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Chapter thirteen

Liam

I know she’s staring before I even look up.

That sniper-scope feeling—tight between the shoulder blades, crawling down the spine. I’ve felt it on the ice when some goon’s gunning for me. This? It’s not a hit I’m bracing for.

It’s heat.

The kind that prickles through your skin and settles low in your gut like a bad idea you’re about to say yes to.

I glance up from the food log she handed me, and yeah. There she is.

Clipboard clutched in a death grip. Five-foot-nothing with a mouth that could drop a grown man, and eyes sharp enough to slice through ice. She’s looking at me like she’s one breath away from climbing me—or clocking me.

My pulse kicks hard.

She doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, lips pressed tight, chest rising and falling like she’s trying not to lose her shit. Or maybe trying not to remember something she shouldn’t.

“What?” My tone’s harsh, but what the fuck?

She blinks like I woke her up from somewhere far away. Still doesn’t speak.

“Kat?” The nickname slips out. Unfiltered. Rough. “You good? Or did I grow horns since I walked in?”

Her gaze darts to mine, and for a split second, there’s a flicker. Panic. Shock. Worry.

I don’t know…but then it’s gone. She clears her throat—flips her clipboard open like she didn’t just short-circuit for a second.

But something’s off. I know tension. I breathe tension. And whatever this is? It’s charged.

Like the air right before a fight breaks out on the ice. Or a kiss you’re not supposed to want.

I shift, arms flexing out of habit. Her eyes drop—right to my chest.

“Seriously,” I say, mouth twitching into something close to a grin, “you done checking me out? Or is this part of your data-gathering?”

She jerks her gaze up. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You’re looking at me like I’m protein-packed and ready to go in a smoothie.”

A pink flush creeps up her neck, but she doesn’t retreat. Doesn’t look away.

Good. I don’t like easy. And she sure as hell isn’t.

“I wasn’t staring,” she snaps. “I was… analyzing.”

I arch a brow. “Analyzing, huh. You do that for all the guys or just the ones with rock hard abs and bad reputations?”

She slices her eyes, “Please. I’ve seen better.”

That one hits. Right between the ribs.

“Yeah?” I step closer. “You say that like you’ve got a point of comparison.”

“I work with professional athletes,” she deadpans. “You’re not special.”

Ouch.

Except... why does that dig land harder than it should?

“Let’s just get through this,” she mutters, circling behind me.

I hold still as she starts taking measurements. Skin-to-skin contact, professional as hell—but my body doesn’t care. Her hands brush over my ribs, across my back. Clinical.

But all I can think about is how those same hands would feel gripping my hair, dragging down my stomach, curling tight around my—

Focus.

I exhale slow. Think about anything but the way she smells—something sharp and clean, like mint and sunshine. Not that it helps. It’s familiar in a way I can’t place, and that familiarity’s starting to piss me off.

I’ve spent two months trying to erase a woman I can’t name.

Just one night. Masked. Wild. No names. No bullshit.

And yet—every time I close my eyes, I see flashes. Feel her again. Taste her.

She tasted like heat and sin and fucking surrender.

And now? I’ve got this mouthy blonde in front of me who drives like a bat out of hell, talks shit like it’s a sport, and looks like the ghost of a woman I can’t forget.

Nah. It’s not her.

Can’t be.

But my cock doesn’t seem convinced.

“You can get dressed,” she says, stepping back like I might explode.

I reach for my shirt—but she’s not looking at my face anymore.

She’s staring at my chest.

No—at the ink.

Mom’s locket. Heart-shaped. Black. Centered over my sternum.

She gave it to me a couple weeks before the end—drunk, shaking, barely lucid. “This is yours now,” she said, pressing the broken piece into my palm like it meant something.

Maybe it did. Maybe it didn’t. But I had it inked where I can’t lose it.

Her expression goes pale. Like she’s seen a ghost. Her clipboard dips in her hands.

And I feel it. That shift. The room tilting just a bit.

That look on her face? That’s not professional shock.

That’s like, memory.

I drag my shirt on like armor. “Something wrong?”

She shakes her head. Too fast.

But her hands are shaking as she slides the meal plan across the desk.

“This is your breakdown for the next two weeks,” she says. “Protein. Recovery. Performance optimization.”

“Thanks,” I say, reaching for it.

