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Lucy James wanted three things: respect, success…and, most of all, an empty trash can to throw up in.

God, she was nervous! So nervous, her stomach was doing the most ridiculous flips, as if she were an obvious beginner attending an advanced yoga course. She balled her hands into fists to stop them from shaking while taking deep, concentrated breaths, exhaling as softly as possible through her mouth, which was twisted into a smile. She didn’t want the stern-looking woman with short gray hair and red-rimmed glasses to notice that she was on the verge of a panic attack.

Leslie Forth was everything Lucy wanted to be, at some point. She was a PR icon! Thirty years ago, she’d been the first woman in the United States to become the head of PR and marketing for a major sports team—not just some unknown hockey team, but the L.A. Hawks, who graced cereal boxes across the country and were three-time Stanley Cupwinners. Yes, Leslie Forth was a pioneer in a male-dominated world, and Lucy would follow in her footsteps.

After she threw up, that is. And then brushed her teeth thoroughly. Seizing control of sports marketing would probably have to wait until tomorrow. But that was okay. She was young, she had time…and she needed to relax! She had landed her dream job, and they weren’t going to fire her on her first day.

Were they?

Oh jeez, if she kept getting distracted like this, she wouldn’t hear herself getting laid off, anyway.

“…Under no circumstances should you lose your new ID card! Without it, you won’t be able to enter the parking garage or office.”

Lucy forced herself back to the present and cleared her throat. “Of course not,” she replied matter-of-factly, swiping her damp palms over her pencil skirt. “I’ll pay attention to that. And don’t worry, I’m not forgetful.”

“Many new employees say that, but then suddenly their ID card mysteriously goes missing, just so they can get a new ID with a better photo. Like one with their eyes open.” Leslie’s pursed lips clearly betrayed she didn’t understand such superficialities.

“I don’t care what I look like in my photo,” Lucy reassured her immediately.

“Wonderful.” Apparently, that was exactly what her boss wanted to hear, because she bared her teeth in a way that people with poor eyesight might mistake for a smile. “The photo will be the least of your problems, anyway. The hardest part will be dealing with the players.”

Lucy nodded. She had already come to that conclusion.

“To put it bluntly: Most of them don’t particularly enjoy being bossed around, especially not by a woman. But it’s extremely important not to be influenced by them, because if they get the feeling you’re afraid of them or—worse—crushing on them, you might as well pack your bags. Understand?”

“That won't be a problem,” Lucy replied firmly. “I always remain professional and don’t intend to be intimidated by a few ice hockey giants.”

Leslie narrowed her eyes. Under the cold fluorescent lights, they flashed skeptically, as if trying to read from Lucy’s face if she was putting her on.

Yes, Lucy knew that look. She was a measly five feet tall and looked young for her age. Most people didn’t take her seriously at first. When people saw her, they suddenly had the urge to call her ‘sweetie’ or ‘cutie’ and pat her on the head. It was incredibly unnerving, and it meant she always had to work twice as hard as her colleagues. She had to be smarter, more professional, funnier, and more assertive than her peers or her arrogant, chauvinistic coworkers. She was too short and her hips and breasts a bit too large, so she always wore heels to stand taller and prudish blouses, or else nobody took her seriously. It wasn’t fair, but it was how things were. It was just as much a part of the job as having to remain professional and not be intimidated or manipulated.

Yes, she loved hockey, and being able to work closely with the players was part of the reason the butterflies were fluttering in her stomach. But not because she adored them and wanted to jump into bed with them. If she ever became involved with an athlete, she could kiss her career goodbye! No, she was happy to be a part of the team because she respected the hard physical work and discipline of the players. She understood the sacrifices necessary to achieve goals.

“All right,” Leslie said thoughtfully, glancing briefly at the clipboard in her arms and drumming her fingers on it. "Well, your résumé is impressive; I was just wondering…”

“Yes?” she asked cautiously.

“You know what? I’ll throw you straight into the deep end. We’ll just see if you sink or swim.” Satisfied with this decision, Leslie nodded. “What do you think?”

Lucy swallowed the lump in her throat as she nodded back. "Sure." She was struck by how convincingly that word came out of her mouth, now that the butterflies in her stomach had changed into something more aggressive. But she had been waiting to prove herself, right? Now was as good a time as any. “What exactly is the deep end, if I may ask?”

She expected the worst: She’d be asked to spontaneously lead a press conference, come up with an idea for an advertising campaign, or get a smoothie (not green!) somewhere within half an hour—through L.A.’s afternoon traffic, no less. Impossible things!

