Page 3 of Hot Ice, Tennessee

I frowned.

Did I?

I chewed the inside of my cheek. “You closing out your tab, or can I buy you a drink?”

His eyes finally landed on me, green and radiant.

My stomach dropped a little. He had the kind of striking eyes that looked like they belonged in a famous black-and-white photograph somewhere, not right here in a normal bar in front of me, waiting for me to react.

I couldn’t tell if he was staring into my soul or about to tell me to fuck off.

“No thanks,” he said in his deep baritone. His eyes lingered on me a moment longer. “I’m not drinking tonight. Driving.”

The back of my neck slowly heated under his gaze.

Damn.

He was young.

Way younger than anybody I usually went for, and way younger than me. Normally if a man didn’t have a salt-and-pepper vibe, he barely moved the needle for me. But this guy had a commanding confidence about him, even at his age.

He shrugged off his leather jacket, revealing intricate tattoos along one of his muscled arms. It was beautiful, colorful art, a collection of ink going all the way up and under the sleeve of his grey T-shirt.

“Plow!” another young guy in a jersey said as he walked past the bar and reached out to clap the tattooed guy on the back. “You’re the man. That hat trick was killer, back in December.”

Hat trick?

December?

Who the hell was this guy?

He gave the other guy a little salute and a polite nod. “Next season will be even better.”

“I’ll be there!” the other guy said as he walked off toward the door, waving goodbye.

Oh, God. He’s not just young.

He’s still in college.

That explained the muscle, too—he was a TNU hockey player. I’d heard a few people talking about college hockey outside earlier tonight, mentioning “the Plow,” but I hadn’t realized he was actually here. Tennessee North University was fairly close by, but usually the Hard Spot was full of people more like… me.

Ranchers. Farmers. People who rode horses or drove trucks.

“ThePlow,” I repeated, raising an eyebrow. “Where does that come from?”

He gave me a little shrug. “Just something they call me out on the ice.”

I could tell he was acting humble. People who are good at something might brag about it—but people who arereallygood at something don’t usually need to.

Just walk away, Mason. He doesn’t need to hear your opinions on—

“I have exactly one opinion on hockey,” I said.

Back in high school, I’d been awardedMost Socialfor a reason. Right now, this hockey player was like a bright, pretty flower, and I was a butterfly who couldn’t resist. If I was being awkward, I didn’t care.

Nobody liked being alone in a bar, anyway.

He pushed a lock of his dark hair back, revealing smooth skin. “What’s your one hockey opinion?”

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