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Stevie passes him a schedule. “Then maybe try entertaining us by arriving on time.”

I hide my smile and move toward the back wall.

The room is modern and warm, with timber beams crossing the ceiling. Snow drifts beyond the windows, but inside, rows of enormous men occupy dozens of chairs arranged around a polished timber table. Red-and-gold Wildcards folders sit at every place beside bottles of water, protein bars and miniature candy canes.

And seated directly beneath the windows is Miles.

Oh, wow.

Daylight is very good to him.

Very, very good.

He's wearing a charcoal thermal shirt fitted so tightly across his shoulders that I can see every shift of muscle when he turns. It has a Christmas tree logo on the front, and I assume it from his family's farm. His sleeves are shoved up his forearms, revealing strong veins disappearing beneath the fabric, and his hair curls slightly from where it might have dried messily.

The presentation starts, but all I can do is stare at Miles' hands.

I know those hands.

I watched them secure steel hooks, tighten rescue straps and work heavy equipment beside the mountain.

This morning, I imagined them between my thighs.

Miles looks up as though the thought has summoned him, and our eyes connect across the boardroom.

His gaze drops to my mouth before travelling lower, roaming all over my body in a way I've never felt before. The heat inside his gaze feels like a hand sliding across my skin and I swear I lean into it.

My nipples tighten beneath my sweater, apparently thrilled to renew their favorite new acquaintance.

At the front, a broad older man with silver hair and a red Wildcards jacket claps his hands.

“Alright, listen up! I’m Coach Dave. Some of you know me. Some of you have successfully avoided me until now.” He surveys the room. “We’re here to demonstrate resilience, professionalism and the enduring power of teamwork. Coincidentally, all three qualities are attached to a substantial financial bonus if we play well.”

Several players laugh.

Coach Dave points at them. “You laugh now. Wait until you see what second place pays. Let's just say my grandkids will be very happy with me this Christmas.”

Big Mike steps beside him wearing that same red suit he had on yesterday.

“Your coach is right. This team is the drawcard of the tournament,” he announces. “Fans aren’t only paying to watch you play. They’re paying for appearances, signings, community events and whatever else our sponsors invent after too much champagne.”

Coach Dave taps the tournament schedule. “We’re here to prove that experience matters, second chances are valuable and professional hockey hasn’t discarded you assholes completely. More importantly, there’s a substantial winner’s bonus, and I have holiday expenses to cover.”

Big Mike coughs loudly.

“What?” Coach Dave asks. “They know they’re being paid.”

The room breaks into laughter.

Big Mike steps forward again. “As I said, the Wildcards are the tournament’s major attraction. That means we need all of you visible, charming and preferably sober.”

Dylan raises his cider in question.

“I’m not addressing you,” Big Mike says. “You’re entertainment.”

“Finally, someone respects the distinction.”

"Now, to formalize the team, we need a leader." Coach Dave lifts a clipboard. “Our captain is a veteran, a local and the only man here responsible enough to deliver both a Christmas tree and our newest staff member. So please, make him welcome… Miles Stratton.”