RINKSIDE RUIN

ROWAN KAINE’S POV

—----

I love my stick. Both of them, actually: my hockey stick and the one God gave me.

One scores goals. The other? Also pretty damn good at scoring, if you catch my drift.

And yeah, I trust both with my life. My dick’s basically my career counselor. He’s gotten me into some tight spots before — pun very much intended — sometimes with blondes who knew exactly what a rookie contract looked like but hey, that’s just part of the game.

Tonight, though? He’s doing that thing he does — perking up the second she walks into the bar, all legs and a look like she doesn’t even know she’s the hottest woman here. And to be honest, if my dick could talk, he’d be saying, That one. Trade up immediately.

Who am I to ignore good advice?

* * *

There are exactly three things I give a damn about tonight.

Whiskey. Winning. And not listening to my older brother.

Declan’s across from me at this overpriced, marble-lined bar, going on and on about some power play strategy for our next game, voice all low and serious like we’re at war and not in the middle of the goddamn Four Seasons lounge.

But am I listening?

Hell no.

Because three seats down, sipping red wine like she’s too good for oxygen, sits her.

And I’m cooked.

She’s got that ice-queen thing down to a science. Her chin is lifted, spine straight, eyes fixed somewhere beyond this room like she can’t even be bothered to pretend anyone else exists. Men have tried. Oh, they’ve tried. Every poor bastard who’s approached her tonight has got sent packing faster than a rookie in preseason cuts.

She hasn’t smiled once.

Not even a polite little half-smirk.

And it’s… honestly, the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

She’s got her hair slicked back in this no-nonsense twist that shows off her dangerously delicate and smooth neck. Her dress hugs her curves like it was stitched onto her skin, dark and severe, and she drinks wine. Not some glittery-ass cocktail with a paper umbrella. No, she’s got a glass of deep red, and every time she brings it to her lips, I swear my dick gets a little more interested in death by dehydration.

Jeez. She even drinks like she’s giving a blowjob — slow, deliberate, lips wrapping around the glass like she knows exactly what she’s doing. My dick’s already halfway to standing ovation, and she hasn’t even looked in my direction yet.

“...And you're doing it again.”

Declan mutters from across the table, cockblocking my brain’s private fuck show and dragging my attention away — very unwillingly, mind you — from my very intense, very private staring contest with this goddess of doom.

I blink. “Doing what?”

Declan’s already rolling his eyes like I’m the biggest idiot he’s ever been cursed to share DNA with. “Zoning the fuck out while I’m talking. And don’t even bother denying it, man. I’ve been watching you eye-fuck whatever’s behind me for the last ten minutes.”

I give him my hardest glare, shifting in my seat like that’ll somehow make me look less obvious. “You’re full of shit.”

Declan snorts lazily before turning his head and twisting in his chair, following the direction of my gaze like he’s about to chirp me into the ground for ogling someone at the bar like some teenage virgin at prom.

Except the second he sees her, his whole damn face changes. His eyebrows shoot up so fast I half-expect them to fly off. The dude practically levitates out of his chair, the chair scraping against the marble floor with a godawful screech.

“Holy shit,” he mutters, eyes wide. “Mara?”

I freeze. “Wait— what?”

But Declan’s already up, his chair scraping across the floor loud enough to make every rich bastard in this place glare at him.

“No fucking way.” His grin explodes across his face like he just found out beer burns calories. “Stay here. I gotta say hi.”

I lunge across the table, grabbing his arm like he’s about to detonate a bomb. “Declan, don’t. Seriously, you don’t just walk up to random women because your idiot brother was—”

“I know her.” His grin just grows, cocky and smug. “She’s an old friend. We go way back.”

You know her?

I’m still short-circuiting, but Declan’s already striding over, all captain swagger and easy charm, cutting through the crowd like he owns the goddamn building.

I watch in horror as he taps her shoulder, and she turns, slow and wary like she’s already preparing to eviscerate another unlucky bastard.

But then she sees him.

And she smiles.

Honest to God, the entire bar tilts sideways.

I’m not exaggerating here. I’ve been slammed into boards by men twice my size, but nothing hits like seeing her smile at my brother.

Declan leans in, saying something that makes her laugh — a low, smoky sound that slinks down my spine and wraps tight.

They talk a little longer, and suddenly I’m sitting here, nursing my whiskey and feeling like the biggest arsehole on earth.

And then Declan’s brings her over.

I nearly choke.

“Rowan!” Declan calls, all bright-eyed and loud as hell. “Come meet an old friend.”

I’m dead.

But I can’t look away as she walks over, hips swaying, eyes sharp.

“Rowan Kaine,” Declan announces like a proud dad introducing his troublemaker son. “My younger brother. Alternate captain. Resident menace of the Chicago Blizzards.”

I roll my eyes hard enough to see my brain. “Jesus, thanks for the glowing reference.”

But she just smirks, all slow and knowing, as she looks me up and down like I’m the appetizer she didn’t order but wouldn’t mind sampling.

“Mara,” Declan continues, clapping a hand on her shoulder like they’re besties. “An old friend from a few seasons back. She’s in sports therapy now – training under that trauma doc everybody wants.”

Our eyes lock. Something snaps tight in the air between us.

I clear my throat. “How’d you two meet?”

Declan opens his mouth to answer, but Mara beats him to it.

“I saved his life,” she says, deadpan.

Declan bursts out laughing. “Yeah, it’s a long story of how she saved my life.”

Inside jokes. Great.

We all laugh, the tension breaking just enough to breathe but not enough to cool what’s brewing between me and Mara.

Declan pulls out a chair for her, and she slides in like she owns the whole damn place.

“She’s a legend,” Declan says, grinning. “Tough as hell. We butted heads constantly back in the day.”

Mara’s lips quirk. “That’s because you’re stubborn.”

“And you’re worse,” Declan fires back, laughing.

Then his phone vibrates on the table. He groans, checking the screen. “Shit. Gotta take this.”

He stands, already backing away. “Try not to corrupt her too fast, yeah?” he jokes, flashing me a grin as he walks off.

Mara arches a brow at me. “Corrupt me?” She sips her wine, amused. “I think I’m capable of holding my own.”

I lean back in my chair, smirking. “Something tells me you’re more dangerous than I am.”

Her gaze sharpens, playful but edged. “Is that supposed to scare me?”

I let my eyes drift down, deliberately slow, tracing the curve of her throat, her collarbone, the bare hint of cleavage.

“Nah,” I murmur, voice low. “I’m hoping it’ll keep me interested.”

She laughs softly like she's surprised and sets her glass down with a click. “You don’t waste time, do you?”

“Not when I see something I want.”

Her lips curve in a slow, wicked smile. “And what exactly do you want, Rowan Kaine?”

I hold her stare, steady and unapologetic. “You.”

Bent over the nearest surface, begging for more. Screaming my name so loud you’ll lose your voice by morning. But sure, let’s keep pretending we’re having a polite conversation here. I add in my head.

Then she leans in, close enough that I catch the faintest hint of her sandalwood scent.

Her voice drops to a silky whisper. “Then let’s skip the polite bullshit.”

My pulse slams into overdrive. Did I say it out loud?

She tilts her head, eyes locked on mine. “Wanna take me upstairs?”

I swear the air leaves my lungs.

I should say no. I should play it cool. I should definitely not go from zero to catastrophic in thirty seconds flat.

But I’m already standing.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough and certain. “I do.”