound like they’re sticking each other with pins.

Lynn and I met when I came to the States for school years ago. Her family was my host family, and she got me into the photography club at her high school. Twelve years later, we still share that passion, our friendship, and now a career.

And she’s the only one in the States (at least that I know of) who knows about my other life—the one I had on the other side of the camera. “You didn’t tell them I modeled, right? Strictly sent them my photography credentials?”

My best friend laughs. “No one will ever worm that out of me. Not even Dave knows.”

“I’ll get driving. Tell the kiddos Tia Fia hopes they feel better. I’ll buy them some little hockey mascot stuffies.”

“Please, for the love of my condo, don’t. We can barely see the floor as it is.”

With a sigh, I close my laptop and switch from my computer chair to the driver’s seat. “I’m on my way. Thanks, Lynnie.”

“You’re welcome, Fifi.”

“AND TONIGHT, WE WELCOME the one and only... Pine Ridge Luuuuumberjaaaaaacks!”

It’s just a silly exhibition match for charity, part of Puck Con’s kick-off event.

Even so, half of the hardcore fans from Pine Ridge drove all the way down to Hershey, PA, to watch our little minor league team kick butt.

At least, I hope that’s what’s going to happen.

The Devil Birds look like they’re ready for blood.

It doesn’t help that their team is full of shifters.

Pine Ridge’s team is 90% human—although most of the world thinks it’s 100% human.

Very few people can see supernatural creatures.

“Fro-Fro-Frobisher!!”

That’s me. I skate out and love that I see a wall of plaid and inflatable axes waving wildly. The Pine Ridge Lumberjacks have the best fans. A cry of “Timber!” rings in the icy arena.

“Yeeeesss, it’s Frozen Frobisher, everyone! Bryce Frobisher, number eleven, the enforcer who stands just over seven feet tall and weighs just under 300 pounds, has miraculously maintained his spot on the team for eight seasons!”

“And those Devil Birds better look out, because the Lumberjacks have won eighty percent of their games this season, and they’re hot favorites for the Calder Cup this year!”

“Well, not if the Hershey Bears or the Devil Birds have anything to say about it, Bob.”

I smile as the announcers prattle on while the teams do their introductory lap, waving and smiling at the thousands of hockey fans jammed in for Puck Con.

As I swerve on the fresh ice, my thick, silvery-white fur and yeti metabolism making the chilly air seem like a spring breeze, I’m almost blinded by a camera flash.

“What the—” I swallow my irritation. The world sees me as a big, hairy dude with white, shaggy hair and a beard that would make the entire population of Valhalla jealous, and that’s what the camera captures.

It’s not that I mind having my photo snapped.

I’m slated for some fan photos and headshots later.

No, the camera flash blinded me, but that’s not the real issue, either. It’s the woman behind the lens.

I think I just saw Fia Carvalho—also known as Miss Valentine or Miss February.

My taut limbs unravel like boiled spaghetti. She can’t be here. She went from a sexy bikini model and pin-up to a serious photographer. I follow all of her social media accounts. I’m a huge fan of her work—and her.

I have to be mistaken. There’s no way that beautiful Brazilian bombshell would be at something like Puck Con.

“Frobisher! Get in the game, dude!”

King Silverbow, my arrogant young Orc teammate, skates past me and bangs his stick angrily on the ice.

I snap to it with a growl, my lower jaw protruding as I let the primal side of my nature come out. Something that rips through walls of ice, scales snow mountains, hunts with bare hands, and knows the feel of blood in my fur.

Oh, yes. I’m a civilized monster—except when I’m on the ice. Then, my ancient lineage comes out to play, and I make it my job to stomp on anyone who hurts my pack like a snow leopard seizing a wild goat.

Normally, everything around me fades out when I’m on the ice, like when I’m home, hunting in the mountains.

I normally hear cheers as white noise. I zero in on the other players’ pulses; the sounds of thudding hearts and heavy breathing guide me towards my “prey.” When plays are done and goals are scored, I tune back into the world, and the white noise becomes distinct once more.

This time, my senses narrow further. I am aware of one voice, one heartbeat, one lightning flash, a single moment playing over and over.

I’ve never found a mate in Pine Ridge, even though I moved there a long time ago—a long time for humans, not for my kind, who can live for centuries. I think I suddenly know why.

Her scent. Her voice, cheering. Her heartbeat racing, speeding up every time I go past...

The one I want as my mate isn’t in Pine Ridge.

She’s here. It’s Miss Valentine.