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DECLAN

I snag the puck with my stick, my skates carving into the ice as I race toward the net. Callum Sinclair, our stoic goalie, crouches between the pipes, eyes locked on me. I fake left, pulling the puck right, but Callum isn’t fooled. He shifts precisely, blockers at the ready.

“I see you, O’Rielly.” The guy’s ability to focus is unnatural—like he can see three seconds into the future. I swear he blinks less than my pet goldfish from third grade.

“See this, then.” With a quick flick of my wrist, I send the puck soaring toward the top corner. Callum lunges, glove outstretched, but I’ve caught him by a millisecond. The puck pings against the metal and slides into the net.

“Boom!” I raise my stick in victory, skating a quick circle. “That’s how it’s done, boys! Someone check if Callum’s glove has a hole in it!”

Callum shakes his head, but there’s a smile pulling at his mouth. “Lucky shot.”

“You spelled ‘incredibly skillful’ wrong,” I shoot back, earning chuckles from the rest of the team.

Coach Belanger blows his whistle. “All right, ladies! Gather round!”

We skate over to him. He looks serious, but there’s a gleam in his eye like he’s excited about something.

“Listen up,” he says, holding his clipboard. “We’re having a great season. Best in years.”

Luc Bouchard, our captain, nods beside me. Since he got engaged to Natalie, he’s been playing better than ever. Love seems to do that. Not that I would know.

“But we need an edge,” Coach continues. “Something to take us all the way to the Cup.”

“Better sticks?” Emile DuPont suggests, his arm around Calvin Barrett’s shoulder. The rookie has fit in well with the team, especially since he started dating the coach’s daughter. Brave guy.

“Maybe sacrifice a goat at center ice?” I joke. “I hear that’s how Pittsburgh won twice in a row.”

Coach ignores me, used to my jokes by now. “We’re starting a special training program.” He looks at each of us. “Something to make you more flexible, improve your balance, and reduce injuries.”

Calvin raises an eyebrow. “What kind of program?”

“Ballet,” Coach drops the word like a bomb.

The silence is total. I swear I can hear ice forming.

“Ballet?” Luc finally repeats, his face carefully blank.

“Yes, ballet,” Coach confirms. “Dr. Angelo suggested it. It was something she wanted to try when she was still with the Fury, but they wouldn’t do it. After seeing how her other programs have helped Calvin’s ankle and Luc’s knee, I’m convinced this is worth trying.”

I nod along, but my stomach tightens. My dad’s voice echoes in my head, “Hockey players don’t dance, Declan,” the same words he’d spat when I’d wanted to join my cousin’s dance recital when I was eight. I’d never seen my father look so disappointed. The memory still stings, even though I’d laughed it off back then, claiming I was just joking.

I push the thought away and reach for humor instead. “Well, if we’re going to prance around in tutus, I call dibs on pink.”

A few guys laugh, breaking the tension. My reliable shield of jokes sliding back into place like armor.

“Actually,” a female voice says from behind us, “the men don’t typically wear tutus in ballet. That would be the women in certain shows.”

We all turn to see a woman standing at the edge of the rink. She’s curvy, with dark hair yanked into a bun so tight it could double as a facelift. Her black leggings and flowing burgundy top somehow manage to look both strictly professional and distractingly flattering. She carries herself with the confidence of someone who could make Navy SEALs cry during training. My gut clenches at the sight of her, a sudden jolt like I’ve been checked hard against the boards. She’s stunning in an unexpected way that makes it impossible to tear my eyes away.

Wait. Am I drooling?

I quickly wipe my chin to make sure.

“This is Victoria Fletcher,” Coach says, pointing to her. “She’s a ballet instructor from Peach Springs, and she’ll be working with all of you three times a week for this program.”

Victoria. The name suits her. Royal. Elegant. I watch as she steps onto the ice with surprising grace for someone not wearing skates. She doesn’t slip or wobble—just glides forward like the ice is just another dance floor.

“I understand this might seem strange,” she says, her voice clear and strong. “But ballet builds core strength, improves balance, and increases flexibility—all crucial for preventing the types of injuries that can ruin a season.”

I study her, interested. Most people are at least a little scared when facing a group of professional hockey players, but Victoria Fletcher shows no fear. Instead, she looks at us with a critical eye, like she’s already seeing our weaknesses and planning how to fix them.

“Any questions?” she asks, folding her arms across her wonderful chest in a way that lifts her breasts even higher. My eyes fly up to hers before I embarrass myself, but she takes the eye contact as an invitation to stare right back at me. There’s amusement in her eyes, like she knows exactly what I was looking at and isn’t particularly bothered by it.

“Yeah,” I say, finally remembering how words work. “Will this help with my spin-o-rama? My pirouette game’s so weak, my niece’s hamster does better turns.”

I expect her to roll her eyes or ignore me—the usual response to my jokes. Instead, she just raises one eyebrow slightly.

“Mr. O’Rielly, isn’t it?” she says, and it turns me on that she knows exactly who I am and calls me ‘Mr’. I quietly wonder if I had her alone and on her knees, would she call me ‘sir’? “A proper pirouette requires core engagement, precise weight distribution, and control. Master those elements, and your ‘spin-o-rama,’ as you call it, will improve dramatically.”

I blink, caught off guard by her serious answer to my joking question. “Huh. Well, all right then. Sign me up for some twirling lessons.”

Victoria’s lips curl up slightly. “I assure you, Mr. O’Rielly, there will be much more than just twirling involved.”

There’s something in her tone that makes my stomach flip. I’m not sure if it’s a promise or a threat, but either way, I’m left wanting. As in, I want her like a man stuck in the desert wants an ice-cold beer—desperately, completely, and with a thirst that feels like it might actually kill me if it’s not satisfied.

Coach claps his hands, making us all look at him again.

“First session is tomorrow morning at seven,” Coach announces. “Everyone must attend.”

As the team breaks apart, I find myself watching Victoria as she talks with Coach. There’s something about the way she holds herself—shoulders back, chin up, confident in this room full of men.

“Earth to Declan,” Luc says, nudging me as we skate toward the locker room. “You’re staring.”

“Professional curiosity,” I reply, dragging my eyes away. “Wondering what we’re in for tomorrow.”

Luc smirks. “Right. Professional curiosity.”

“What? Ballet’s serious business. You know how long I’ve wanted to work on my plié.”

“You don’t even know what a plié is.”

“Yet,” I correct him with a grin. “I don’t know what a plié is yet .”

As I shower, I find myself looking forward to tomorrow’s session. Ballet. Who would have thought? But if it gives us an edge toward the Cup, I’m ready to pirouette my way to victory. And if it means spending time with Victoria Fletcher, well, that’s just a bonus. A very attractive bonus that both my dick and my brain agree on—it’s not often those two are on the same team.