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Chapter twelve

Katarina

Twenty-three minutes late. I've been sitting here stewing since our recovery room encounter yesterday, replaying every loaded look and double meaning.

The way he asked "what else do you see?" like he was daring me to admit I want him…the way I almost did.

Which makes this disrespect even worse.

He had me questioning every professional boundary I've built, and now he can't even be bothered to show up on time? Like I'm some intern he can blow off whenever he feels like it.

One more second and I'm writing NO-SHOW in red Sharpie and mailing it straight to Satan's inbox.

My phone buzzes. Of course. Only one person has the nerve to interrupt me mid–murder fantasy.

I swipe. “What?”

“Wow,” Griffin drawls. “Nice to hear from you too. You always this pleasant or is it just for me?”

I tap my pen against the desk like a caffeinated woodpecker.

“Jesus, Griffin. You gonna micromanage my job too?”

“I’m just calling to say I was a dick last night. But fuck it. You're in a mood.”

“REALLY? What’s the difference? You’re always a dick. That’s your brand, isn’t it?”

There’s a pause. And I swear I can hear his teeth grinding.

“So,” he says, way too casual. “Cyclones still a disaster, or are they pretending to hold it together this week?”

I glance at the empty doorway. No Liam. Still.

“They’re... surviving. I’ve finally convinced half the team that pizza doesn’t count as carb-loading.”

“Miracle worker,” he deadpans. “Bet that took charts and crayons.”

“Patience,” I snap. “Even with the oversized egos.”

He grunts. “Any of ’em giving you shit?”

“You know I can't give you intel on my team. That’s called espionage, Griffin. You're the enemy now.”

“The enemy? Your own brother?” He sounds genuinely offended, which only makes me grin. “I should’ve tried harder to get you on my team.”

“Not a chance in hell. I’ve dealt with your attitude for twenty-six years. If I had to see you at work and at home, I’d probably commit fratricide.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a pain in the ass who refuses to eat vegetables.”

He makes a gagging noise that only proves my point.

“I’m not asking for secrets. Just wondering if the assholes are still assholes.”

My silence answers him.

“Liam,” he bites out like the name’s rotten. “Didn’t peg you for the type to cater to guys who torched every bridge and still think they’re the victim.”

“Griffin.” My voice is all warning now.

“What? I'll never forget what that motherfucker pulled. Blew up two seasons, disrespected everyone any chance he got, didn’t give a shit who he steamrolled. He’s not misunderstood—he’s just an asshole. And you’re next if he decides to make you collateral damage. He’s straight poison, Kat.”

“I don’t get to choose who the hell I work with, Griff.”

“Yeah, well... stay the hell out of his orbit. Guys like him don’t change. They just get better at lying.”

A loaded pause stretches between us.

I shift. “How’s Vanessa?” While mentally rehearsing exactly how I'm going to tear Liam a new one for wasting my time. Being the team nutritionist means dealing with egos the size of hockey arenas, but punctuality isn’t negotiable. Not when his performance directly reflects on my competence.

“Gone. Hooked up with some trainer. Real cliché.”

“Griff, I’m sor—”

“I’m not. Met someone else. Doesn’t even know I play.”

“Already? That’s fast.”

“So?” His voice goes clipped, defensive.

“How new are we talking?”

“Her name's Alexis. Met her a couple weeks ago when the guys dragged me out to drown my sorrows. She’s different—didn't even recognize me, which was refreshing as hell. We've been hanging out pretty regularly.”

“Don’t you think that’s a little fast—”

I want to press, but the door creaks open—and he walks in like he owns the damn room.

Six-foot-two of coiled muscle, cocky swagger, and a fuckboy smirk. Dark hair damp at the edges like he just stepped out of the shower. All attitude.

He’s decked out in Cyclones gear, and his T-shirt clings to his chest in ways that should be illegal.

Liam Steele.

The overhead vent hums, pushing out recycled air tinged with locker room musk and sharp antiseptic. The kind of scent that clings to sweat and stubborn ambition.

Finally.

“Griff,” I mutter, already standing. “Gotta go. My favorite late arrival just wandered in.”

“Yeah. Good luck with that.”

Click.

I shove my phone aside and fix Liam with a look that could slice through Kevlar.

“Nice of you to join us, superstar. Hope I didn’t interrupt your ego-maintenance routine.”

He smirks. “Miss me?”

My smile’s blade-sharp. “Like a rash.”

He laughs, low and slow. “Sorry I’m late.” He drops his gym bag beside the chair, muscles shifting under his shirt as he moves. “Coach had us running extra drills, and I didn’t want to come in here reeking like a locker room.” Then sprawls into the chair, legs wide, eyes locked on mine.

