Page 7 of Arrogant Puck

I edge toward the glass. The overhead lights are off, but the security flood at the far end gives enough illumination to see one lone figure slicing across the rink. Big frame. Dark gear. Moving like he’s got something to outrun.

He skates like it’s a fight.

Quick turns. Explosive stops. Everything about his movement is angry—controlled, but barely. I don’t know hockey well, but I know bodies. And this one’s pushing harder than he should.

He drives down the center, cuts left, and his right leg falters. Not much. Just a subtle hitch. If I blinked, I’d miss it.

But I don’t blink.

And I don’t miss things like that.

He’s hurt. Not enough to stop, but it looks like he’s running from demons. Or to them. I’m not sure.

I should walk away, start my new job that I’m so excited about. But my feet don’t move. I haven’t been around hockey players, and watching this one on the ice is unlike anything I’ve ever seen. It’s different than seeing players run in shoes.

The skater circles again, catches sight of me through the glass, and slows. Just a little.

He stops hard, sending a spray of frost against the boards. Then he turns and skates directly toward me.

Shit.

I inhale, trying to figure out what I’m going to say.Keep it professional.

I back up from the glass, trying not to look like I was watching him, but it’s too late. He’s already stepping off the ice, tugging off his gloves, dark eyes locked on me like I just interrupted something personal.

He’s taller than I expected. Big, in that way that screams genetics. Hair dark and messy, jaw unshaven, mouth set in a flat line.

He doesn’t say anything right away.

Neither do I.

We just stare.

Then he jerks his chin toward my bag. “You with the team?”

“Um,” I clear my throat, very intimidated by his whole persona. “Athletic therapy. New PTA.”

His gaze drops to my paperwork. “Sage Monroe.” The way he says my name—slow, almost testing it—makes my stomach knot.

“Yeah.”

He nods once, as if that settles something. “You’re early.”

“So are you.”

That gets the faintest pull of a smirk. Not friendly. Not really amused, either.

He brushes past me toward the bench, grabs a water bottle, takes a long drink. I take the chance to glance down at his skate, the leg that faltered.

“I noticed you’re favoring your right side,” I say.

He doesn’t turn around. “Didn’t ask you to watch me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, you were.” He tosses the empty bottle into the bin with a loud clatter, finally facing me again. “Let me guess. First day. Trying to impress the staff by diagnosing players before breakfast?”

My jaw tightens. “Trying not to let a torn groin become a season-ending injury. But sure, let’s call it ambition.”

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