Page 8 of Hot As Ice

“Bec, you know I don’t drink.”

She blinks. “Um, so why are we here?”

I fidget. But I might as well be honest. “I wanna see if Hunter Cruise is here tonight.”

That statement sharpens her gaze. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Squirming on the inside, but keeping my cool on the outside, I tell her, “I have to thank him.”

She cocks her head. “Curiouser and curiouser. Thank him for what exactly?”

“For intervening when my disgusting boss came onto me last night.”

Becca is now fully intrigued, so I give her a very abbreviated version of what happened. I don’t know why, but I don’t want anyone to know how much Joe actually hurt me. That he choked me and made me think he was going to kill me. Or how Hunter’s arms had come around me and his voice had soothed me after the attack. I feel like that’s just between me and Hunter.

Becca takes everything I say in stride. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” she says sympathetically. “Good thing Hunter was there.”

I nod. She has no idea.

She grabs my wrist suddenly and steers us out of the line for drinks. “Come on,” she says, a gleam in her eye. “I know where Hunter usually hangs.”

Does everyone know everything about this guy except me?

I follow Becca as she weaves through groups of people. So many people. So much noise. And there are way too many drunk guys in here, which is to be expected, but it makes me uneasy. How can a rowdy, overflowing bar be anybody’s idea of a good time? Prude. A guy called me that once on a date when he tried to kiss me, and I pulled away from him. I shake the memory away.

“There,” Becca says, coming to a halt. I follow her gaze, and sure enough, there he is. Like a king on a throne. He’s even more gorgeous than I remember, and I’m momentarily mesmerized. I take him in like a cold drink on a hot day.

He’s wearing a long sleeve tee with the sleeves rolled up to reveal his toned forearms. His long fingers are curled around his drink. His perfect teeth and bone structure and body make him look like he just walked out of GQ magazine.

“Ugh, he’s so fucking hot,” Becca says. “Well, here’s your chance to thank him.”

I nod, barely registering what she’s saying. Hunter is surrounded by a bunch of people, girls and guys, in a booth near the back entrance. He commands the small space, and I watch as a beautiful brunette in a teeny tiny mini skirt runs her fingers through his hair. Oh shit, is that his girlfriend? I didn’t find anything online about who he might be dating.

“Stupid puck bunny,” Becca mutters.

“What bunny?”

“Puck bunny. You know, the girls who throw themselves at any and all hockey players.”

“They’re called puck bunnies?”

“Yup.”

I scrunch up my nose. “That’s…offensive.”

“They love it! It’s like a badge of honor for them. Trust me, their main goal is to sleep with as many athletes as possible.”

“So that’s not his girlfriend?”

Becca scoffs. “Not even close. It’s just another one of his hangers-on. He has dozens.”

I’m suddenly hyper aware of how Becca and I must look, standing and staring at Hunter and his entourage, obviously talking about them.

“I don’t think I can go up to him when he’s so surrounded,” I say, feeling small and inconsequential. A nobody. I want to run and hide.

There’s this aura that surrounds Hunter’s booth. Even if you had no idea that he and his friends were star hockey players, you’d know they were special, superior.

And everyone else here is staring at them and wanting to be them.