Page 5 of Power Play Daddies (Miami Icemen #1)

CHAPTER FOUR

Beau

The smell of vanilla hits me first, warm and familiar, clinging to the sheets tangled around me. My hand stretches across the bed automatically, reaching for her.

It’s empty.

I crack one eye open. “Daisy?”

Silence.

I push myself up on one elbow, my body protesting with a dull ache that’s almost satisfying. Last night wasn’t a workout—it was better. My gaze sweeps the room.

What the hell?

I grab my phone off the nightstand. Seven a.m. When did she leave? How did I not hear her?

Raking a hand through my hair, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, scanning the room like a dumbass hoping for… what? A note? Her number? A fucking clue that I wasn’t just another notch on her belt?

“Great,” I mutter, getting to my feet.

I check the fridge—don’t know why. Maybe she left some poetic goodbye scribbled on a napkin or something. Nothing. Just expired orange juice and a sad half-empty beer bottle.

I sigh and head back to the bedroom. The sheets still smell like her, like vanilla and a hint of tequila. God, she was fucking incredible.

I lean against the doorframe, replaying every damn moment from last night—the way she looked at me, how her body moved, the little sounds she made.

Shit.

I shake my head and head to the bathroom. The mirror doesn’t lie—there are scratch marks across my chest and down my sides.

“Jesus, Daisy,” I say, running a hand over them.

She went harder than most, not that I’m complaining. I step under the shower spray, the hot water scalding but not enough to drown out the memories. Reluctantly, I soap up, watching the last traces of her scent swirl down the drain.

Twenty minutes later, I’m in the living room with a steaming cup of black coffee. No cream, no sugar. Just bitterness—pretty much sums up my mood right now.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I pull up the security cam on my phone. I scrub through the footage until I see her. There she is, sneaking out at 5:20 a.m. She’s wearing my damn T-shirt, looking every bit as sexy as she did last night. Even grainy and pixelated, she’s fucking gorgeous.

My cock twitches.

“Yeah, no,” I say, shutting the video off. No way I’m starting my day with another cold shower.

I grab my gym bag and head to the arena.

The locker room’s already buzzing when I get there. Kieran, as usual, is in the middle of some stupid story.

“...and then she says, ‘That’s not my bra!’” Kieran laughs, slapping Mason on the shoulder.

Mason just shakes his head, pulling on his pads. “You’re an idiot.”

Before Kieran can fire off another comment, Coach storms in, clipboard in hand.

“Where’s Ford?” he barks, scanning the room.

We all glance at each other. No Ford.

“Late again?” Tanner says, pulling on his skates.

Coach scowls. “We’re running extra drills today. I want this team sharp. We were third last season—that’s not good enough. The board expects us to win this year.”

We nod, pulling on our gear.

“Grayson, King, Blackwell—you’re with me on breakouts,” Coach says, ticking names off his list.

“What about me?” Kieran pipes up.

Coach doesn’t even look up. “You’re a sub, Donovan. Stay ready.”

Kieran groans, and I suppress a smirk.

Practice is brutal. Breakout drills, line changes, scrimmages. Mason stands tall in the net, blocking shots left and right. Rhett and Ryder are solid on defense, laying hits that echo through the arena.

“Move your ass, Blaze!” Coach yells as I chase a loose puck.

I dig deep, beating Tanner to it. I fake right, cut left, and rip a shot top shelf. It clangs off the crossbar and in.

“Nice shot!” Hunter calls from the bench.

“Lucky,” Tanner mutters as he skates past me.

By the time practice ends, I’m drenched in sweat, and my legs are like jelly.

“Good work today,” Coach says, addressing the team. “Keep this up, and we’ll get that Cup.”

We nod and head back to the locker room.

As I peel off my jersey, my mind drifts back to Daisy. The way she moved, the way she looked at me. Damn it, why’d she have to leave without saying goodbye?

I stuff my gear into my bag, grab my keys, and head for the showers.

“See you on the ice tomorrow,” Kieran calls after me.

“Yeah,” I say, already lost in my own thoughts.

The gym shower is hot, scalding even, but it does the job of washing away the sweat from practice. I scrub harder than necessary, dragging the loofah over the scratches Daisy left on my chest.

