Page 9 of Ice Devil

While any other reporter would feel blessed to have such a supportive, giving boss, I knew the man was up to something. No good deed was ever left without a sharp-edged backside.

“Here you go,” the bartender said in his rich, soothing voice while placing a new cocktail napkin in front of me. “Still hard at work, I see.”

“Perfection is an art.”

He chuckled and removed my empty glass. “Are you here for long?”

“Just a couple days, but I intend on enjoying every inch of the resort.”

“We aim to please.”

Maybe I was fooling myself or possibly experiencing loneliness all of a sudden, which wasn’t like me, but I had a feeling if I’d smiled in just the right way, he’d be happy to prove his statement.

“You’re doing just fine.” The words had no sooner left my mouth when it was as if chaos had entered the building. I was startled when I heard loud, very deep voices. “Let me guess,” I said with obvious disdain. “A wedding reception?”

The bartender laughed. “Worse. A hockey team.”

Instantly my hackles raised. “Please tell me the Portland Hellions aren’t staying here.”

“Okay, I won’t tell you, but I won’t need to since a bunch of players are heading into the bar. I guess they can share the news with you themselves.”

No. No and oh, hell, no. There was no chance my luck was this bad.

After taking a deep breath, I swiveled on the barstool, hopeful I didn’t see anyone I recognized.

As the rowdy group of men barged in on the serene space, I slowly closed the laptop lid just as a player pushed his way through the others and came to within a few feet of where I was sitting.

Just then his eyes locked onto mine.

My luck had just run out.

And for all the wrong reasons, a wave of heat tore through my system.

CHAPTER 3

Beck

Women were fickle creatures.

Cunning. Intelligent. Observant.

All qualities that created masterful works of art that often few men knew what to do with. Not that I was daring to suggest I did. I’d never been particularly good with the ladies. No matter what the tabloids or social media suggested, I wasn’t suave or a guy who knew what romance meant.

As a kid, I’d been the nerd, enjoying keeping my nose in a book or a video game. Only when my father had forced me onto the ice to get my ass out of the house and away from my computer had I learned to enjoy the outdoors.

In the recent months and even when playing for Cincinnati, I’d been called a heartthrob, the country’s most eligible bachelor. I’d laughed every time I’d caught a headline claiming I was a Casanova or a social media post where a puck bunny longed for a night spent in my arms.

Why?

Because they believed the hype that I was a lumberjack by trade and a hockey master by design. At night? Well, their thoughts and suggestions could make a grown man blush.

Except I wasn’t any man.

The only reason I’d grown comfortable with parading myself around as bachelor of the year was that falling into the hype was way too easy. So was tasting the fruits of my labor. Thankfully, I’d gotten over my sowing my wild oats phase while living and working out of Cincinnati for nine months out of the year.

Maybe that’s why being a showoff just after the game had both come easily from practice and shocked the hell out of me at the same time. I’d all but propositioned the stunning reporter. I’d even come this close to asking Sloane out for a drink, which in my wicked mind had already led to ungodly but delicious visions after our hour of sparring.

At least I could admit she’d challenged me with her well-thought-out questions.