Page 2 of Pucked Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #6)

TWO

GRADY

The room is quiet enough to hear tendon rasp over bone.

I grimace as I draw deep breaths and the resistance band squeals with every rep.

It’s day three in this tricked-out “cabin.” It has everything: a two-story stone fireplace, a state-or-the-art kitchen, a retro game room—and me, the least fun feature, grimacing on a bench in the gym.

Ankle looped to a band on a post, I flex, hold, and release. The knee isn’t screaming. But it’s still making its presence known.

I add another set to prove I can.

The door clicks. I know it’s her. Don’t look. I look anyway.

Stevie pads in barefoot, leggings, oversized sweater. Long dark-blonde braid over one shoulder. Freckles. Green eyes with little gold shots when the sun finds her. Curvy as sin. She’s the kind of beauty that makes a man forget he’s not supposed to touch.

I look away before my staring can cross a line.

“Morning,” she says. “I see you started without me.”

“Didn’t realize I needed a chaperone for PT.” I pull the band. Flex. Hold. Release. Don’t show the wince.

“You don’t need a chaperone.” She comes closer. “You need a spotter.”

“I’m not benching a car.”

“You’re benching your pride,” she says cheerfully, then grins. “That’s heavier than a car.”

I keep my face blank. “I’m fine.”

“Sure.” She drifts to the mirror wall, tests a band. “Your form’s a little off.”

“Did Thatcher tell you to say that?”

“I actually took a few classes,” she says, meeting my gaze in the mirror.

I remember Thatcher always talking about his kid sister like she was a little girl. She isn’t. She’s a full-grown woman with a body that’s driving me crazy.

“I’m good,” I say, angling my knee to prove it.

Pain nips. I swallow it.

She comes to my side, not touching, just watching.

“Rotate your hip a bit. Don’t lock the ankle,” she says. “You’re overcompensating for the quad.”

“I’m compensating for the fact that I hate this.”

“I know.” Her voice is full of warmth, not pity. “Just remember, if you cheat now, you’ll pay later on the ice.”

“Who says I’m getting back on the ice?”

“You do,” she says. “Every time you grit your teeth and push yourself a little longer.”

She steps in, close enough for the sweetness of her shampoo to blow up my focus. Her knuckles skim my thigh as she adjusts the band.

I forget how to exhale.

“Like this,” she murmurs. She rests two fingers to the outside of my knee. My dick twitches. “Hold there. Drive through the heel.”

I do exactly what she says. Trying to focus on the movement and not her touch or the way it makes the tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

She watches my movement for several reps. Then looking up she catches my stare. Color climbs her throat. But she doesn’t move her hand.

“Better,” she says.

“Did I improve my form, or are you being nice?”

“Both.” Her eyes sparkle.

Despite my best efforts to stay mad, my mood lifts. A little.

I finish the set because I’d like to still be a hockey player next spring. Pulling my leg free at the end, I start to stand. A pinch inside the joint burns. I should sit down.

I stand anyway.

She sees the micro-flinch. Of course she does.

“Sit,” she orders, already grabbing a rolled towel. “Use this for hamstring support.”

“I’ve got it.”

“And I said hamstring support.” She tucks the towel under my thigh fast, competent. “You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

“I’m not proving a point.”

Her brow lifts. “No? Because you look like you’re trying to pretend that you aren’t in pain.”

Her gaze drops to my chest, lingering on the tattoos scattered across my skin. I’m used to being looked at.

I’m not used to my best friend’s sister doing it with heat in her gaze.

“What?” I ask, rougher than I mean. “Taking a mental picture?”

Her cheeks pink. “Just… taking inventory.”

“Of my tattoos.”

“Mmm.” She tips her chin at my shoulder. “That one?”

It’s pretty straight-forward: a puck and crossed sticks with my number. “Team tribute. Got it after my first big-league goal.”

“I bet that felt good.”

“It did.”

“Still does?”

I shrug, looking at the floor. “Depends on the day.”

She nods, then points to the rose inside my biceps.

“For my family,” I say. I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t push.

Her eyes drift to the cross near my heart. She doesn’t point. Just looks a second longer, then carefully away. “That one’s a story for another day.”

“It’s a story for another person,” I say before I can help it. “You got any tattoos?”

Her teeth catch her bottom lip and my gut clenches. “Maybe.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a ‘maybe you’ll find out if you’re very, very special.’”

Another punch of heat hits me square in the core. “My coaches tell me I’m special.”

“Don’t get too excited,” she laughs. “Very special is a high bar in my book.”

“I’m tall,” I deadpan. “Bet I can clear it.”