They’re still red, her nails having dug deep enough last night to make me hiss in pain and pleasure at the same time. I rinse off, staring at the faint outline of the marks. They’re on my hips, too. And my back.

Hell, it looks like I got into a fight with a goddamn cat.

I shake my head. Gotta stop thinking about her. But it’s hard not to. Last night was… insane. She was fire. Wild. The way she moved, the way she—damn it. I shove those thoughts aside.

After I’m out and dressed in joggers and a black hoodie, I stuff my damp towel into my gym bag and toss it over my shoulder.

It’s barely noon, and I’m already thinking about paddleboarding. The weather’s perfect for it. I’ll hit the store first—grab eggs, bread, and coffee. Maybe some steaks.

My phone buzzes in the pocket of my hoodie. Probably Kieran texting some stupid meme or asking me to grab beers later. I ignore it for now, stepping into the elevator.

The doors open, and I almost slam straight into someone walking out.

Not just anyone, though. Daisy.

“What the fuck?” The words slip out before I can stop them.

She’s standing there, wide-eyed, like a deer caught in headlights.

She’s wearing a tight black pencil skirt that hugs her hips and a silky white blouse. Professional. Polished. Her red hair is pulled into a sleek ponytail, and the heels on her feet are just as killer as they were last night.

But what catches my attention is the lanyard around her neck.

D. Love

Sports Journalist

Miami Herald

I blink, my brain short-circuiting. “You’re a journalist?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I’m too stunned to care.

She bites her lip, glancing away. “Beau, I can explain.”

“You’re a fucking journalist?” I repeat, louder this time.

She reaches out, her fingers brushing my arm. “Just—listen to me.”

I step back like she’s burned me. “You slept with me for a goddamn scoop? Is that it? Huh? What, you wanted some inside dirt on the team?”

“No!” she says quickly, shaking her head. “It wasn’t like that, I swear. Last night had nothing to do with my job.”

“Bullshit.” I grab her wrist, dragging her into the elevator with me. My thumb slams the button to stop the doors from closing, keeping the elevator stalled.

Her eyes dart to the panel, then back to me. “Beau, stop. This isn’t what you think.”

“Not what I think?” I laugh, but it’s humorless, bitter. “So what is it then, Daisy? You just happened to show up at the same bar, happened to end up in my bed, and happened to have a press pass for the Miami Herald hanging around your neck the very next day? Explain that shit.”

She hesitates, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip again. It’s the same nervous tic I noticed last night, but now it makes me angrier than it should.

“I’m waiting,” I snap.

“It’s complicated,” she says finally.

“Complicated?” I let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Here’s what’s not complicated. You stay the fuck away from me. From my team. From this arena. You even think about writing anything about last night, and I’ll sue you, your paper, your whole goddamn family, for all I care.”

Her eyes narrow, and for a split second, I see a flash of fire in them. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know enough,” I say coldly. “You’re a liar.”

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Good.

I release her wrist, stepping back to jab the button that starts the elevator moving again. The doors slide shut and I lean against the wall, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at her.

When the elevator dings at my floor, I push past her without a word, taking the stairs instead of the second elevator. My steps echo in the stairwell, each one fueled by frustration.

What are the fucking odds? Out of all the women in Miami, I end up with her . A journalist. Someone who could ruin my career, my team, my reputation.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter under my breath.

By the time I make it to the parking lot, I’m fuming. I throw my gym bag into the backseat of my truck, slamming the door harder than necessary. My hands grip the steering wheel as I sit there for a moment, trying to calm down.

But her face keeps flashing in my mind. The way she looked at me, almost like she wanted to say more but didn’t know how. Like she was sorry.

I shake my head. No. I can’t let myself think like that. She’s a journalist. They are all threats. Nothing more.

My phone buzzes again, and this time I pull it out and see a text from Kieran.

Practice was brutal. You hitting up the bar later?

I type out a quick response.

No. Got shit to do.

Boring. You’re old Beau.

I roll my eyes, shoving the phone back into my pocket. If only he knew.

I start the truck, pulling out of the parking lot with one destination in mind: home.