“Good,” Coach said, picking up his mug of sugar and milk with a hint of coffee. “So figure out how to make this work because it has to. Team dinner tonight. Don’t be fucking late, either of you. And don’t fuck anything up.”

Yeah, it was a little too late for that. Everything was FUBARed into next week, and he had to win a championship despite all of it. They’d find a way to do just that, no matter what it took.

Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Present Day…

Ian’s injured thumb, with its short line of stitches from the surgery to repair the ligaments, hurt like hell, which suited his mood just fine as he glared at the massive piles of snow outside the big bay window on the south side of the kitchen. The drifts were frickin’ huge. He strolled closer to the glass, warm bowl of strawberries-and-cream oatmeal in his good hand, and sat down so he could do the awkward-eating-with-his-nondominant-right-hand thing.

“You need some help?”

“I can eat breakfast by myself.” Of course he bobbled his spoon just enough for a glob of oatmeal to drop back into his bowl.

She nodded at the coffeepot, filled to the brim with sweet beautiful black gold, and lifted a sharp jet-black eyebrow. He shrugged a shoulder. Whatever. As long as she left him the hell alone, then he’d be golden.

Still, he watched her out of the corner of his eye as she poured half a cup of coffee, then filled the mug the rest of the way up with lukewarm water from the tap. She was hard to peg. Skinny without any hint of hips or tits or an ass, she was what his grandma would have called “a slip of a girl.” But that face… He stared at her mid-bite, his spoon hovering in the air halfway to his mouth. She wasn’t soft and pretty. She wasn’t seductively beautiful. Instead, everything about her was sharp and tough, from her fuck-you half-shaved hair to her high cheekbones that looked like they could cut you as quick as the blade on his skates, but not as fast as the look in her dark-brown eyes.

Fuck. Way to get caught staring, Petrov.

He dropped his gaze and shoved the spoon into his mouth, the oatmeal burning the roof, of course. He just ground his teeth together and took it, the pain a useful reminder to keep his mouth shut and his eyes off her.

“You got something you want to say?” she asked, her tone a little too close to amusement for his taste.

“Nope.” He shoved in another hot bite, relishing the burn.

“Well, I do.”