But a name, no more, came out of Leslie’s mouth: “Dax Temple.”

Lucy furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “The player? The Hawks’ forward winger?” She groaned inwardly at her stupid question. Leslie was obviously talking about the currently most successful winger in the NHL, and not some new religious retreat!

Leslie nodded sternly and handed her the clipboard. “Yes. I want you to prepare Dax Temple for his press conference in an hour. Here are the things he’s allowed to talk about, and these are the things he should keep to himself.” She tapped the points in question.

“Okay,” Lucy replied slowly. Briefing a player for a press conference didn’t sound too bad. “No problem.”

The corners of the older woman’s mouth twitched as if Lucy had said something funny. “That’s the right attitude. However, to be frank, Dax is a bit…complicated.” She cleared her throat. “He doesn’t like to be told what or what not to do. Also, today is his birthday and it’s always a…difficult day. So, if you can deal with him, I won’t have any concerns about you being a good fit for the organization.”

Lucy narrowed her eyes at her boss.

Dax Temple was complicated ? What was that supposed to mean? But before she could open her mouth and ask, Leslie stepped back.

“He should be upstairs in meeting room C. It’s best you leave now, so you don’t keep him waiting.”

Lucy had no choice but to smile and nod again. This was a test. She understood that much. This was her chance to shine, to cement her place on the PR team and impress her boss. And dammit, she would!

“No problem,” she repeated lightly, making her way to the stairs. Her stomach quieted and the nausea faded. It was the uncertainty that drove her crazy, so now that she had clear instructions, she felt better. She had been given a task that she would complete to the satisfaction of her boss. End of story.

But when she reached meeting room C, it was empty. No broad-shouldered hockey player in sight. Frowning, she stepped into the hallway, looked up and down its length, and noticed a tall, blond man in gym shorts and an L.A. Hawks jersey walking toward her. She hurried toward him.

“Pardon me, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for Dax Temple.”

When the player stopped, she recognized him as Matthew Payne, also a forward winger and, according to the media, Dax’s best friend. Jackpot!

He looked her over once—which didn’t take long given her size—and snorted loudly. “Believe me when I tell you: Better not look any further.”

She blinked in confusion. “Um, but I have to.”

“Okay, maybe you’re looking for him—but you don’t want to find him.”

“Yes, I do,” she insisted.

The guy narrowed his eyes. “You’re new here, right?”

She cleared her throat and nervously pushed a strand of red hair behind her ear. “Yes, I just started in the PR department. Today is my first day, but—”

“Okay, let me give you a piece of advice,” he interrupted, leaning toward her, his gaze intense. “As a kind of welcome-to-the-team gift: If you want to live a long, happy life, don’t talk to Dax on his birthday.”

“Well, for me, a happy life means keeping this job, and to do that I have to prepare him for a press conference,” she replied, taken aback. “It’s my first assignment. I can’t mess this up.”

Payne grimaced and scratched the back of his neck. “Shit. Lousy first task. Is this Leslie’s idea? She must have great faith in you.”

Lucy didn’t know how to respond, so she simply said, “Could you tell me where he is?”

The player let out a puff of air but nodded. “Fine. You’ll find that asshole in the gym.” He pointed down the hall. “Third door on the left. Good luck to you.”

“Okay,” Lucy replied, now a little worried. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me,” he said, shaking his head. “Actually, I owe you a drink, for telling you where to find the guy, today of all days.” He raised his hands and hurried off in the opposite direction.

Her brows knitted together as she watched him leave. That was weird—right?

Why would Payne call his best friend an asshole? Maybe the PR department only sold the friendship thing to the press because it sold more tickets and jerseys if the players seemed like buddies. What did she know? But it was irrelevant. She had a job to do, and Dax Temple couldn’t be that bad. In every interview she’d seen, he seemed friendly and funny. Sure, he was known for being a bit of a man-slut and a total jerk when it came to his stupid rivalry with Jack West, but which NHL player didn’t have quirks? No, she didn’t know the winger from Adam, so she’d face him without reservations. Every person deserved baseline respect and the benefit of the doubt.

Satisfied again, she lifted her chin, walked down the hallway, and stopped at the gym door. It was closed, so she knocked.

Nobody answered.

She knocked again, louder this time. She clearly heard a steady pounding behind the door. Was Mr. Temple perhaps wearing headphones and that was why he didn’t answer? She decided that was a good guess and went ahead and opened the door.

