Page 6 of Slap Shot (Charm City Chill #3)

H eather

Heather stared at her reflection in her bathroom mirror, touching her lips where the phantom sensation of Oliver's mouth still lingered. Three hours had passed since their dinner at Antonio's, the show and that kiss, before they'd raced off to handle the crisis with Jax's leaked medical files.

What the hell had she been thinking?

The crisis meeting had consumed the rest of the evening, damage control sessions with management, emergency security protocols, and a very long conversation with a pissed of Jax about how his private medical information had gotten out.

Through it all, she'd been hyperaware of Oliver's presence across the conference room, the way his jaw had tightened when they'd discussed the scope of the breach, the protective fury in his dark eyes when they'd realized how many of his teammates were potentially vulnerable.

But underneath the crisis, her mind kept circling back to that moment in the parking lot. The desperate press of his mouth against hers. The way he'd responded immediately, like he'd been waiting for her to make the first move. The taste of wine and want on his tongue.

She'd kissed him. The one person she couldn't afford to get involved with if she wanted to maintain any credibility in this job.

And God help her, she wanted to do it again.

Heather splashed cold water on her face and tried to summon the detachment that had served her well in previous positions.

But Oliver Chenofski wasn't like other colleagues she'd worked with.

He wasn't some IT director with soft hands and softer opinions about network security.

He was brilliant, loyal and brave enough to risk everything for his teammates, and when he'd looked at her across that dinner table like she was something precious, she melted.

Her phone buzzed with a text: Can't sleep. Going to skate for a bit. Arena's open if you want to talk somewhere private. - O

Heather stared at the message, thumb hovering over the reply button.

The smart thing would be to text back something professional, maybe suggest they meet in her office tomorrow to debrief about the evening's crisis.

The smart thing would be to maintain boundaries that were already dangerously blurred.

Instead, she found herself typing: See you in twenty minutes.

The arena was lit only by emergency lighting that cast long shadows across the ice surface. Heather walked through the corridors she was still learning, past locker rooms and equipment storage, following the sound of skates carving ice.

Oliver was owning the ice. Even alone, even in the middle of the night, his skating was flawless. He was working through stickhandling drills, weaving between imaginary defenders with a puck that seemed magnetized to his blade.

Charlie sat on the bench, watching his human with the patient attention of someone accustomed to late-night ice sessions. When Heather appeared at the boards, the dog's tail wagged once in greeting, but his focus remained on Oliver.

Oliver completed his drill and glided over to where she stood, coming to a stop in a spray of ice chips. His hair was damp with sweat despite the cold, and his breathing was slightly elevated from exertion.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, leaning against the boards.

"Too much adrenaline from tonight." Heather studied his face, noting the tension around his eyes. "How are you holding up?"

"Angry. Worried about what else they might have accessed." His jaw tightened. "Everyone knew Jax took some hard hits, but no one knew the details. No one but him and his doctor have the right to know.”

"We'll catch this asshole," Heather said. "Tonight was a message, a way to show us what they're capable of. But it was also a mistake. They revealed more about their methods than they probably intended."

Oliver's expression softened slightly. "You sound confident."

"I am. Angry hackers make sloppy hackers, and sloppy hackers leave trails."

“Yeah, you’re right. But it’s still pisses me off.”

“Me too.”

He gestured toward the ice. "Why don’t you lace up and work off some frustration. It’ll help you sleep."

"Is that your professional assessment, Dr. Chenny?"

“It is.”

"I don't have skates."

"Equipment room's open. Pretty sure you can find something that fits." His eyes sparked with something that looked like mischief. "Unless you're afraid you don’t have it anymore."

The challenge in his voice made her competitive instincts flare. "You're assuming I'm rusty."

"Are you?"

Instead of answering, Heather headed for the equipment room, acutely aware of Oliver following behind her. The room smelled like hockey, leather and rubber and well-used gear. Oliver helped her find skates in her size, along with a helmet and gloves from the women's program equipment.

"How’s this stick?” he asked, pulling one from the rack.

“It’ll do.” She wished she had her equipment, but she hadn’t thought she’d be skating tonight.

“Will your leg be up to this?”

“As long as you don’t knee me, I’ll be fine.”

“Is slashing okay?” he joked.

“Be sure you can take it before you dish it out.”

Oliver grinned at her. “Tough guy, huh?”

“Fuck around and find out.” She grinned back at him.

They stepped onto the ice together, and muscle memory kicked in immediately. The familiar bite of blade on ice, the subtle shift in balance, the way her body automatically adjusted to the surface beneath her feet. She'd been off skates for six months, but some things you never forgot.

"Impressive," Oliver said, watching her execute a smooth crossover turn. "You weren't kidding about the Division I experience."

"I wasn't kidding about stealing the puck, either."

They started casual, easy passes back and forth, testing each other's hands and timing. But gradually, the competitive edge crept in. Oliver's passes got a little harder, placed a little more aggressively. Heather's responses became quicker, more creative.

"One-on-one?" Oliver suggested, positioning himself at center ice.

"Best of three?"

"Deal."

He dropped the puck between them, and Heather immediately understood why Oliver was a beast on the ice. His acceleration was explosive, his control absolute. But she'd been playing hockey since she was eight years old, and instinct was a powerful thing.

She angled her body to cut off his path to the net, using her shoulder to maintain position. Oliver tried to go around her, but Heather stayed with him, their bodies coming into contact as they battled for the puck.

