“You couldn’t have fallen for your own teammate?”
“Like you did?”
He chuckles. “Or better yet, someone who hates hockey entirely?”
I gasp. “I could never.”
“I know I sound like the bad guy, Xavi. I’m just trying to have your back. The fallout from this? It could be huge. Distraction. Rival team. Sooo much spotlight. I just needed you to remember that.” His voice sounds tired, like a weary parent telling their child something they should already know. For the eleventh time.
He falls quiet for a long moment. “For the record, he could do a lot worse than taking a chance on you, though, Xavi.” It’s one of the nicest things my brother has ever said to me.
“Just… tread softly, okay?” There it is. The barb. The reminder that I’m one wrong move from embarrassing the family. Same old song.
Did someone give Artemis the same cautionary speech? Is that why he’s been ignoring me? Fear disguised as discipline.
The great and terrifying Artemis de la Peña… afraid? That’s new. It’s an angle I hadn’t even considered.
I go through the motions with Roman just to get him off the fucking line and give my head some peace to think. The more I think, the itchier my fingers grow to send Arte something new.
Am I going to antagonize him into dating me?
Maybe. He doesn’t have any pigtails for me to pull at recess—from the way he moaned when I clutched his hair in my knuckles, he’d be into it. But I can needle at him in other ways. I need to poke the bear. Actually, I need to poke the bear until he snaps me in half.
Goal Daddy: You send me pie but ignore my existence? Rude.
He opens it immediately. Leaves me on read. On. Fucking. Read. Again. The audacity of this bitch. Does helikebeing chased? Because I am seconds from climbing into his DMs with a blowtorch.
My dick is still hard—traitor—reminding me thathewanted me, too. I felt exactly how much he wanted me pressed against my thigh. I know he’s holding back. He admitted it.
I just have to find the right trigger to blow up those stupid self-imposed monk rules.
Fine. If he wants to play glacier-cold? I’ll turn up the fucking heat. Next time we’re face-to-face, he’s not walking away. Until then? I’m going to be the climate change that ruins his life. I don’t just schedule care packages; I go for the jugular.
I pull on my Wolves practice jersey—the one that’s a little too tight across the chest—and take a selfie in the mirror with just enough of a smirk to be dangerous. I don’t post it to mymain feed; I put it on myClose Friendsstory, where the only viewer who matters is a certain scowling captain in Cedar Rapids.
The caption reads: Missing the Den. I hear Raccoons are a protected species... maybe I need a personal tour?
I hit share, knowing the 'Ice Prince' is probably staring at a spreadsheet right now. I want to see if his stupid rules can survive a Martinez in his DMs. If he’s going to ice me out, I’m going to melt him from the inside.
CHAPTER 15
Artemis
You can’t beat a win on home ice.
My blood’s still humming, my legs are loose, and my ego’s high. I even slipped out of the rink without being ambushed by teammates asking for drinks or fans lurking by the exit for selfies and signatures.
I love our fans, I do. But sometimes I just want to get home to a salad and an episode of something before collapsing into bed. Tonight seems to be that night. Miraclesdohappen. Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.
The November air gnaws at my damp hair, but I’ve got a whole-ass swagger going as I cross the parking lot toward my SUV. And then my lungs forget how to work.
All oxygen leaves my body like a slapshot to the chest when a familiar figure appears next to my SUV. Leaning against the hood of my car—dressed like he stepped out of a winter fashion ad—is Xavier.
He looks almost exactly like he did in that story he posted forty-eight hours ago—the one I’ve replayed so many times I’ve memorized the exact angle of his smirk. That Wolves jersey should be an insult, a reminder of the line between us, the facthe’s my rival, but on him, it’s a provocation I’m no longer strong enough to ignore.
Seeing him in the flesh, under the hum of the parking lot lights, makes the ‘Ice Prince’ part of me want to shatter into a thousand jagged pieces of pure, unadulterated need. I almost call out to him, demand to know what he’s doing here. He doesn’t have a game today, but he does have one tomorrow.
Do I keep up with his schedule like a love-sick puppy? Kinda, sorta.
