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"I couldn’t just stand around and let that kid suffer without trying to help," Jaxson says, his voice dropping back into that dangerous, intimate rumble. He reaches out with his uninjured hand and catches my wrist. His grip is light, barely there, but the warmth of it burns through my scrubs. My heart races while my girly parts wake up and sing “Hallelujah.” Oh, man. I need to get out of here before I’m tempted to forget all the reasons I can’t start something with Jaxson Thorne. "Ryan’s rivalry with me doesn't have to be yours, Harper. I’d like the chance to show you who I really am."

"That might be so." I gently pull my arm away, though every nerve ending is screaming at me to stay. "But I don’t have the time or inclination to start something right now. Especially with an athlete.” He blinks down at me several times, and I suddenly wonder if I’m the first person to ever turn him down. Oh well, Mr. Hockey Star will just have to get used to it. “You’re all set. Here’s your list of written instructions."

"Thank you." He stands over me, his height a reminder of the sheer physicality he brings to everything he does. "But I think I might need a follow-up. Just to make sure the stitches are holding. Maybe over dinner?" This guy just won’t give up, and I’m not honestly sure I want him to.

"I don't date patients. And I definitely don't date hockey players. It’s a recipe for disaster." I start clearing the tray, my back to him because I can't look at his face right now. If I do, he’ll see right through the clinical mask I’ve spent years perfecting.

"Rules were made to be broken. Especially the ones that keep you from getting what you actually want." He pauses at the curtain, looking back one last time. "I’ll see you around, Harper." My insides turn to Jello from his words, and I have to step back and fight to slip my professional mask on my face.

“Not if I see you first,” I tell him.

He laughs and winks. “Touché.”

After he leaves, his presence lingers in the small bay like the scent of woodsmoke after a fire. I stand there for a long moment, my hand resting on the cold steel of the rolling cart. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my wrist, a lingering hum that refuses to fade. I’ve dealt with thousands of patients, hundreds of arrogant athletes who think their fame entitles them to whatever they want, but Jaxson Thorne seems different.

As my shift starts to wind down, I think about the way Jaxson’s voice changed when he spoke to Leo, the way he admitted to being afraid, the way he looked at me as if I were the only person in the world who mattered. This man is dangerous to me. To my heart. To my piece of mind. And most of all, to my relationship with my brother.

The ER continues its chaotic symphony around me. The sirens in the distance, the sharp bark of a doctor’s orders, the rhythmic thud of the heart monitors all continue, but for once, I’m not fully present. I’m thinking about sandalwood and ozone and the weight of a hand that felt far too much like home.

I’m thinking about my brother’s biggest rival and the terrifying possibility that I can actually see myself falling for him.

It’s ludicrous. It’s reckless. It’s so unlike me that I want to scrub the thought out with hospital-grade sanitizer, but the infection is already in my system and spreading. One moment I’m an ice queen, clinical and invincible, and then a single look, a single act of kindness, has me so destabilized I’m tripping over my own feet.

I try to give myself a mental slap, to recite every reason this is a disaster waiting to happen. I tell myself my brother would flip his shit, and I’m breaking my previously unbreakable “no athletes” clause.

I’m so lost in my own head that I barrel straight into a wall of scrubs and vanilla latte. It takes a second to reset my vision and realize I’ve nearly flattened my best friend, Mia.

Her eyes go wide with professional concern and personal glee, which, for Mia, are often indistinguishable. “Whoa. Are you okay? You look like you just lost a fight with a ghost.”

“I’m fine.” I try to brush her off. I’m about to blame it on the caffeine deficit or the early morning drag, but I can already see she won’t believe me.

She blocks my path, all five-foot-two of her radiating the kind of aggressive best friend energy that could jolt a coding patient back to life. She grips my bicep before I can sidestep, and if there’s one thing four years of friendship has taught me, it’s that fighting Mia is like wrestling an affectionate pit bull. Pointless and a little hazardous.

“Don’t think for a second I’m buying that,” she says, voice pitched low for privacy but loud enough to cut through the surrounding chaos. “You have the look of someone who just got caught with her mitts in the cookie jar.”

I snort at the “don’t bullshit me” look on her face. “It’s nothing. Just a long day.” Boy, is that ever an understatement.

“Well, at least it’s almost over.” She still has that look on her face. The one that tells me she isn’t ready to give up trying to get the truth out of me.

“Thank God for that,” I breathe as the trauma pager goes off.

My exhaustion flies right out the window as adrenaline kicks in. It always sucks to get a trauma at the end of the shift, but at least it’ll help me forget about Jaxson. At least for a little while.

CHAPTER FIVE

JAXSON

The puck is a black blur, a frozen disk of rubber screaming toward my upper right corner at ninety miles per hour. Ordinarily, I don't think. I react. My glove hand is an autonomous entity, a heat-seeking missile designed to snatch hope out of the air and crush it. But as I track the projectile, the black circle morphs into a pair of sharp, hazel eyes narrowed in professional focus. I see a flash of endless curves. I hear the warm smokiness of her voice.

The puck thuds into the netting behind me. The red light doesn't flash during practice, but the sound of it hitting the twine is an indictment. It’s the sound of a failure I don’t taste very often.

"Thorne!" Coach’s voice bellows from the bench, echoing off the empty rafters of the arena. "Are you meditating out there, or do you plan on stopping something today?"

I don't look at him. I keep my eyes on the ice, staring at the gouges left by the skates of my teammates. My injured hand is wrapped tight in a custom-molded guard inside my trapper. It doesn't actually hurt. The local anesthetic wore off thirty-six hours ago, replaced by a dull, rhythmic thrum that feels less like an injury and more like a reminder. Every time I flex my palm, I feel the tug of the nylon thread, so I’ve learned how to hold my hand just right.

"Fine," I mutter, tapping my stick against the posts to reset. The sound is hollow, lacking its usual authority. I’m a mess. I am a highly paid, world-class athlete who is currently being dismantled by the memory of a woman’s touch.

Mick McLinden circles the net, spraying a fine mist of ice over my pads as he stops. He leans on his stick, peering at me through the cage of his helmet. His face is flushed, his breaths coming in ragged plumes of white. He’s the only one who knows I didn't spend my night off at a club or a high-stakes poker game. He knows I spent it in an ER treatment bay, being scolded by Ryan Coleman’s sister.