Page 17 of Ice Wolf
His body was… just amazing.
Inhaling, I did my best to act nonchalant as I flipped through the other items in the file. When I started falling from my lust-filled plateau, I grasped what I was looking at.
I lifted my head, narrowing my eyes as I studied my father’s serious expression.
“You are kidding me. He’s supposed to be a werewolf?”
His chuckle was followed by my father, a man who’d never backed down to anyone scanning the tables in close proximity. Was he seriously worried our conversation would be overheard?
“There is an unseemly video taken by a customer inside a bar where it appears, and I know it sounds crazy, that Mr. Masters showed signs of shifting into… another being.”
Saint ‘The Savage’ Masters, center for the Chicago Wild Dogs hockey team. I briefly read his dossier. He came from a family of hockey players, his grandfather a former Stanley Cup winner and his brother a member of the American Hockey League, supposedly on his way to the NHL any day.
Saint had been a star player in college while keeping straight A’s and graduating with a degree in business economics. I flipped through the other photographs, some of which I’d seen the night before.
With every photo I looked at, a sense of familiarity swept through me. Maybe it was his luscious lips. They were rosy and perfect, meant for kissing by a roaring fire.
Wait a minute.
No, no. There was no way karma hated me that much.
My skin was tingling all over, the hint of recognition something I was unprepared for.
“Was this video taken at Neon Nights?” I asked sheepishly while I clenched my thighs together. What if this was the man from thebar a couple of nights before? I was overthinking this. That’s all it was.
“No, why?”
I allowed myself to breathe a sigh of relief. “Do you honestly believe this is anything more than propaganda, maybe stemming from hatred from an opposing team?”
“They do have an enemy in the Denver Devils, but so far, no one has owned up to creating a prank.”
“A harmful one.”
“Exactly. Mr. Masters had done no favors for himself. He’s considered an arrogant prick on and off the ice. Half his team hates him. Pretty much everyone else in the NHL believes his hype is overrated and continues to give the NHL a bad name. He’s been in several bar fights, caught with his pants down with several celebrities, and had even managed to get himself arrested during a promotional tour in Washington State. The man is a regular bad boy.”
“On steroids.” I loathed men like that. They were the epitome of everything I hated in the male species. Especially right now.
“No, he’s been tested several times. You’ll find the reports in the file.”
“Dad, I was kidding.” Although that would explain his penchant for violence. Maybe he was on some new form of drug that tests couldn’t confirm.
He laughed. “I know, honey. Hockey is a highly competitive sport and many players are prone to exhibiting anger in creative methods.”
Uh-huh. Like turning into a night-crawling creature? My father refused to accept clients with less than questionable attributes. That meant one too many people were taking the report seriously.
“Don’t they have their own public relations people?” I asked. Every decent company and organization did. Social media was big business.
He nodded. “They did. They still have interns who post photographs of the games and other promotional events, but the social media manager quit. It would seem she and Saint were like oil and water. And they haven’t got around to rehiring a full-time public relations manager. They’ve been through a couple of them.”
That didn’t bode well for keeping my interest. Plus, that meant working with the entire team was difficult, not just the werewolf wannabe. Why did I want to deal with a surly, arrogant child on a regular basis?
“What is your role in this?”
“Saint’s father contacted me to try and provide an updated image for his son. From what I understand, beefing up his reputation has the blessing of the Wild Dogs team, including the coach. Cleaning up his act is something Mr. Masters needs to do.”
“Let me guess, or he gets tossed off the team.”
My father’s smile was far too salacious. What did he have up his sleeve? “The playoffs are a less than a week away. If they win their last regular game of the season.”