The contact sent electricity through her entire nervous system. Even through layers of equipment, she could feel the solid strength of him, the power in his movements. When he tried to cut inside, she hip-checked him just hard enough to throw him off balance, stealing the puck in the process.

"Dirty," Oliver called, but he was grinning.

"Effective," Heather corrected, bearing down on the empty net.

But Oliver was faster than she'd anticipated, and his reach was longer. He caught up to her just as she was preparing to shoot, his stick checking hers at exactly the right moment to send the puck wide.

They crashed into the boards together, Oliver's body covering hers as momentum carried them into the glass. For a moment, they were pressed together, breathing hard, faces inches apart. Heather could feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against hers.

"Close," he murmured, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before.

"Very close," she agreed, acutely aware that they weren't talking about hockey anymore.

They pushed apart, both breathing harder than the exertion warranted, and resumed their impromptu game. But the contact had changed something, added an edge of awareness that made every subsequent collision feel charged with excitement.

Oliver scored first, a backhand shot that caught the corner while Heather was caught between challenging the shot and maintaining defensive position. But she answered back quickly, using her speed to get behind him and roof a forehand shot that would have made her coaches proud.

"Lucky," Oliver said, but his tone was admiring.

"Skill," Heather corrected.

They were both laughing now, the competitive fire mixing with attraction.

When Oliver tried to deke around her for what looked like a sure goal, Heather managed to get her stick on the puck at the last second, deflecting it wide of the net.

But Oliver's momentum carried him forward, and he crashed into her as he tried to regain control of the rebound.

This time, they went down in a tangle of equipment and limbs, but they didn't separate immediately. Oliver's weight pinned her to the ice, his face inches from hers, and Heather could see the exact moment when his awareness shifted from hockey to something else entirely.

"Heather?" he asked.

She knew what his unspoken question was.

She tore off her helmet, while he yanked up his.

Sitting up, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her.

It was soft, hesitant, a question asked in the language of desire and stolen moments.

His lips were warm despite the cold arena, and when his tongue traced the seam of her mouth, she opened for him with a soft gasp that echoed in the empty space around them.

Heather could taste the wanting on his tongue, feel the tension in his body as he held her tight to him.

His kisses grew deeper, hungrier. Oliver's mouth slanted over hers as if he'd been starving for this moment. Each kiss was more desperate than the last. His hand tangled in her hair, angling her head so he could kiss her more thoroughly. Heather’s world narrowed to the solid weight of his body and the way he kissed her like she was air and he'd been drowning.

When they finally broke apart, both gasping in the cold air, the arena was quiet around them.

Oliver rested his forehead against hers.

Their breath mingled in small clouds between them, and Heather could feel the rapid beat of his heart through his equipment.

Their breath formed small clouds between them, and Heather realized she was trembling, not from cold, but from the intensity of finally crossing this line they'd been dancing around.

"We should probably get off the ice," Oliver said, his voice rough with want.

Heather nodded, not trusting herself to speak. They gathered their equipment in charged silence, the easy banter from earlier replaced by something thick and electric. In the equipment room, as they unlaced their skates, every accidental brush of fingers was like a spark.

"Heather," Oliver said as she was hanging up her borrowed gear.

She turned to find him standing closer than she'd expected, close enough that she could see the rapid pulse at the base of his throat. "Yeah?"

"I need you to know that what happened out there, what's happening between us, it's not just adrenaline or proximity or some kind of workplace fantasy." His dark eyes searched hers. "I've never felt anything like this before."

The honesty in his voice made something crack open in her chest. "Oliver—"

"I know all the reasons we shouldn't. I know it complicates everything." He reached up to trace her jaw with his thumb, the touch sending shivers down her spine. "But I also know that I've been thinking about kissing you since the first day in the coffee shop.

"Me too," she whispered.

When he leaned down to kiss her again, Heather rose on her toes to meet him halfway.

This kiss was slower, deeper, filled with a promise that made her knees weak.

Oliver's hands framed her face like she was something precious, and when she slid her fingers into his hair, he made a sound low in his throat that sent heat pooling through her entire body.

He backed her against the equipment lockers, the metal cold against her back while his body was warm, solid, real in a way that made her head spin. His hands slid into her hair, angling her head so he could deepen the kiss, and Heather’s knees went weak.

"God, you taste incredible," he murmured against her mouth, his voice rough with restraint.

She'd been kissed before, but never like this. Never with this combination of desperate need and careful tenderness that made her feel cherished and desired in equal measure.

"Oliver," she breathed when they finally broke apart.

"Too fast?" he asked, though his hands remained gentle but possessive in her hair.

"Not fast enough," she replied, surprising them both with her honesty.

When he kissed her again, it was with renewed hunger, his mouth moving against hers while his hands stroked the curves of her body. Heather pulled him closer, needing to feel every inch of him pressed against her, needing to convince herself this was real.

They broke apart only when breathing became necessary, both of them flushed and slightly disheveled in the dim lighting of the equipment room.

"This is going to complicate everything," Heather said softly, though she made no move to step away from his embrace.

"I know." Oliver's thumb traced along her cheekbone, his touch gentle despite the heat still burning in his eyes. "Are you okay with complicated?"

Looking into his eyes, Heather realized she was tired of simple choices that felt wrong.

"Yeah," she said, surprising herself with the certainty in her voice. "I think I am."

"Good," he said, pressing one more soft kiss on her lips.

“Do you think you can sleep now?” she asked.

“With you?” He nuzzled her neck.

Closing her eyes, she luxuriated in the feeling. “My place or yours?”

“Which is closer?”