Page 15 of Slap Shot
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 previouspositions. 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?”
