Just when she thought it couldn’t get worse, she made the mistake of reading the article. There was every single double entendre connected to hockey possible, a deep dive into the rumors of a rivalry between Ian and Alex since it became public knowledge that they shared a dad, and for the cherry on the puke-flavored ice-cream sundae, there was a quote from someone who’d been at rehab with her noting that she’d turned to hockey when she gave up the bottle.

Making the supremely smart move to back away from the internet before she scrolled down and read the comments, Shelby turned her phone over and laid it on the hotel pillow. It sat there like a speck of blue in the sea of cream that was the hotel’s expansive, downy comforter, calling out to her like a siren. Even knowing that finding out what was in the comments would be akin to smashing her head against the rocks, the temptation had her twitchy.

How bad could it be?

People were generally skeptical of salacious gossip, right?

What if the commenters would give her the benefit of the doubt as opposed to calling her a slut like some kind of misogynistic reflexive action?

What would it hurt to take one quick look to gauge the reaction?

She picked up the phone, but the unexpected sound of someone banging on her door when it was still o’dark hundred shocked a yelp right out of her and she dropped her cell back down on the pillow.

“Shelby,” Ian said through the door, sounding barely awake himself. “Let me in.”

She squeezed her eyes shut and went bunny-hears-a-noise still. No doubt he was here to yell at her, probably assuming that she’d tipped off the tabloid photographer just like he’d figured she’d leaked the story about Alex being his brother. Maybe he hadn’t heard her squeal. She hadn’t been that loud.

“I know you’re in there—I heard you.”

The breath she’d been holding whooshed out of her on a well-fuck-me groan and she went and opened the door, regretting it immediately. Ian stood in the hallway wearing joggers, an Ice Knights hoodie, and a surly expression.

“It wasn’t me,” she said and started to shut the door before her pheromones got a whiff of him.

He stopped the door with his hand. “You saw it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I was hoping to warn you before you saw it. Tell me you didn’t read the comments. I swear to God, I’d like five minutes alone with some of those jackholes. It’s bad enough that there was that lying article without having some dim-witted numbnuts call you a—” He stopped abruptly and grimaced. “Never mind. They’re assholes.”