Page 5 of Slap Shot
The smile that transformed her face hit him like a one-timer to the chest. Gone was the clinical security expert, replaced by someone who looked like she celebrated victories with the same intensity she brought to hunting digital predators.
"Good. And call me Heather. We're going to be spending a lot of time together."
As she pulled up screens of data, Oliver cataloged details he had no business noticing. The way her eyes lit up when she talked about her work. The small scar on her knuckle that made sense now that he knew about her hockey background.
Charlie settled more comfortably against his feet, and Oliver wondered if his partner had already figured out what his human brain was still processing: that Heather was a smart woman who saw right through his bullshit.
Chapter Two
Heather
Code scrolled down Heather’s monitor in streams of green text that would have looked like hieroglyphics to most people. But to her, it was beautiful, logical, predictable, controllable in ways that life rarely was. She'd been at her desk in the Chill's headquarters since six this morning, three hours before her official start time, because the breach attempts from last night had left her restless and angry.
Someone was playing games with her, and she did not like to lose.
Her office occupied a corner of the building's third floor, windows overlooking the practice facility where she could watch players arriving for morning skate. Not that she was watching. Definitely not staring at the way Oliver Chenofski moved across the parking lot with that easy athletic stride, his service dog Charlie trotting beside him like a golden shadow.
She absolutely was not thinking about how his eyes had darkened when he'd looked her over yesterday at the coffee shop, or the way his voice had roughened when he'd said, "That explains a lot." Like he'd been thinking about things that had nothing to do with hockey or cybersecurity.
A few hours later, her phone buzzed with a text:Conference room B in 20. Time to see what you're made of. - O
Heather stared at the message, her stomach twisting playfully at his text. They'd agreed to start working together immediately, but she hadn't expected the sass.
She saved her work and headed downstairs, grabbing a fresh coffee from the break room. The hallways buzzed with trainers discussing injury reports, media staff planning coverage, and the distant sound of skates on ice from the practice rink. It was everything she'd dreamed about when she was seventeen and convinced she'd play professionally someday.
Before her knee exploded like a bomb and took that dream with it.
Conference room B sat empty except for Oliver, who'd spread laptops and tablets across the table. He'd changed out of his practice gear into dark jeans and a team polo that stretched across wide, muscled shoulders she definitely wasn't noticing. His hair was still damp from his post-skate shower, and when he looked up at her entrance, she wondered what it would feel like to run her fingers through those dark strands.
"Morning," she said, setting down her coffee and trying not to inhale whatever clean, masculine scent he was wearing. "You've been busy."
"Couldn't sleep after yesterday." He gestured to the screens. "Figured I'd take a look at what we're dealing with."
"And?"
His expression went grim. "We're fucked."
Despite everything, Heather smiled. "That's the technical assessment?"
"The technical assessment is that whoever's been probing your systems knows exactly what they're doing. Look at this." He turned one of the laptops toward her, and she had to lean closer to see the screen. Close enough that her shoulder brushed his, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his skin.
Focus, she ordered herself. But it was hard to concentrate when his cologne made her want to press closer instead of pulling away.
"These aren't random attacks," he continued, apparently unaffected by their proximity. "Someone's mapping the entire infrastructure. Database architecture, security, access hierarchies. They're building a complete blueprint."
The systematic nature of the attacks bothered her more than she wanted to admit. She'd spent her career focusing on external threats—hackers breaking in from the outside. But this was different. Too precise. Too informed about their specific vulnerabilities.
What if she'd been looking in the wrong direction entirely?
Heather studied the data. "The timeline suggests they started a few weeks before I was hired." She straightened, putting distance between them before she did something stupid like lean into that solid warmth. "Show me the access logs."
For the next hour, they worked in sync, trading theories and building profiles of their invisible enemy. Oliver's mind was razor-sharp, cutting through complex problems the same way he threaded passes through defensive coverage. More than once, Heather glanced at his hands as he typed. He had long fingers, calloused from years gripping hockey sticks, and she wondered what they’d feel like on her skin.
"You're staring," he said without looking up from his screen.
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I'm thinking."
"About what?"