An array of treadmills, weight benches, leg presses, and other equipment met her eyes. Oh man. Gym was the understatement of the century. Fitness Palace would be much more suitable. Through a large picture window, the Californian summer sky was visible. There was definitely room for the entire L.A. Hawks squad on the machines. However, they were all empty, except for a single treadmill to her right, where the steady pounding was coming from.

Lucy stood on her tiptoes to peer over the other machines. Her heart jumped into her throat as she caught a glimpse of the man mercilessly abusing the treadmill.

Yep, that was Dax Temple. Six-foot-one, muscular, with dark hair that curled over his ears, and five-day stubble that was a few hours shy of making wary old ladies cross the street. He looked even better than he did on TV. That might have been because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Indeed. Because, damn!

His six-pack looked much more impressive in real life than on TV! Lucy had always suspected they’d been photoshopped, but, no ma’am, those muscles were real. Her heart rate skyrocketed. She wasn’t merely a professional, but also a woman with eyes and all, so she lifted her chin a little higher. She was glad she was wearing five-inch stilettos instead of the usual three-inch heels on this, her first day at work. Shoes always boosted her confidence a bit. But seeing half-naked, muscular men in real time—this would take some getting used to.

She rounded the last empty treadmill and stopped directly in front of Dax Temple, noticing he wasn’t wearing headphones. Nor hearing aids. So, there was no excuse for not acknowledging her.

She cleared her throat.

He didn’t react.

“Hi,” she said pleasantly, “I’m Lucy James. I’m new to the PR department.” She extended her hand and waited for him to shut off the treadmill or at least raise his own hand in greeting.

He did nothing of the sort. In fact, he didn’t even glance at her. Instead, he stared stubbornly at the treadmill’s display and continued jogging.

Irritated, she frowned, wondering what exactly his tactic was. She certainly wouldn’t leave simply because he was ignoring her.

Meanwhile, the silence between them was dragging on, making Lucy’s little finger twitch nervously. She cleared her throat again and said: “Oh, by the way, happy—”

“If you wish me a happy birthday, I’ll aim a puck straight at your head at the next game,” he interjected, his voice dark and raspy. “It’ll look like an accident. But you’ll know it wasn’t.”

Perplexed, she felt her eyes widen. “I… Wait, what? ” She must have heard him wrong.

Yet Temple didn’t respond. He turned his gaze away again, set the treadmill up a notch, and quickened his pace. According to the display, he was now running an eight-minute mile without even losing his breath.

Lordy, when Lucy went faster than walking speed, drivers pulled over to ask if she needed an ambulance! But that was beside the point—the real issue was, had he really just threatened to hurt her? No, it must have been a joke. A type of humor that… honestly, she didn’t get. But okay. That happens. With some people, she just wasn’t on the same wavelength. No drama.

“Um, Mr. Temple, didn’t anyone tell you that someone from the PR department was expecting you in meeting room C?” she hazarded to say.

“Sure,” he answered shortly and scratched his chest.

“Oh. I just thought, because the room was empty… Did you lose track of the time?” She’d heard that happened to some people when they were working out or competing. She herself could not confirm that. She and sports weren’t on the same wavelength, either.

“No.”

“Oh,” she repeated, hating how stupid she sounded. But, good God, how else should she react? After all, it sounded like he’d missed the appointment on purpose.

“Mr. Temple,” she started again, trying to filter the impatience from her voice. “It doesn’t matter if you missed the appointment or not. Thank God I found you and we can discuss the press conference here.”

“ Thank God, ” he repeated woodenly, looking absent-mindedly at a spot on the floor. “I’m fairly certain that should be Thank Matt, but whatever. I’m not going to question your faith.”

Automatically, Lucy followed Dax Temple’s gaze… and she paused. In front of the treadmill sat a fruit tart. A tart that looked like it had wandered into a dark alley in the wrong part of the city, because it had apparently fallen victim to some gang violence. Or, at least, to a fist.

Mouth agape, Lucy stared first at the smashed mess of cream, then at Temple. “Did you beat up that tart?” she asked, confused.

“No, of course not. That would be crazy. And I’m obviously not crazy,” he replied without batting an eyelash.

“Then why is there a fist mark in…”

“Jeez, lady,” he interrupted, annoyed. “Why are you still here?”

She swallowed and hugged the clipboard to her chest. “Like I said, I’m here to go over the press conference that’s in an hour—”

“Yeah, I’ve got ears, I know why you’re here! My question is why you don’t scram!”

“Because of the press conference,” she insisted, louder this time, since he was obviously having some problems with those ears. “We need to go over which topics you should avoid and which you should address in more detail. And besides, my name’s not Lady. I’m Lucy James, PR assistant.”

