“Gird your loins, Marv. You’re headed over to KiKi’s later, where if you misbehave, she’ll add you to whatever fancy event she’s catering.”

A flip of his fin and Marv moved to the other side of the tank, totally unbothered about becoming an hors d’oeuvres at a Harbor City society wedding. Smart fish. Bad attitude. He kinda reminded her of someone else who was surly as hell but pretty to look at. Well, she’d be seeing more than enough of him in the next few weeks.

Lucky me.

Letting out a groan, she headed for the shower to wash thoughts of that man right out of her head—as if that was possible.

…

Sweaty and breathing hard, Ian lay back on the yoga mat and cursed the online instructor who talked about practice and not perfection to a man who’d worked his whole life to get as close to perfect as possible—at least on the ice. That’s where it mattered. That’s where the world watched and judged.

Not that anyone was watching him. He wasn’t allowed in the team gym until Doc had cleared him. All for a stupid thumb.

So here he was, getting his ass kicked by some dude named Sven who talked about the universe and releasing control and accepting yourself where you are. Well, Ian was in his living room, feeling like a moron for spending all of last night thinking about either Shelby or Christensen—but not at the same time, thank God. Those were two very opposite thought paths.

What he needed was that damn bottle of scotch he’d left at the cabin.

Sure it’s not to fuck her again?

Shut up, brain.

They’d agreed. No repeats. No overtime. No more sex with Shelby.

Not your brain talking, Buck-O.

Obviously.

Great. Now he was talking to himself while using some of PopPop’s favorite old-man words. Maybe it was a good thing he was getting out of the house for a while. Since the news about Christensen and him had broken, he’d pretty much gone into social isolation, and now he was having mental conversations with his dirty PopPop side. Isn’t that what every grown man wanted to happen?

Fuck no. Time to stop feeling all boo-hoo for yourself.

Ian let out a long, deep breath before he responded to…himself…and for the first time in weeks was excited that his phone was ringing. He got up and grabbed it off the couch.

“Hey, Mom.”

“So what’s this I hear about you getting caught in the nasty late-season snow in some cabin and getting arrested?” Yep, that was Suzanne Petrov—straight, no chaser.

“It’s nothing.”

“Really?” He could practically see her eyebrow go up in tandem with her voice. “That’s the kind of nothing a mother wants to know about her children.”