She laughs and something heavy in my chest loosens. She sets the towel aside and grabs a smaller band.

“Let’s work on your ankles. Side steps.”

“I hate side steps.”

“You hate everything.”

“Fair enough.”

“Good. Use it.”

She demonstrates: feet shoulder-width, band above ankles, hips shifting. Sweater lifts, a slip of skin at her waist. My mouth goes dry. I try not to stare.

And fail.

We work the circuit. She matches me, correcting here and there—steady, stubborn competence. Two sets in, the humming starts—barely there, then a line of melody stitching the silence.

“Are you always singing?” I ask.

“Are you always this cheerful?” she bats her eyes

I grunt and listen. It takes a moment, but I recognize the tune. “Dream” by Fleetwood Mac.

“Good song,” I say.

“One of the best.”

“Helps when the person humming it has a nice voice,” I say. “You’re good.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m… fine.”

“Bullshit.” She startles, and I rein it in. “Sorry. You’re just… better than fine.”

She looks at me like she wants to believe me. “I like music.”

“Do you play anything?”

“Piano. Guitar,” she says. “I write a little. Small stuff.”

“You play any gigs?”

“Open mics. Coffee shops. My kitchen, if the coffee is hot enough.”

“You’re a regular rockstar,” I say. “Rockstar,” I repeat under my breath.

Her eyes flare. “What was that?”

“I said you’re a rockstar,” I say. “There’s no point arguing.”

“I wasn’t going to argue.” She lifts her shoulder. “But that’s a new one.”

“Is new good or bad?”

“Ask me later.”

“Later when?”

“When you’re not limping.”

“I’m not limping.”

“That’s debatable.” She steps closer. The hairs on my arms stand up. Her hand lands at my waist. “Quad set,” she says softly. “Don’t chase the pain. Let the muscle work.”

In another life, another knee, I’d walk her back to the wall and see how long it took her to forget she’s my best friend’s sister.

In this one, I hold still and take a deep breath, trying to cool the hot lust bursting through me.

She looks up. I don’t know who moves first—maybe both of us. Her eyes drop to my mouth. Mine do the same. I lean closer. She meets me part-way. I can almost taste the toothpaste on her breath and?—

Both our phones erupt with alarms.

We jerk apart. She fumbles her pocket. I slap at the shelf to kill the sound and read the screen.

Red banner: BLIZZARD WARNING. WHITEOUT CONDITIONS. POWER OUTAGES LIKELY. SHELTER IN PLACE.

“Okay,” she says, reading hers. “That’s… kind of aggressive.”

“Welcome to Alaska,” I say, voice all gravel. My pulse is still cross-checking my ribs. “We’ll be cut off from the rest of the world for a couple days. Maybe more.”

She lifts her chin. “Then we prep. Firewood, fuel, food. And by we, I mean me, because you are not hauling anything heavier than a loaf of bread.”

“I can carry wood.”

“You can carry coffee,” she says primly. “And your weight in sarcasm.”

“Ouch. That’s a five-minute major.”

“For what, backtalk?” she asks.

“For being you.”

Her laugh catches. “And that a penalty now?”

“Depends on the ref.”

She pockets her phone. “Okay. Rockstar rule number one.”

“You’re making rules now?”

“Rockstar rule number one,” she repeats, her tone taking on an edge. “You listen to me. We prep smart, not macho.”

“I’m not macho.”

She gestures at my shirtless torso as if that proves a point. “Sure.”

I should put on a shirt. I don’t. She should stop looking at me like that.

“What’s Rockstar rule number two?” I ask, because if I’m not going to kiss her, I need to talk.

“You tell me when it hurts,” she says.

“And if I don’t?”

“I’ll know,” she says. “And I’ll put you in the penalty box. You’re not getting even more hurt on my watch.”

I huff a laugh. But my mind wanders to another time and place.

My skate catches a rut. Two hundred pounds of momentum slams in a beat later. I go down.

“Hey,” she says. “Eyes here.”

I look. Somehow she’s closer without moving. “What?”

“You don’t have to be the tough guy in here,” she says. “You can just be a guy who’s healing.”

“I don’t know how to be that.”

“Good news.” Her smile tilts. “I do.”

The alert chimes again. I blow out a breath. “We should stash water. Check the generator. Bring in wood.”

“We should do the smart things,” she corrects. “You should also put on a hoodie before I have to explain to Thatcher how you died from exposure.”

“Very special people get to tell me what to wear.”

“Good,” she says, backing toward the door, eyes a dare. “Guess I’m very special.”

She slips out. I stand there with the band biting my ankle and tell myself the thing I’ve been repeating since the airport.

She’s Thatcher’s sister. Hands off.