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“How did you know I don’t have an appointment at the clinic today?” I have to know.

Her wicked little grin causes my cock to turn rock-hard. “Because they keep bankers’ hours up in the sports clinic. They closed at four pm.” She smirks, rolling her eyes.

“Then why did you tell me to go up there?” I laugh, totally enjoying myself.

“Because I wanted to see how far you were willing to take your little stunt.” I watch her work, the air in the bay growing thick.

"Oof. My bad.” I’m not at all embarrassed that I made shit up just to see her. I’m a man who lives by strategy, and right now, every instinct I have is telling me to take a shot. I’m supposed to have a heart of ice, but standing in this sterile little room, I feel too much. I want to know everything there is to know about her. And I want to break through this wall she’s built between us. “Would you have dinner with me?" I ask, the words cutting through the quiet.

She stops, the roll of medical tape halfway to my hand. She doesn't look up immediately. She finishes the wrap, smoothing the edges with her thumb before she finally meets my gaze. "Excuse me?"

"Dinner. With me. Tomorrow, or the next day, or whenever you have a free evening." I lean in slightly, closing the small gap between us. "I still want to get to know you."

Harper sighs, a soft sound of exasperation that deflates the tension. She stands up, pushing the stool back with the back of her legs. She crosses her arms over her chest, the professional mask firmly in place, but there’s a hardness in her eyes now that wasn't there before.

"No," she says simply.

I blink, the rejection stinging more than the original cut. "No? Just like that? No 'let me check my calendar' or 'I'm busy washing my hair'?"

"I don't need an excuse. And I don't need to check my calendar to know that dating a hockey player is a bad idea. Especially you." She steps toward the curtain, her hand gripping the fabric.

"Especially me? What’s that supposed to mean?" I stand up, hating the distance I feel growing between us.

"It means," she says, turning back to me. Her voice is tight, guarded. "You’re the last man on earth I should be dating. You’re my brother’s enemy on and off the ice. And I have one very simple rule I follow. No athletes. No matter what. Now, have a good evening, Mr. Thorne."

She walks away without looking back, her stride purposeful and unwavering. I stand in the middle of the small cubicle, feeling my hand pulsing in a dull, insistent rhythm that matches the thud of blood in my ears.

I walk out of the hospital, the cool Seattle air hitting my face like a slap. Damn it. That definitely didn’t go the way I’d planned.

I’m impenetrable. I’m the man who doesn't let anything through. But as I pull out of the parking lot, I realize I’ve got a big fucking problem. Harper Coleman not only got through. She’s already embedded herself deep in my soul.

And the gorgeous little firecracker doesn’t want to have anything to do with me. Fucking hell.

CHAPTER SIX

HARPER

The roar of twenty thousand fans vibrates through the soles of my shoes, a low-frequency hum that settles deep in my chest, reinforcing the fact I shouldn't be here. Every instinct I possess, honed by a lifetime of avoiding athletes at all costs, told me to stay home, order takeout, and pretend the Seattle Knights weren't hosting the New York Titans tonight. Yet, here I am, perched in the family section, my knuckles white as I grip the railing of the balcony.

The air in the arena is a strange cocktail of expensive cologne, spilled beer, and the sharp, metallic bite of recycled ice. Down on the rink, the game is a blur of high-speed violence and tactical grace. My eyes should be on Ryan. He’s number seventeen, the forward with the explosive stride and the single-minded focus of a predator. But my gaze keeps drifting, sliding across the ice toward the opposite end of the rink.

Jaxson Thorne is a statue of white and steel. Behind the cage of his goalie mask, he is a ghost, an impenetrable barrier that has spent the last forty minutes frustrating every one of Ryan’s attempts to score. The 'Ice Wall' isn't just a nickname; it's a physical reality. He moves with a calculated economy, his gloved hand snapping out to snatch pucks from the air like a cobra striking. Each time he makes a save, a part of me exhales, while another part of me tightens with frustration.

The rivalry between them isn't just professional; it’s atmospheric. You can feel it in the way the players collide near the crease, the extra shove after the whistle, the lingering glares that the cameras always seem to catch. Ryan has hated Jaxson since their junior league days, a feud built on stolen goals and bruised egos.

Then the third period begins, and the temperature in the arena seems to spike. It starts with a sharp, stinging strike of wood against shin, and before the referee can even reach for his whistle, the ice explodes into a sea of sliding bodies and discarded gloves. It’s a line brawl, the kind that makes the crowd surge to their feet with a bloodthirsty cheer.

My heart doesn't hammer; it simply stops. I see Ryan in the thick of it, his jersey pulled over his head as he tangles with a Knights defenseman, but my eyes are locked on the crease. Jaxson hasn't moved, but a Titans player is charging toward him. It’s a violation of the unwritten code, a direct assault on the goalie, and it happens in a heartbeat.

The collision is deafening, even over the crowd. The enforcer slams into Jaxson, sending them both crashing into the goalpost with a sickening crunch of metal and bone. I’m on my feet before I realize it, my hands pressed against the cold glass. My nurse’s brain is already triaging, calculating the force of the impact, the potential for concussion, the fragility of the human cervical spine beneath all that padding.

Jaxson hits the ice hard. His mask flies off, skittering across the scarred surface like a discarded shell. For a terrifying ten seconds, he doesn't move. The arena goes silent, a collective intake of breath that tastes like ozone. Then, slowly, he pushes himself up. Even from this distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he gingerly touches his face before reaching for his helmet.

When the camera zooms in on the Jumbotron, I see it. The reinforced cage of his goalie mask is bent, and a jagged crack runs through the fiberglass near the temple. It’s a testament to the violence of the hit. He looks dazed, but he shakes it off with a snarl that is visible even from the nosebleed seats. He’s back on his feet, but he’s not right. I can see the slight tremor in his glove hand.

I spend the rest of the game filled with anxiety. Every time the puck nears the Seattle goal, I find myself whispering a silent plea for it to stay away. I’m not rooting for the Knights; I’m rooting for a man who has no business being on the ice with a possible head injury. My loyalty is a frayed wire, sparking with every save he makes, every time he’s forced to drop to his knees and scramble for a rebound.

The buzzer finally sounds, ending the siege. The Knights win, one to zero. A shutout for Jaxson. The crowd erupts, but I’m already moving toward the exit, my legs trembling. I need to know. I need to see him, to confirm that he isn’t badly injured.