The puck drops, and the arena detonates. The players explode off the line, sticks slamming, blades slicing ice, bodies colliding. The noise is a physical thing, pounding into my ribs and vibrating through my teeth.
I brace my palms on the railing, breath caught halfway up my throat as my eyes follow Dom.
Dom moves differently than everyone else. He cuts across the ice with total confidence. Every stride iscontrolled, every movement clean and sure. Not a second wasted, not an inch out of place.
“Wow,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
I can’t look away.
He snatches a loose puck and starts up the boards. A player tries to body him, but Dom barely shifts. He absorbs the hit and keeps going, accelerating.
My jaw literally drops.
“Get it, Dom!” Melody shouts over the crowd, then turns to me. “He’s a machine.”
Yeah. A very, very hot machine.
Watching videos of him online did not prepare me for this. The camera doesn’t capture how he moves, how explosive he is, how beautiful hockey is when he plays it, how the entire arena seems to react to him.
I feel my face heating.
Dom suddenly snaps a shot from the blue line, fast and lethal, and the other team’s goalie doesn’t react quickly enough. Something loud blasts into my ears, and people around me jump up and cheer, including Melody.
My heart slams against my ribs like it’s trying to escape. But it’s not because of the game. It’s because of my wayward thoughts.
If Dom moves like that in bed…
No, stop.
I’m admiring the sport. The athleticism.
Yet heat coils low in my stomach, remembering how he towered over me on the ice, picked me up, and carried me off. And according to his own words, this was him being ‘nice.’
And to think I even attempted to skate in front of him when he moves like that.
God, he probably got the ick.
The play stops for a whistle. Melody leans closer, cheeks flushed with excitement.
“What do you think? First-game vibes?”
“He’s… I mean, they’re…” I can’t finish. I’m too busy watching Dom skate back to the bench like a very annoyed Greek god.
“I get it. It’s a lot.” Melody cackles.
Trying to be casual, I keep my eyes glued to the ice.
“Do you, um… know the guys well?”
“Pretty well,” she shrugs. “If you’re asking about Dom, you might have noticed he’s…” She starts ticking her fingers. “…controlling, has to do everything himself, gets really cranky when things don’t go his way, and he’s secretly a huge softie even though he’d rather eat his own jersey than admit it.”
A huge softie? Huge checks out.
Softie? I’m not sure we’re talking about the same man.
“Wow,” I say softly. “Sounds like you know him well.”
“He’s my older brother.” Melody smiles at the ice proudly.
