"Evie!" I shout, trying to stop her.
My earliest memories are of me in skates, chasing after my dad and uncles on the pond back at the family farm. We spent every summer busting ass, and every winter playing hockey until we were so fucking cold, we were frozen. I'm at home on the ice in a way I'm not anywhere else. So there's no excuse for the way my legs wobble like I'm just learning. And there's absolutely no goddamn excuse for the way I trip over my own feet.
I don't land on the ice.
I slide across the shit like a fucking puck. Face first.
Somehow, I manage to stop at her feet, staring up at her. Jesus. She's sexy as hell from this angle, all wide-eyed and flushed, staring at me like she isn't sure if she wants to kiss me or kill me.
I bet she'll look just as beautiful when she's on my cock…
The whole arena is pointing at me, roaring with laughter. I'm probably on national television right now, with the whole world watching me make an ass of myself.
Fuck it.
Asking her out is worth whatever jokes come my way.
"Hey, princess." I grin up at her. "Nice pipes."
For the record, I'm talking about her voice.
I do not think she believes that.
She blanches, her lips pursing. The look of utter annoyance she shoots me would fell a lesser man. Lucky for me, I'm already prone on the ice, my pride in shambles.
"You should really learn to skate if you're going to do this professionally, Kingston," she mutters.
If I thought the arena was laughing before, I was wrong. They roar when she lifts one dainty foot and steps over my body, her chin in the air like I don't even exist.
I grin like a madman as she walks away, her hips swaying with every nervous step, like she's worried she's going to end up on her ass on the ice beside me.
Fuck, she's perfect.
Ishower at recordspeed after the game, determined to find Evie before she escapes without giving me her number.
Coach has other ideas.
"Since you decided to put on a show tonight, you get to talk to the press," he says, grabbing me before I can duck out of the locker room.
Goddammit.
"But I need—"
"Save it, Monroe. She's already gone," he says.
"What?" I whirl to face him, scowling. "Where'd she go?"
He stares at me levelly for a long moment and then shakes his head, sighing so hard Jesus probably feels his breath on the backof his neck. "At least you didn't try to feed me a line of bullshit. You're smarter than you look, Monroe."
I'm not sure if that's a compliment or not, so I just motion for him to hurry it the fuck up. He has intel I need. I'm willing to do shady shit for it at this point.
"She ducked out about twenty minutes before the game ended," he says. "If I had to guess, I'd say she was trying to avoid whatever questions the press wanted to ask her about your little stunt on the ice."
Ah, dammit.
Did I cause problems for her?
Fuck, probably. When isn't the press a problem?