Page 36 of Ice King

“I’m not uncomfortable about Ford or any of the players being shifters, although I’ve yet to figure out which ones are which.” I laughed nervously. And angrily. “But I tell you what. Seeing the signs out there just boiled my blood.”

His chuckle was humbling. “Apparently. I’ve seen them. I’ve lived with them for three years. Just wait until you experience them on the road. Thankfully, there aren’t as many people in protest, but still enough that it can make every game interesting.”

“Well, good. Honestly, I don’t think I’ll be as calm the next time.”

“Then I guess I don’t feel so bad with not telling you which players are shifters.”

“Does it really matter other than anatomy?”

“No. They can be a little more hotheaded and you’re right about the anatomy. Similar but different. They typically heal faster.”

“Something has changed with Ford. The last two days he has improved tremendously. Honestly, I’m shocked just how much.”

“Enough to feel confident in him being able to play the last regular game tomorrow? It’s an important one and Ford had been bugging me to death. Don’t worry. If he’ll permanently injure himself, then I’ll tell him no.”

“Let me see how he is today and I’ll let you know.”

His smile widened. “Sounds perfect. I’m very glad you’re here.”

“Thank you. I am too.” I headed toward the door. “I think.”

“Oh, if we win tomorrow night, pack your bags.”

“What?”

“Given our standing among the teams I anticipate will make the playoffs, we’ll be forced to play the first group of best of three in their hometown. Nothing is close so we’ll be flying to thedestination and staying for a few days. And you are definitely going.”

I resisted sighing since I loathed flying. “I’ll be ready.”

My mind was still wrapped around my fear of flying, which was why when I rounded a corner, I wasn’t paying any attention to where I was going.

“Oh, geez,” I muttered, dropping the books I was holding and forced to grip the thick, hard muscles of the person I’d run smack into, the moment jarring. Almost instantly, I was aroused, my nipples hard and a wash of heat driving through straight to my core.

His scent was a dead giveaway, rich in hints of cedar and citrus laced with a heavy dose of testosterone. After what I’d heard three nights before, I’d tried to keep my head down, avoiding eye contact while I continued to try to process all the strangely exciting bits of information.

Yet there was such a tremendous draw to the man.

“Ford,” I said.

“Georgia,” he shot back, taking a deep breath. He’d done the same with me, the avoidance almost comical. When we’d met in the hallway, either he or I had moved to the other side, crowding the wall.

When he’d arrived for his massages, there’d been no real conversation other than when I’d offered thoughts on how he was healing, which was remarkably well. On day one, I’d worried that if he played hockey again, he’d be one shot away from a career-ending injury and constant pain for the rest of his life.

Now? I was in awe of the man and his healing capabilities, which of course had led me to even more questions rumbling around in the back of my mind.

At what rate did shifters heal?

Did they succumb to typical illnesses and diseases?

Did they live longer or were they immortal?

I’d done exactly as Roxanne had suggested, searching the internet. I’d found various articles, many of them diatribes of hatred while others were glowing testament to how fabulous it was having shifters among us.

As if they were the second coming of the Messiah.

Except for the woman outside anyway.

What little I’d found on a more professional level including from a noted scientist had seemed hurriedly written, perhaps done under duress and not that informative. In truth, there were more questions than answers.