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A fter the goodwill exhibition game (which ended in a tie because of time constraints), I need to go back to my RV to quickly load my shots into my laptop so I have the maximum space allowed for the next events, which will be some of the players’ headshots, and then a fan meet and greet.

I know every other shot is of Bryce Frobisher, a ruthless giant on the ice. My heart flutters at the memory of snagging a close-up of his pale, sweating face under his shaggy mop of white hair as he pulled off his helmet.

He was like a frozen Viking, all beard and massive jaw, an adorably crooked smile when he saw me capturing yet another shot of him.

He handed me his towel with such a timid little gesture, as if uncertain that I would want it.

He doesn’t know that this hockey groupie will do unthinkable things while spread naked across his towel, one of my battery-operated-boyfriends on high, my pussy straining around the biggest toy I own.

I’m practically light-headed when I shiver my way into my RV, which is parked next to numerous tour buses and team buses in the expo center’s back lot.

Bryce Frobisher reminds me of the things I used to love about Felipe.

Felipe and Fia—a perfect match, they said.

I was beautiful and shapely, charming and witty.

I was a jewel for a handsome athlete with a big future in futebol .

Felipe was charming and attentive, apparently supportive of his outspoken lover who had gone to America for school and wanted to pursue her passion for photography.

What a crock for the cameras. Felipe was possessive, jealous, and controlling. He didn’t want me to travel. When he found out about my year working as a model in the States...

Let’s just say that I love it when a guy acts like a beast on the field or the court (and in the sheets), but I hate when he becomes a monster at home.

I haven’t thought about Felipe in three years, not since we broke up for good.

Why am I comparing him to Bryce Frobisher?

Same animal-like ferocity. Fierce competitor. Muscular build. The stamina...

I find myself racing inside the chilly darkness of my RV to avoid thinking those thoughts of Felipe.

I can’t wait until I’m alone tonight after my workday is done.

Then I can “distract myself” with thoughts of a certain husky hockey player while I soothe my overheated nerves and finally fall asleep.

But I’m so looking forward to his headshots tonight. Maybe he’ll give me that shy little smile again.

Felipe didn’t have a shy bone in his body.

I never knew how sexy a bashful grin could be...

“WHO THE HELL IS MISS Valentine? It sounds like the host of a kids’ television show,” King parts his raven black hair and flashes his tusks at the mirror over the sink.

I smooth my fur back away from my face as best as I can, inspecting the areas I’ve shaved to help me appear more human.

“Miss Valentine’s not her real name. I just call her that. She’s an amazing photographer.” I show King Fia’s social media page. “Harp seals in Canada. Weddings in the Florida Keys. Look, look at this. A jaguar in Central America. She’s so good.”

“You have a boner over her skills with a camera?”

“I do not! I mean, I don’t have that. Or for that reason. If I did.” I stumble over my words. “Look, I really admire her skills as a photographer, but when I first saw her,” I swallow down a wave of rolling lust that engulfs me, buries me, “she was posing in Modern Sportsman and Driver magazine.”

“That upscale skin mag?”

“It is not! They just happen to have a swimsuit section each month.” Okay, so it’s sort of similar.

The articles are about sports, but every accompanying photograph is devoted to sexy models.

Fia was in every issue for a year (I think that’s unheard of), but she was best known for her spread in the February issue, which is always “Devoted to the sport of love and the passion that drives us.” I’ve been a big fan of hers since her first appearance in the magazine—but then she was Miss Valentine in the Holiday Calendar they put out and. ..

I can’t think of the things that I did while looking at her in that little white bikini and ice skates, straddling a rink-side seat with a hockey stick leaning against one bare, bronzed thigh.

On the little inset, she was getting a big heart-shaped box of candy, and I could practically hear her squeal and feel her tight brown ringlets under my fingertips as I reached up to cup her smiling face. ..

“Bryce? Are you there, big guy?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Yes, I’m here.”

“So, she used to work on the other side of the camera?”

“My room was plastered with her pictures in college.” And after college. I don’t need to tell King that part. Sometimes he talks too much.

“Who was on the other side of the camera?” Sam Grendel, a recent trade into our league, slides in and tosses his sweaty towel down on the bench.

“The cute photographer who was taking action shots out there. I wonder if she’s doing the headshots and the fan meet and greet.” King elbows me. “Might turn the tables on her to find out she has a massive fan of her own here this weekend.”