He sighed heavily and, for what felt like the first time, looked at her directly. His eyes were blue, she noticed—ice blue. His gaze was so intense and dark that she almost stumbled back a step. However, hers were no shoes for stumbling in, unless she wanted to break an ankle, so she stood firm.

“Lucy James,” he repeated, drawing out the syllables as though letting her name melt on his tongue before deciding whether to swallow it whole. “Fine, Lucy James. Let me ask you a question: What do I have to do to make you leave me in peace?”

“Well, as I was saying,” she remarked in surprise. “I’m supposed to prepare for the upcoming press conference with you. I wanted to brief you on what you can and can’t say.”

“Can I say that you’re annoying?”

She laughed nervously. “No. I have a list here that says exactly what…”

“What I can and can’t say, I get it,” he interjected before scrutinizing her figure with narrowed eyes. “You’re repeating yourself. You’ve been saying the same thing for five minutes now. Should I call a doctor? Maybe you’re having a stroke.”

She pressed her lips together. Dax Temple is complicated, Leslie Forth had told her. She could not agree with her boss. To call him complicated was insulting to the word.

“I’m fine,” she said tightly. “Thanks for asking.”

“No problem. I’m personally always concerned about the language skills of our employees. There are so many beautiful words—it would be a shame if you just kept using the same ones, wouldn’t it?”

Oh, Lucy knew which words she wanted to use, but then people might question her professionalism. “Mr. Temple,” she said emphatically, “Can we finally get started?”

He grimaced and shook his head. “I don’t know. To be honest, I don’t feel comfortable discussing all this personal stuff with an intern.”

“All this personal stuff you’re about to share with twenty journalists?” she snapped.

“Yeah, that stuff.”

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not an intern.”

He furrowed his brows skeptically. “You sure? You look so young.”

“I’m twenty-five.”

“I think your parents lied to you, Luna,” he said regretfully. “You’re twelve at most.”

“Lucy. My name is Lucy,” she replied tonelessly.

“Then why did you introduce yourself as Luna?” he asked, irritated.

“I didn’t…” She trailed off and blinked.

No, that wasn’t humor, that was…anything but. Wavelength definitely wasn’t the problem, here! Still, she maintained the smile on her face. Professional—she had to stay professional.

“You know what, Dax, I’ll just start.” Only people who were polite deserved politeness in return, so she gave up on it. “It won’t take long. We just have to briefly go through the points.”

She pulled the clipboard from her chest, looked down at the list—and immediately turned a deep red.

Only now did she realize it had been a mistake not to study the clipboard beforehand. Some of the points on it… No, this was ridiculous. There was no way Mr. Temple would ever think of revealing something like that to the press.

Anyone would know that saying things like this was a stupid idea and would only result in a terribly scandalous headline! It was on the list, though, so… Shit.

“Well,” she began carefully, her voice almost drowned out by Dax’s loud pounding on the treadmill. “It’s obvious you can’t tell the press exactly how many women you’ve slept with, right? I don’t think we need to elaborate on that.”

“But it’s fifty-five,” he said slowly. “I specifically turned away all those women yesterday so that the number remained the same; it’s a nice number. If I leave it unmentioned, I missed an orgasm yesterday for absolutely nothing. That seems like a waste.”

Her mouth went dry and her cheeks burned like a bonfire. He hadn’t actually said that just now.

“Are you a virgin, Luna?” he asked.

She almost choked on her own spit. “Excuse me?”

“Well, only a virgin would blush so deeply at the thought of sex. But now that I think about it, maybe it’s better that your cherry’s still unpopped. Having sex at twelve is way too early.” He raised his eyebrows meaningfully, pulled a water bottle out of the holder, and opened it.

Lucy stared at him, a knot forming in her chest. It was a red-hot knot of anger and contempt.

Who the hell did this idiot think he was?

She had been friendly, courteous, and professional, yet he was standing there patronizing her—making fun of her, even?

It was clear he didn’t take her seriously, never mind deem her worthy of respect. And if there was one thing she truly hated, it was someone making her feel like she was doing a bad job.

She dug her fingernails into the glossy coating on the clipboard.

… If they get the feeling you’re afraid of them or, worse, crushing on them, you might as well pack your bags, Leslie Forth’s voice echoed in her mind.

Oh, she wasn’t afraid of Dax Temple. And she had no problem proving that to him.

“My own number is eleven, Mr. Temple, but I feel no need to tell a journalist,” she replied coolly.

Dax choked on his mouthful of water and spit it onto the treadmill display.

