When she’d been starting The Biscuit, almost all the teams ignored her requests for interviews. Not Bill. He’d treated her like one of hockey’s own. It had been refreshing. A Bill who was also a friend of Bill W’s, they’d met at an AA meeting shortly after she’d gotten out of rehab. One evening later over coffee, deep dish pie, and “oohing” and “ahhhing” over the pictures of him and his husband on their wedding anniversary trip to Antarctica, they’d become friends.

“Congrats on the deal with the Ice Mites,” he said, using the Rage fan’s favorite nasty nickname for the Ice Knights. “Wish we would have thought of snagging you first.”

“Like I’d ever go work for the Cajun Lame?” She shook her head. “Forget about it.”

“I figured, but the door’s always open. We’re huge fans of The Biscuit,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Don’t be such a stranger, kid. We’re due for a dinner.”

“You got it.” Since her social calendar was pretty much as blank as it ever was, that wasn’t going to be a problem. “And thanks for the job offer. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Well, at least let me buy you a frozen lemonade after tonight’s game. We can talk about how much better the restaurants are in New Orleans than Harbor City.”

As if that was even possibly true. “You’re gonna have to buy me two pink lemonades to make up for such lies.”

“Deal,” he said with a chuckle and held open the door for her.

They walked in together but split up at the end of the hallway. He went toward the end with the visitors’ locker room and she went toward the Ice Knights’ side. Maybe she slowed down a little outside the locker room and slow rolled it in hopes of seeing Ian. Okay, she totally did that. There was just no denying the flutter of butterflies in her stomach whenever she thought of him or the spark of desire or the curiosity about what he was thinking or the…well, everything.

As if the universe was smiling down on her, the locker room door opened and Ian walked out. He wasn’t in uniform yet, but he had on his game face—an unshaven square jaw tense with determination, a sense of barely controlled power and aggression. It shouldn’t turn her on, but it did.

“Hey there,” she said, trying to sound somewhat normal and not like she was about to go up in flames.

He didn’t say anything, at least not with words. The intensity in his stare, though, said a lot.

“Shelby, is that you?” asked a man from behind her, whose voice was so familiar despite not having talked to him for years.