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Chapter seven

Katarina

G riffin’s paranoia is rubbing off on me.

He didn’t just tell me to stay away from that Liam asshole—he made it sound like crossing paths with the guy would flip some kind of switch.

Now I’m in the arena parking lot, parked way too early for my meeting with the Cyclones’ head coach and head athletic trainer. It’s a dry run for my team introduction, nutrition protocols, and access to the medical team.

Totally routine.

My pulse skitters, fingers white-knuckled around the wheel like I’m prepping for liftoff.

The black sports car from yesterday’s disaster sits three spaces away, angled slightly like it’s posing for a photo shoot. Of course he drives something sleek, dramatic, and faster than necessary—something that probably came with a warning label and a matching ego.

I blow out a breath. “Get a grip, Kat.”I give myself a pep talk. You are competent. You are calm. You are in control. Also, you’re not going to let a grumpy, reckless hockey player rattle you into a sweat before a meeting. I square my shoulders. I can do this.He’s just a guy.

A hot guy.

A hot guy who looked at me like he wanted to ruin my whole month.

Nope. Stop it.

You’re a professional who doesn’t let random jerks dictate where she parks.

I open the door. Step out into the heat. Lock the car with a double click.

I barely make it a few steps before a voice cuts through the morning. “You stalking someone?”

I flinch so hard I nearly drop my tablet.

Standing next to the black car is a man who might as well have been carved out of attitude and shadows.

Oh no…of course it’s him.

He’s in a T-shirt now—black, snug, stretching over his chest like it was custom made for his sins, with tattoos that tease down one arm—wrapping his forearm like they’re guarding secrets.

Not to mention the annoyingly smug look on his face like he knows exactly what you’re thinking and is judging you for it.

It isn’t fair that someone this attractive has the personality of wet cement.

His dark eyes pin me in place.

I straighten. “What?”

He shrugs, all lazy menace. “You’ve been sitting there for fifteen minutes just staring into space. Seemed like stalking.”

“I wasn’t—” I snap my mouth shut and regroup. “I was mentally preparing for my meeting.”

His brows lift. “So… stalking. Cool.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re impossible.”

He takes a step closer, and I catch the clean scent of his aftershave—something crisp and stupidly expensive that makes my brain short-circuit.

“I’m just saying,” he continues, “it becomes my business when you crash into my car and then lurk like a creeper the next morning.”

“Oh my god.” I throw my hands up. “Barely! you said it yourself, 'don't worry about it,' I slice my eye's. “Drama king. there wasn’t even any paint transfer.”

“You came backing out like you were trying to outrun a scandal. Or maybe you just drive like someone who thinks looking in your rearview before you back out is optional.”

“Yeah? And you were parked halfway into the turn lane like you thought it was your driveway.”

We’re toe-to-toe now.

His eyes drop to my mouth for a fraction of a second. Just enough to make me forget my name.

And I hate that.

He’s hot. Objectively. But hot doesn’t cancel out arrogant. Or insufferable. Or the very real possibility that he spends more time in front of a mirror than I do.

The fact that I feel a sliver of attraction to him annoys me. I know it shouldn’t. Attractiveness has no correlation to personality. It’s only natural for me to notice his height and his solid build.

“I could’ve reported you,” he says, voice low and even.

I arch a brow. “You didn’t…you chased me instead. Let me guess,” I add. “Big car, bigger ego, zero self-awareness?”

He eyes the badge clipped to my tote. “You work here or something?”

“Starting today,” I bite out. “Team nutritionist. For the Cyclones.”

His gaze sharpens. “Of course you are.”

I smile sweetly. “Didn’t know hockey players had this much time to be nosy.”

He looks mildly amused. “Didn’t know nutritionists had that much attitude.”

We stare each other down like it’s a silent duel. He leans in. “You know, for someone who claims they don’t care, you’re awfully defensive.”

“And for someone who acts like he doesn’t remember absolving me,” I fire back, “you sure have a lot of opinions.”

A flicker passes through his expression. He steps closer, shadows falling over his face like a threat.

His voice drops to a rough whisper, the kind that drags cold air down my spine.

“What’s your name?”

“Why?”

“Because I like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“And here I thought you didn’t remember me,” I say, folding my arms. “But sure. Let’s pretend this is a first impression.”

“Katarina,” I say slowly. “Kat.”The way he says my name makes my pulse thump in places it shouldn’t. Like he’s filing it away for later.

And the worst part…I might not be mad if there were a later.

He nods. “Liam.”

The name slams into my chest like a fist. Liam.The same Liam Steele, Griff warned about — the reckless, unhinged storm I'm supposed to avoid.

And now that storm is standing inches from me, claiming my space.

His eyes hold a dangerous spark, like he knows exactly what chaos he’s about to bring — and maybe he’s already decided I’m a part of it.

I want to turn and run. But my feet stay rooted, caught in a silence.

Because even with every alarm screaming at me — I’m already tangled in his orbit.

He tosses a smirk. “Try not to hit any more cars today, Doc.”

Trouble?Asshole.

“Yeah, well… no promises.” He laughs. Quiet. Low. Like it caught him off guard.

And damn it, it’s a good sound.

Warm. Rough-edged. Way too easy to like. It slips past my defenses before I can shut the door, like my body didn’t get the memo… we’re not doing this.

It’s not even a full laugh—more like a crack in that permanently scowling exterior. Just enough to suggest there’s an actual person under all that grump. Which, honestly, is worse.

Because now I feel it.

“Not butterflies—don’t even start with that. Just a…shift. A twitch.”

Something low and annoying in my stomach that tightens like it’s on his side.

I cross my arms. Straighten up.

“Careful,” I say. “If you keep doing that, someone might think you’re human.”

He glances over, still smiling—barely—and I immediately regret saying anything. I just gave him the satisfaction of knowing I noticed.

He doesn’t answer. Just holds my gaze for half a second longer than necessary.

It’s quiet.

Too quiet.

Like the space between us, just got ideas.

Nope. Absofrickinlutely not.

I look away first. Doesn’t mean he won anything. Just means I’m not wasting energy decoding a smirk.

Let him think he’s all mysterious. I’ve met his type. Moody, broody, and emotionally constipated with a gym membership.

He can laugh all he wants.

I’m not interested.

…Even if my pulse just sped up like a liar.

I watch him go, wishing I had an even snappier comeback. But I don’t.I’m too busy trying to figure out why the air feels unavoidably so much thicker now.