“Um, okay.” She looked over at Ian, her eyebrows raised in question, and then back at Christensen. “Hi.”

“So,” Christensen said, “did you want to go grab coffee?”

“I’ve got some already brewed,” she said. “But you’re sweet to have thought of me.”

He winked at her. “Anytime.”

“Okay, then.” She started to shut the door, first making eye contact with Ian as if to ask what was going on. “Bye.”

As soon as the door shut, Ian did the slow clap. Okay, maybe he was the cocky asshole, but he had to go with his instinct. The Shelby who’d nearly laid him out with a Taser wasn’t the type of woman to melt at Alex Christensen’s insincere flirting.

Mind obviously blown, Christensen turned to him, his face scrunched up with confusion. “What the hell, man?”

Was he enjoying this moment a little too much? Probably, but he could live with that. “You don’t understand a woman like Shelby.”

Christensen scoffed. “And I suppose you do.”

“Without a doubt.” Now that was definitely a step too far, but he understood her a helluva lot better than his brother.

She had no time for bullshit. It was something they had in common.

The elevator dinged its arrival at the end of the hall, and Coach Peppers walked out, carrying a steaming cup of coffee in a to-go cup. “There you are, Petrov.” He took a sip and twisted his mouth in revulsion. No doubt because there was actually coffee in the cup as opposed to the 99 percent milk and sugar the coach was used to. “Doc’s given you the all clear. You’re playing tonight. I expect to be amazed by you two. Morning skate in an hour.”

On. The. Ice. He was finally getting back. Jacked up on an instant shot of adrenaline, he turned to Christensen and held up his hand. His brother high-fived him before Ian even realized what he’d done. It’s exactly what he would have done in the same situation before he’d found out they were brothers.

Christensen grinned at him. “Try to keep up tonight.”

“Not gonna be a problem,” he shot back and then went into his room to get ready for the morning skate.

Doing lazy loop-de-loops on the ice was one thing. Being in the mix of a morning skate was totally different. It was fucking magic. It always had been. Even when his dad had warned him that professional hockey wasn’t for everyone when Ian got drafted late, he hadn’t lost his love for it. The crisp air. The slice of his blades on the ice. The sound of the puck smacking on his stick. The high of watching the opposing goalie do a pretzel-bend trick and still not be able to stop the biscuit from crossing the line.