Our fingers brush.

It’s just a touch.

But it lights me up.

Electricity rips through me like I’ve just taken a puck to the chest. That familiar pull. That skin-deep recognition that makes no goddamn sense.

She jerks back like she’s been shocked.

Our eyes meet.

And then—

I see it.

Her name tag.

Katarina Novak.

Novak.

My stomach drops. My jaw clenches.

No. Fucking. Way.

I say the name aloud, low and slow. “Novak.”

She stiffens.

I lean in, watching her like she’s a puzzle piece that finally slid into place. I keep my face blank, but inside, I’m grinding my teeth.

Griffin fuckin’ Novak. Dude has fists for hands and a mouth that never shuts. No matter how many penalties he racked up—he was golden. Protected. Untouchable.

Me? One too many brawls, and I get slapped with a trade like I was the goddamn problem. I’m not going toe-to-toe with him again. I like my career right where it is—not in the shredder.

“Huh,” I murmur. “I used to play with a Novak. Total fuckin’ headcase. Rage problem. Got me traded, actually.”

Nothing. Not even a blink.

“Any relation?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

Her eyes stay locked on mine. She doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t have to.

Novak.

The same cocky bastard who made my life hell for the last two years. Who called me out, called me poison, made damn sure everyone else believed it too.

And now I’m standing three feet from e verything he holds precious. His little sister.

The same little sister with that hot, smartass mouth I’d kill to feel wrecked and messy around my cock—

but she’s that fucker’s little sister

And that makes it a goddamn war zone I’m not willing to fuck with.

I’m sure she feels this too, because I can tell she’s trying to hold her shit together.

The cracks are showing— I just can’t prove why.

I grin. Slow. Dangerous.

“Well. Fuck. Griffin fuckin’ Novak.”

Her whole body goes still.

Like she just realized how deep this hole really is.

This changes everything...a walking complication.

But I can’t stop myself.

Too sharp. Too smug. Too... fuckable.

And fuckin’ off-limits. Full stop.

And yet, somehow it only makes me want her more.

The smart move would be to shut this down—file her under career-ending temptations and walk the hell out.

But logic’s never done shit for me.

Every time she fucking smirks, she reminds me of the ghost of the girl who wrecked me that night— like she’s daring me.

I want what I want.

And right now? I want her bent over that desk— the one her big brother probably helped her land— moaning for the guy he’d rather have buried in the penalty box.

The puck’s dropped.

And I’m not leaving the ice until I fuckin’ score.

Two hours later, I’m in the equipment room, trying to work off the tension that’s been eating me alive since I walked out of her office.

The room reeks of sweat, leather, and that sharp bite of freshly sharpened steel.

I’m retaping my stick for the third time today, muscle memory taking over while my brain spirals. Griffin fucking Novak’s sister.

The tape tears under my fingers. I start over. Seventeen wraps around the blade. Always seventeen. Some habits die hard, even when everything else is going to shit.

That’s when she walks in.

Katarina steps through the doorway with her clipboard, all business, but I catch the way her eyes find me immediately. Like she knew I’d be here.

“Your grip pressure’s off,” she says, nodding toward my stick.

I pause mid-wrap. “What?”

“During drills today. You were gripping too tight. Tension travels up your arms, affects your shot release.”

She steps closer, and I smell that scent that’s been driving me crazy—clean and warm and dangerously distracting.

“Nutritionally, it suggests elevated cortisol. Stress.”

I laugh, harsh. “You can diagnose stress from stick grip?”

“I can diagnose a lot of things you don’t think I notice.”

The tape tears again. “Yeah? Like what?”

“Like the fact that you’ve been avoiding carbs because you think they’ll slow you down, but really you’re just running on empty.

Like how you tape your stick exactly seventeen times around the blade—I’ve counted.

Like how you haven’t slept more than four hours a night since we started this whole charade. ”

I stare at her. She’s been watching me that closely?

“Your body’s a machine, Liam. But machines break down when you don’t maintain them properly.”

“And you think you know how to maintain me?”

Her cheeks flush, but her voice stays steady. “I think you’re self-destructing, and you’re too stubborn to ask for help.”

I should tell her she’s wrong. Should grab my gear and walk away. Instead, I grip the edge of the equipment rack, knuckles white.

“You want to help? Stay the fuck out of my head during practice.”