I study his face for signs of bullshit but find only exhaustion. The tension in my shoulders eases—slightly.

“It’s fine. I was about to give you a lecture on time management, but if it was practice-related, I get it.”

“Yeah.” He glances at my chair, then back up. “Did you get my food log?”

I hand him the printed sheets with my notes scribbled in the margins. “Your choices weren’t terrible, but we need to talk about your protein timing.”

While he reads, I prep for the physical assessment. It’s routine—checking muscle mass, body fat percentage, overall conditioning. I’ve done this dozens of times.

So why does the air feel so damn charged?

“All right,” I say, pinching the bridge of my mask into place. “Strip down to your shorts. I need to take measurements.”

This is just another day at the office. I’ve seen most of this team half-naked at some point. I’m a professional.

But when Liam stands and grips the hem of his shirt, something shifts.

“I’m surprised your notes are so diplomatic,” he says, pulling the shirt over his head in one smooth motion.

The cotton whispers against skin, and suddenly the room feels five degrees hotter.

My mouth goes dry. His arms are a goddamn blueprint of trouble—sculpted, inked, and dangerous. I force myself to focus on my clipboard.

“I’m always professional in my notes,” I say, voice steady by some miracle.

“Your notes, maybe.” His eyes flick to my mouth. “But your mouth’s got bite. I like that.”

I roll my eyes, fighting a smile. “I call it honesty. You should try it sometime.”

He drops his sweatpants. Stands straight.

And that’s when my world tilts.

The moment I see his bare chest, the past and present collide. My hands remember before my brain catches up. My pulse slams to a halt, then jolts forward, like it's trying to outrun the memory.

A heart-shaped lock. Dark ink over golden skin. I know every curve. I've traced it with my fingers. My tongue.

That night. The one I haven’t stopped replaying.

The one I tried—and failed—to forget.

I stare at that tattoo. At him.

And the professional distance I’ve built crumbles like broken glass.

The man from that night. Half-naked. Right here.

The one who's been wrecking my sleep for weeks.

Holy. Fucking. Hell. Griffin's warnings explode in my head like grenades.

But my body's already made its choice. Heat floods my veins before I can stop it.

Liam's eyes find my name tag, and everything changes.

That's not surprise in his expression. It's recognition. And that terrifies me.

“‘Novak,’ he murmurs, rolling the name around like a puzzle piece that just snapped into place. ‘Huh. Worked with a real bastard named Novak. Self-righteous. Explosive fucker. He’s the reason I was traded to begin with.” Our eyes meet, “Any relation?”

My pulse stutters.

His stare cuts like a blade—predatory. Like he’s just found something he wasn’t supposed to.

Does he know?

Does he realize the woman who unraveled in his arms is sitting across from him now—with the same last name as his biggest enemy pinned to her chest?

I don’t answer. I can’t.

He leans forward. Huffs a laugh—slow, jagged.

“Well, shit. Griffin fuckin’ Novak.”

Everything in me stills.

A memory—his mouth, that cock—slams into me.

I blink. Once. Twice.

I can’t let him see the quake beneath my ribs.

Because just like that, the man who wrecked me— looks ready to go to war.

Against my brother.

Against me?

I've been dreading this moment for three days. Twenty-three pairs of eyes track my every move as I set up my laptop. The conference room smells like pure testosterone. My first team meeting starts with a player asking if keto means he can eat bacon for breakfast.

"Technically yes," I say, setting up my laptop at the front of the conference room. "Practically, you'll crash harder than your rookie season stats."

Christ there he is. I'm ready to crawl under a rock.

A few guys laugh. Good. Humor helps the medicine go down.

"I'm Katarina Novak, your new nutritionist. I've reviewed everyone's files, and honestly? I'm impressed you're all still standing."

Please don't let him recognize me.

More laughter. A rookie raises his hand.

"What's wrong with our diets?"

I click to my first slide. It's a photo of an energy drink next to a banana.

"This," I point to the drink, "has thirty-nine grams of sugar and enough caffeine to kill a horse. This," I point to the banana, "has potassium, natural sugars, and won't make your heart explode."

"But the drink tastes better," someone calls out.

"So does cake. Doesn't mean you should eat it before a game."

I flip to the next slide—meal timing charts color-coded by position.

"Goalies need different fuel than forwards. Defensemen burn calories differently than centers. One-size-fits-all nutrition is why half of you hit the wall in the third period."

Aiden, the captain, leans forward. "What's our biggest problem?"

"Hydration. Recovery nutrition. And the fact that three of you are basically surviving on coffee and spite."