Page 12 of The Enforcer’s Obssession

“Yeah, well, duty calls,” I say, picking up my camera and press pass off the counter. “I have to head downstairs to the rink level to grab game footage. Tell the others I’ll be back up after the first period?”

“Will do, and be careful, yeah?” Mischa calls after me, a slight protective edge coming out.

“You too,” I say over my shoulder with a wink. Her face goes crimson. Those sparks are definitely about to fly between her and Nolan.

I take the service elevator down to the ice level. The chill of the arena air hists my skin the moment the doors slide open. The tunnel is sensory overload—the smell of the rink, rubber mats, and leather mixed with the deafening roar of fifteen thousand fans. I flash my media credentials at the tunnel guards and step into my designated photographer nook right beside the penalty box, resting my heavy camera lens on the edge of the glass.

The Lonestars are already on the ice for the opening lineup, and right at the center of it all stands number 77. Rowdy looks massive in their preseason dark green and silver game jersey. His big, broad shoulders fill out the pads impossibly well, his dark hair is damp beneath his helmet, and his jaw is set with that raw instinct that makes him look like the most terrifying enforcer in the league.

The moment the referee blows the whistle and drops the puck, the game explodes into hyper-sped. For the first fifteen minutes, Rowdy plays a clean, shockingly brilliant game. He’s fast, laying heavy, clean checks along the boards that set up two major scoring opportunities for the Lonestars’ top line. I track him through my viewfinder, snapping shots of his movement, his power, and his absolutely dominance on the ice. The crowd is going wild, loving every second of the way Bouch is playing.

Then, with three minutes left in the first period, the Seattle’s resident pest of a player delivers a dirty, blindsided cross-check to our star rookie right in front of the net.

The arena collectively gasps, me included.

Before the ref can blow his whistle, Rowdy is already moving. He crosses the ice like a freight train, dropping his gloves before he hits the blue line.

Here it comes. My heart drops to my stomach. The angry outburst, the foul mouth, and worse temper that comes with a suspension and a PR nightmare.

Rowdy grabs the guy by the front of his jersey and gets in his face, talking what I can only assume is shit. Except his face isn’t red. He’s not losing his cool, which is entirely different from last season. The other guy attempts to push Rowdy away, but he holds his own. It’s not until the opponent swings his fist that “The Bouch” as his fans know him as rises to the occasion. He blocks the punch, checks him with his shoulder to the stomach, and knocks the guy to his ass. The referees break it up before it gets too bloody. And when Rowdy comes up for air, the angry expression, teeth-baring fury we all usually expect isn’t there.

He smiles.

It’s sharp, wicked, and a thoroughly amused smirk. He dodges a wild left hook from the other player who managed to break free of a ref’s hold and avoids the collision by barely an inch. The old Rowdy would have shoved the ref, slammed his stick against the glass, and screamed more profanities that would rival a sailor all the way to the box.

The new Rowdy steps back, throws his hand up in a ‘who, me?’ gesture, and bursts out laughing. A genuine, booming, infectious laugh that rings out clear as day. He pats the referee on the shoulder, cracks a joke that makes the linesman shake his head in disbelief, and calmly skates toward the penalty box.

The entire arena goes fucking nuts.

The crowd erupts into an ear-piercing, deafening cheer, chanting his name. He took care of his teammate, handled his business like a boss, and laughed it off like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. It’s the ultimate show of his cool, unshakeable confidence. And I captured it all with my camera lens.

I watch him approach the box, the off-ice official opens the glass door for him, and Rowdy’s dark, searing eyes sweep the area until they land directly on mine. My breathing hitches, my hands freeze, and I’m completely caught off-guard.

Rowdy stands inside the penalty box, surrounded by thousands of screaming fans, and leans his thick forearms on the top of the glass. The wicked, playful smirk is back on his lips, eyes burning with a heat that makes my knees weak and my pussy ache.

Slowly, deliberately, he looks right at me.

I lower my camera, shaking my head in a mild, affectionate disbelief at his antics. At seeing my reaction, his smirk widens. He leans closer to the glass, making sure I can read his lips, and slowly mouths ten words that send a jolt of desire straight to my core.

You’ll be in my jersey tonight… making my favorite sounds.

My mouth goes dry and my heart slams against my ribs, because I know exactly what he’s talking about. The desperate, breathless whimpers, me moaning his name in the hotel room this morning when he made me come while fucking me with his fingers.

Rowdy winks at me, throws his heavy body onto the penalty bench, and picks up his water bottle like he didn’t just completely ruin my ability to move. I use the edge of the seat in front of me to keep myself standing, clutching my camera to my chest, feeling my face burning a bright red and my pulse hammering in my ears.

Reformed enforcer, I think to myself, letting out a shaky laugh as I look at him again, sitting there like he’s the king of the world. He might be transforming his image for the press, but as I turn to head back up to the luxury suite where my friends are waiting, I know one thing for certain: tonight, back at the hotel, Rowdy Bouchard is going to play entirely by his own rules.

TEN

ROWDY

Being on and off the ice, today and well into tonight, has my blood pumping and my adrenaline flowing. No sooner does the hotel door slam shut behind us than my last thread of control snaps in half. I don’t let Jett take two steps into the room before I’m on her. I grab her by the waist, drag her against my chest, and slam my mouth down on hers. Her hands fly up to wrap around my neck, her small fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of my neck.

We can’t keep our hand off each other. It’s a messy, chaotic collision of our mouths, hands, and heavy breaths. I back her up until her hips meet the edge of the desk, my hands sliding under the hem of her shirt to grip her warm, soft skin. She pulls me in deeper, her tongue entwining with mine, tasting like mint and pure temptation. I groan into her mouth, my cock throbbing so damn hard against the front my jeans it’s aching to be released.

I want her. Right now. Right here against the desk.

But I force myself to take a step back, my dark eyes locked on her dazed and flushed face. Jett’s lips are swollen, her dark short hair is a beautiful mess, and her breathing is coming in rapid pants.