Lucy smiled pleasantly. His reaction was more satisfying than her fictional number eleven.

“Eleven?” Stunned, he coughed.

“A shocked response from Mr. Fifty-Five?” she responded calmly. “Are you certain that number hasn’t been embellished and you’re not actually down to minus two sexual partners?”

“Minus two?” He narrowed his eyes. “How is that supposed to work?"

“Well, if someone performs badly in bed, I always deduct a few points. Seems that might be the case, here. A braggart can only be trying to compensate.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t reveal that voluntarily. So, let’s agree that neither of us will give our list of sexual partners to another soul, okay? That would be great.” She nodded happily and crossed off the first item on the list.

He laughed dryly. “Did you just imply that I’m bad in bed?”

“I didn’t imply anything. If anything, I stated it outright,” she replied flatly. “Let’s move on to point two: You will absolutely never use the word pussy, even if a member of the opposing team behaves like a female cat. And you’re not going to show up at the conference half-naked just to pick up a journalist who likes your muscles. And under no circumstances are you allowed to say the name Jack West in combination with your middle finger or the word motherfucker or sonofabitch —understood?”

“So, I’m forbidden from telling the truth?” Dax concluded, cocking his head thoughtfully. “So, everything my mother ever taught me was bullshit?”

“I hope not. But everything you’ve said in the last ten minutes is bullshit,” she replied tersely.

He smiled broadly. “Thank you. I was afraid that wasn’t coming across.”

She groaned loudly and tilted her head back. “Jeez, do you take anything seriously?” she snapped. “I, for one, do, so let me give you a tip: Get over your Jack West problem. I know you two have a stupid rivalry.” Anyone interested in hockey knew that! Ever since Dax Temple joined the NHL several years ago as an arrogant rookie and loudly announced that Jack West was “an overpaid ice troll with a face to match”—and since Jack had shown him up in front of the entire stadium during his first game, the two no longer held back on the ice. “But Jack West is extremely popular and the fact you don’t like him is bad for your image. Okay, so during your very first game, you proved to the whole world that you weren’t ready to compete with a proven great like him. But that was years ago and there’s no point in holding grudges. You did, after all, start the fight back then. Jack West is a nice guy—and no one understands why you still hate him! Why he hates you, on the other hand…” She shrugged. “I can think of one or two reasons right off the bat.”

The smile slid off Dax Temple’s face. “You don’t know anything about me and Jack West,” he said, his voice suddenly dangerously soft. “So, stop talking about things you don’t understand. And yes, I take some things seriously. That’s why I won’t let you, a miniature PR lackey who’s new on the job, stop me from speaking up. Tell Leslie that if she wants me to hold a press conference on my fucking birthday, I’ll say what I want and how I want. And it doesn’t matter how high your heels are, how high you lift your chin, or how boldly you speak to me, we both know you don’t belong here. If you want to hang out with hockey players, I recommend the Ice Lounge—it’s the bar where all the other groupies go.”

Lucy’s stomach clenched, but she put on a sweet smile and took a step back. “As you yourself implied, you know nothing about me or where I belong. So, I think that’s all for today. I’m looking forward to the next meeting, Dax. You’re just as charming as the press makes you out to be.”

With that, she turned and headed toward the door.

“Thank you very much, Luna!” he called after her. “I give you two weeks before you quit.”

She stopped abruptly and spun around. “I meant to say congratulations,” she said solemnly, strolling back to the treadmill where his feet were still working.

“Didn’t I forbid you from wishing me a happy birthday?” he growled.

“Oh, I didn’t say happy birthday,” she clarified, stopping in front of him. “I meant congratulations on being the biggest asshole in the entire organization. That’s what you wanted to prove to me, right? So, congratulations. You may have never won a Stanley Cup, unlike Jack West, but at least you have a title now… Oh, yeah, one more thing…” She raised her hand and slammed her palm down on the treadmill’s red stop button.

It came to an abrupt standstill. Dax Temple did not.

With a loud “Oof!” he ran into the terminal and stumbled backward from the sudden impact, ending up on the ground like a sack of potatoes.

She stared down at him, smiling. “It’s rude to appear at a business meeting half-naked and unfocused. Perhaps you didn’t know that before, since you’re still new on the job, but now you do.”

Without another word, she turned on her heels and stalked out of the room.

This was her damn dream job. She would stay. She would be successful. She would prove to everyone that she was worthy of respect. And she wasn’t going to let an arrogant dick like Dax Temple ruin it for her.

She pushed the door open and slammed it shut again. Where the hell was Matthew Payne? He owed her a fucking drink!