Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(36)

“Yep,” I quietly reply, looking away.

There’s this long, awkward moment of silence, until Aubrey clears her throat and says, “Okay, your turn. What’s your favorite food?”

I blow out a relieved breath. “That’s an easy one. I love steak.”

“What about color? Have a fave?”

I grin as I throw her words back at her. “It depends on the day.”

“Ass.” She pushes my shoulder, but it’s like she’s trying to topple a stone statue. “God, you’re like a damn boulder, Brent,” she remarks.

I laugh. “I have to be. Otherwise, I’d get knocked off my skates every play.”

Frowning, she says, “There sure is a lot of hitting in hockey. I guess it’s good you’re so…hard.”

“Guess so,” I agree.

Our eyes meet, and I suddenly blurt out, “Turquoise. You know, like sea-green.”

“What the hell are you going on about?” she asks, clearly confused.

“My favorite color.” I hold her gaze. “You asked what it is, right? Well, today it’s turquoise.”

“Brent…” She rips her gaze from mine when she realizes the color of her eyes is what I’m referring to. “We should probably wrap it up here.”

“I don’t want to go,” I whisper.

“I don’t want you to, either. But that’s exactly why you should go.”

Blowing out a breath, I give up…for now. “Okay, Aubrey. I’ll go.”

I leave her room, but all is not lost. Despite how things wrapped up—too abruptly if you ask me—I feel like the time we spent together was a win. We were real with each other, all pretenses were dropped. And because of that we now know each other a little better.

Though the more I think about it, the more I realize that getting to know each other better is a double-edged sword. ’Cause now not only does my body crave Aubrey like crazy, but my heart’s starting to want her too.





Nolan Throws a Wrench in the Works





I wish I could call my sister and tell her everything. I texted her when I first arrived in Las Vegas like she asked me to, and we’ve traded a couple of long voicemail updates back and forth since then, but she’d die if I called her now and told her the supposed baseball player who hosted that party in Minneapolis is really a hockey player who’s on his way to capturing my heart.

Oh, boy!

Talking with Lainey, though, even if I were permitted to tell her everything, would so not be a good idea. It would only make things worse. My sister is a sucker for a forbidden love story. And let’s face it—falling for Brent Oliver is strictly forbidden. As in, it can never happen. I’d be terminated for sure if my boss ever found out. And then I might never work again. ’Cause, really, talk about unprofessional!

Besides, I’ve truly been helping Brent, as demonstrated by his exemplary behavior of late. There’s been no drinking, no partying, and no women in his life. He’s also skating every day and working out rigorously. All of which is good since training camp starts up this week.

A creep of dread works its way up my spine, and I have to address the glaring observation that Brent staying on-course is due, in part, to his not associating with his rowdy teammates.

That’s all about to change though, and real fast. The team emailed me something this morning—almost like a warning and a heads-up rolled into one long memo—informing me that Brent’s linemates, Nolan Solvenson and Benjamin Perry, who also have the distinction of having been his summer party pals, are back in town. Nolan apparently lives in the same gated community Brent’s house is in, so I suspect he’ll be stopping by soon enough.

Let’s hope it’s not to recruit my protégé for a night of partying and puck bunnies.

Benjamin, I’m less worried about. Though the e-mail indicated he was quite the party animal this summer, he made it through rehab with flying colors. I can’t imagine he’ll be any trouble, except in one area—women. He could very well try to talk Brent into partaking in a hockey whore orgy or something just as sleazy.

I shudder at the images that flash through my head like a bad porn movie. With these horndog hockey players anything’s possible. I have to be prepared, and so should Brent.

As I venture around the house, searching for him so we can discuss new parameters for dealing with his potentially bad influence friends, the doorbell chimes.

And chimes…

And chimes…

I’m apparently the only one around—where the heck is Brent?—so I have no choice but to go see who it is.

When I open the door, I come face-to-face with a handsome, dark-haired man, one who oozes coolness and sophistication. He also happens to be built like a world-class athlete, much like Brent, so I suspect right away he’s a teammate.

“Hello,” he says, all James Bond-like. He lowers his dark sunglasses and gives me the ‘ole once-over.

“Hi,” I reply, rolling my eyes at his flirtatious demeanor.

He chuckles, unaffected by my blasé attitude toward him.

Dismissing me just as summarily as I did him, he takes off his glasses and cranes his neck to peer past me. “Is Brent home?” he asks, distractedly, like I’m the help or something.