Chapter 1
The ice rink smelled of sharp ozone, floor wax, and the metallic tang of dried blood. It was the scent of my nightmares and my only paycheck. I clutched my notepad to my chest like a shield, my knuckles white against the black leather cover.
"You are late, Vance," a voice boomed, echoing off the rafters of the Kings’ private training facility.
I didn't need to look up to know it was Coach Miller. He stood by the glass, his face a roadmap of bad temper and broken noses. I adjusted my glasses, feeling the familiar prickle of irritation at the base of my neck.
"I am exactly on time, Coach. Your security team is just particularly thorough today," I replied, my voice steady.
He grunted, pointing a thick finger toward the center of the rink. "Stone is out there. He has been complaining that the media is soft. He wants a real challenge. You wanted this exclusive, so go get it."
I took a deep breath and stepped onto the rubber mats, the rhythmic *thwack-thwack* of my boots sounding hollow in the vast, cold space. The rink lights hummed above, bathing the ice in an artificial, sterile glare.
Jaxen Stone was skating laps. He moved with a predatory grace that made my breath hitch, his shoulders broad under his practice jersey, his stride long and powerful. He didn't look like a man who spent his nights causing front-page scandals. He looked like an apex predator who owned every square inch of the frozen arena.
As I neared the boards, he carved a sharp arc, spraying a fine mist of ice shavings toward me. He didn't stop. He slowed to a glide, his back to me, before spinning around with a grin that could melt a glacier.
"The lady from the press," he drawled, his voice vibrating with a dangerous kind of charm. He wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove. "You look nervous, Elara. Are you worried about the cold, or are you just intimidated by the talent?"
I gripped my pen tighter. "I am worried about getting a coherent sentence out of you, Stone. So far, all I have for my editor is a list of your nightclub receipts and rumors about your attitude. Try to stay focused."
He laughed, a low, throaty sound that echoed off the glass. He skated closer, stopping just inches from where I stood behind the plexiglass. Up close, his eyes were a startling shade of blue, narrowed with a mixture of amusement and challenge.
"You think you can handle me, princess? You think you can write the truth when you haven't even seen the game?" He leaned in, his gloved hand resting against the glass right in front of my face. "I don't do interviews for people who don't understand the price of the jersey."
"I understand the price," I snapped, refusing to blink. "And I understand that if you don't give me this story, your reputation is going to be buried by the end of the week. Do you want to be remembered as a hockey player or a headline?"
His expression hardened. The playboy mask slipped, revealing a flash of raw, unfiltered intensity that caught me off guard. He turned abruptly and skated toward the penalty box. He kicked the door open and glanced back at me, beckoning with a gloved finger.
"If you want the story, you come inside the ropes," he called out.
I hesitated. The penalty box was his domain, a confined, tight space where the air was heavy and the boundaries were blurred. My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
"Well?" he taunted, leaning back against the bench inside the box, his helmet resting on his knee. "Or are you going to keep taking notes from the cheap seats?"
I walked toward the gate, my boots clicking on the ice. I pushed the door open and stepped into the small, enclosed space. The smell of him—cedar, sweat, and something uniquely masculine—suddenly dominated the air. He didn't move to make room. He stayed exactly where he was, his gaze heavy and unrelenting.
"Fine," I whispered, holding my ground. "Let's start from the beginning. Why the attitude?"
He reached out, his hand snapping the gate of the penalty box shut behind me. The lock clicked with a final, echoing sound that seemed to vibrate through my very bones.
"The beginning?" he murmured, leaning closer until his face was inches from mine. "Honey, we haven't even reached the warm up."
Before I could move, he leaned in, his lips brushing against my ear. "You wanted to shadow the playboy? Congratulations. You’re trapped."
He stepped back, a smirk playing on his lips, and reached up to flip the internal latch. He had locked us in. My breath caught in my throat as I looked at the closed door, then back at the man who suddenly looked like he held every card in the deck.
"Now," he said, his eyes darkening. "Let's see if you can handle the real me."
