Page 83 of Silver Fox Puck

It’s something else entirely.

And that should make me turn around and leave to collect myself, my thoughts.

But I don’t.

Instead, I take a seat in the stands, pretending like I’m watching my brother, not the man who’s been haunting my peace for weeks.

I cross my arms. I force myself to relax. I do not focus on the way his voice sounds when he’s in full coach mode. I do not watch how effortlessly he moves across the ice, how strong and steady he looks.

I definitely do not let myself remember what those hands felt like on me.

But my body?

My body betrays me every damn time.

Because all I can think about is how it felt to have him this close, to feel his breath on my skin, to have his hands—

I snap my legs closed and inhale sharply.

Nope. Not happening.

I am not having a meltdown in the middle of a hockey rink over a man who initially made it clear this is just sex… only to flow with our growing connection and break down every wall I had built around my heart.

I’m fine.

Completely, totally fine.

Until Grant finally sees me. His gaze locks onto mine across the ice. And my whole damn body ignites.

He doesn’t react right away. Doesn’t smirk, doesn’t call me out. He just watches me. Like he’s known I was here this whole time. Like he’s been waiting for me to crack.

I tell myself I’m here for Jake.

That I came to watch my brother run drills, that I’m just being supportive, that this has nothing to do with the man currently commanding the entire damn rink.

But the second I spot Grant—all broad shoulders, controlled power, and absolute authority as he moves across the ice—I know I’ve been lying to myself.

Seeing Grant Maddox, sexy silver fox, in his element? It’s just unfair. It’s unreasonable. And, worst of all, it’s doing things to me that I have no business feeling.

His presence isn’t loud, but it’s undeniable. He’s not barking orders like some ego-driven coach who needs to prove he’s in charge. He doesn’t have to.

His players hang onto every word. Because when Grant speaks, people listen.

And apparently, I’m no exception.

I exhale slowly, gripping the edge of my seat like it’ll somehow ground me. I need to stop staring.

But my gaze tracks him anyway.

The way he moves, sharp and deliberate. The subtle clench of his jaw when a player messes up a drill. The way he runs a hand over the back of his neck, faintly frustrated but still composed.

It’s hypnotic.

It’s distracting.

And I hate that I notice everything.

Jake skates past, calling something to a teammate, but I barely hear it.

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