“Massive hairball,” Sam frowns at me, his mostly hairless human body elbowing past me as he heads to the showers. “You ever consider getting a wax, man?”

I growl, deep in my chest. Most humans don’t notice anything out of place. Sam doesn’t know I’m a yeti, but he’s noticed the copious amount of “body hair,” and of course, the jerkwad has to say something about it.

“You’d better hope she likes ‘em hairy,” Sam laughs mockingly.

“Ignore him,” King whispers with a rare show of empathy. “He thinks he’ll take your place soon because you’ve been here so many seasons. He’s just ego walking.”

“Takes one to know one,” I tease—although I’m not exactly joking.

It’s King’s turn to growl, but then our manager whistles, three short blasts. “Ugh. I guess it’s time to go put on a show for the fans.”

“Headshots first,” I say, consulting the paper schedules we were handed upon arrival. My heart races. It would be too much to hope that Fia is going to be our photographer again.

A PHOTOGRAPHER HAS to get the best of her subjects.

This can mean joking with them to provoke a smile, laughing at their bad jokes to put them at ease, laying on the compliments, or, in the case of small children, making a million sound effects and keeping a squeaky rubber pig in my pocket to make them look towards the camera.

With hockey players... I’m the one who needs to be put at ease.

I can barely contain my excitement as I chat about stats, injuries, and careers with the steady stream of players who come to my booth.

I guess the managers wanted them to get their headshots tonight, before they have a chance to get banged up during any other exhibition games.

“What’s your name?” I ask a short, compact warrior in a jersey.

“Sam Grendel. I used to play for the Wilmington Wolverines and just traded up to this league. It’s a short stop from here to the Maple Leafs, gorgeous. Shirt on or off?”

I’m instantly turned off and disgusted. I can feel my lips curling away from my teeth like I just ate something sour and my nose wrinkling like I got a whiff of rotten eggs.

“Jersey on. We’ll do a profile shot, a forward-facing shot with a serious face, and then give me your biggest smile!

” I force some encouraging cheer into my voice.

“Okay... Not like you haven’t gone topless at a photoshoot before,” he mutters in my ear as I step forward, adjusting my lights to his shorter height.

I jump back like I’ve been burned. I never did topless or nude photos—but I admit that my centerfold spreads in tiny bikinis pushed the line and left almost nothing to the imagination.

“Oh, my modeling days are long gone,” I laugh.

Scumballs won’t bother me tonight—especially since I see that Frobisher, that silver-white Viking god, is my next customer.

“Doesn’t look like anything is sagging yet. Tell you what, when you get done here, how about I take you back to my suite and show you all the complimentary chocolate the players get? I’ll even share.” He waggles his eyebrow.

“No thank you. I’m more into vanilla,” I give a quick answer—only too late realizing that it gives fodder to Grendel’s imagination.

“Ooh, honey. That’s okay. We can keep the chocolate away. I can be vanilla—at first.”

Snap, snap, snap. I take three pictures, sharp and focused. They don’t do Grendel any favors, but I don’t care. “Next,” I say crisply, pointing behind me.

“From bikini body to prude, huh? I guess mom jeans and baggy sweaters hide a multitude of sins, huh?” he mocks, scowling his way past me.

I swallow hard and look down. I’m not ashamed of my body at all, and I’m not in mom jeans! But if I was, there isn’t anything wrong with that! “The exit, Mr. Grendel.”

“You know, you might want to watch your tone. The players are the bosses at Puck Con. The stars. Without us, you’d be taking pictures of a bunch of people stuffing their faces and buying souvenirs. Maybe you’d better think about how you treat me before I—”

“Sam. I think Miss Carvahlo wants you to leave. Now . In silence.”

Now, I’m a big girl, and even though I come from a culture where women often hang back so the men can play the hero, I know I could have handled Grendel and his not-so-subtle intimidation myself.

But my insides twist and wring an instant puddle into my panties when Bryce Frobisher strides in, lifts Grendel by his collar, and smiles.

Wait a second... Are those fangs?

Doesn’t matter. Glistening canines, a growl that feels like the lowest setting on my favorite vibrator, and Grendel is chucked out of the booth with a satisfying yelp and whimper.

“I’m so sorry. He doesn’t represent Pine Ridge. After tonight, I don’t even know if he’ll play for Pine Ridge. I’m going to go talk to our manager.”