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Chapter three

Katarina

T hree weeks is plenty of time to forget someone—unless, apparently, that someone has kaleidoscope eyes and a mouth that ruins you for every other man on Earth.

I still don’t know why I left without saying goodbye.

Well, maybe I do.

He’d wrecked me in every possible way, left me boneless on his mattress like some used-up dish towel, and then waltzed into the bathroom like nothing happened.

And I… I panicked.

No, that’s a lie.

I bolted.

All that confidence and control I usually carry around like a badge of honor? Poof. Gone the second the door clicked shut behind him.

I’d never come twice before with anyone but myself, and here this mystery man shows up and makes me see God.

Twice. With just his hands and that dirty little mouth.

Maybe that’s pathetic. Maybe it’s just science.

Either way, the man might act like a dick, but he sure as hell knows how to use the one he’s got.

His thick, long cock had me begging to be stripped of every ounce of dignity I had, and I’ loved every second of it.

But that’s old news. I’ve moved on. I’m fine.

Totally. Absolutely. Fine.

Even if I still dream about those hands on my hips and the way his voice scraped over my skin like velvet over broken glass.

“Not now, brain,” I mutter, yanking the steering wheel harder than necessary as I pull into the Cyclones’ arena lot.

We’re not doing this today.

Because today? Today is the first day of my dream job. And if I have any self-respect left, I am not going to waste it thinking about a man who clearly didn’t care enough to check if I was still breathing after he made me see stars.

Never thought I’d end up in this small Florida town surrounded by palm trees and sweaty, ego-driven athletes, instead the hustle of the city, but here I am.

The Canyon Bay Cyclones might be the NHL’s new baby franchise, just a couple years in,but they’re building something big—and now I’m officially part of it.

“You sure you don’t want me to have Aiden call someone to get you in?” Aurora asks—because of course she did. Best friend duties and all. But I just smiled and did what I always do when someone offers a shortcut, I dig in my heels and take the long way—running.

I wanted this on my own. I earned this. And when I texted Griffin that I landed the Cyclones gig all by myself, his reaction was chef’s kiss. Mostly because he couldn’t argue without sounding like a condescending jackass…typical brother shit.

When I got the offer, I danced like a freaking gremlin in my kitchen. Full chaos mode. Then I tried to call Aurora—no answer. Typical. Probably mid-makeout session with Aiden.So I shrieked barefoot into the void and called my parents instead, still sounding like I’d won the lottery.

Dad cried. Griffin tried to act supportive but mostly just grunted like a damn caveman.

He’s always hated the Cyclones. Says it’s a “culture thing,” whatever that means.

He even went as far as to try to get me hired with the Reapers—his team—crazy thing…

they didn’t even have a nutritionist opening.

The guy practically offered to invent a job for me to stop me from applying to the Cyclones, and when I said no… he was livid.

But this time, he’s especially pissed—apparently, there’s some new asshole on their roster who just got traded from the Reapers. Someone he really can’t stand.

Honestly? That might’ve made the whole thing taste even sweeter. He’s such an asshole.

Growing up with a chef for a dad meant I was basically raised with a spatula in one hand and a cutting board in the other.

Griffin whined through every meal prep lesson.

I thrived. Especially when Dad got diagnosed with diabetes and I got to turn our kitchen into a culinary lab of low-sugar genius.

That’s when I realized I didn’t just love food—I loved making it work for people.

Let food be thy medicine.

Now I get to do that for professional athletes. How wild is that?

I park, inhale a deep breath, and try not to sweat through my blouse. First impressions are important, and I’m not showing up looking like I lost a fight with the Florida sun.

Spoiler: I already did. My foundation is halfway to puddle territory.

I step into the arena’s blast of AC like I’ve been reborn.

Holy hell, the place looks incredible. Smells like new paint. Polished floors. Gleaming signage. Not a single stray cup or scrap of tape in sight.

Definitely a glow-up since the last time I was here—back when it looked like a frigging construction site with a hockey problem.

It’s wild. Ice and palm trees, sitting on the edge of the ocean.

Only in Canyon Bay.

“Hey, can I help you?”

I jump so hard I nearly scream. A security guard—mid-thirties, friendly face—backs up with both hands raised like I’m a startled raccoon.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

“Totally fine,” I say, flashing a smile I hope reads cool and approachable instead of deranged and sleep-deprived. “Just trying to find Human Resources. I’ve got my paperwork for the badge and all that fun stuff.”

He gestures down the hallway. “Right this way. Congrats, by the way. Always nice to see new faces.”

“Thanks!” I follow him, trying not to trip on my own feet or stare too hard at everything like a starstruck tourist. “Everyone says the Cyclones are a great group.”

He glances over his shoulder and grins. “They are. Most of the time. Hockey players can get rowdy, but it’s all part of the charm.”

I raise a brow. “Charm, huh? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

He chuckles and waves me toward a hallway. “HR’s at the end. Can’t miss it.”

I thank him and make my way down the corridor, passing half-empty offices and closed doors. Some muffled voices drift out, but otherwise, it’s quiet.

I knock, and the door swings open to reveal Martin from my interview.

“Katarina! So glad you made it.”

“Happy to be here,” I chirp, genuinely excited—if also mildly terrified I’m going to screw this up in spectacular fashion.

Martin introduces me to Gerald, a silver-fox type who looks like he belongs on a cereal box in a rocking chair. Apparently, he was a team nutritionist for decades and now consults for the Cyclones. Basically, the Gandalf of athlete diets.

“Anything I should look out for?” I ask, shaking Gerald’s hand.

He gives a warm smile. “Couple allergies to watch. And some of the boys like to push boundaries, but nothing dangerous.”

Martin snorts. Gerald winks. I file both reactions under noted.

“Anyone likely to throw a tantrum over kale?” I ask.

“Not kale,” Gerald muses. “But maybe the idea of fewer fried chicken tenders.”

Fair.

“Biggest tip?” Gerald adds. “Don’t let them see you sweat. Especially not the ones who think they’re gods on skates.”

I nod. That’s advice I’ve heard before. Kitchens and locker rooms have one thing in common: a few too many men who test your patience just to see if you’ll break.

But I don’t break easy.

By the time I leave, I’ve got my badge, my office keys, and enough adrenaline to power a small country.

I hop in my car, planning to treat myself to something greasy and celebratory. Maybe fries. Or tacos. Or both. I start to back out—

CRUNCH.

“Oh shit.” My stomach plummets. That wasn’t a curb. That was a car.

I slam it in park and jump out, already fumbling for my insurance card and practicing my best I swear I’m not usually this clumsy smile .

Then I hear it.

“You better fucking have insurance.”

The voice is deep. Sharp. Laced with enough barely restrained fury to make my fight-or-flight instinct start scanning for exits.

I look up—and damn near swallow my tongue.

Six-foot-something. Cyclones jacket. Arms crossed over a chest built like a Greek tragedy. And those eyes—icy, electric, and glaring straight through me.

My heart stutters from the adrenaline.

I blink, trying to shake it off, trying not to notice the perfect storm of rage and heat simmering beneath that jawline.

Great. First day, and I’ve already front-ended the human embodiment of a hockey penalty.