Of course, if this didn’t involve him, he’d be gawking without shame, too.
There really wasn’t a way to avoid being a damn coffee klatch, always in one another’s business when you spent nine months out of the year skate-to-skate with one another.
Since there was no way around it, he made his way over to the bench. It took everything he had not to land a not-so-friendly hip check on the other man for talking to Shelby with that hey-baby smirk of his that had landed him on billboards with millions in endorsement deals. That, of course, made no sense. There were a billion other reasons to put the weight down on Christensen, but flirting with Shelby? What the hell did he care?
“So Alex here”—Shelby smiled at Christensen as if he were hot chocolate on an icy morning—“doesn’t think he has tells when he’s mad at himself during a game.”
“Are you kidding?” Christensen asked with a chuckle. “I’m always cool.”
Ian laughed. Out loud. A huge belly laugh that made his abs ache.
Christensen’s jaw squared, and his eyes narrowed. “Fine. What’s my tell?”
“There are about a billion of them.” He flicked the top of the other man’s stick. “If you don’t stop messing with the tape after you miss passes, the other teams are going to notice, and then the Rage are going to tear you apart.”
The Ice Knights’ biggest rivalry games were always preceded by hours of watching film of the other team to gain any edge—no matter how small—to take the other team out. There was no way the players on the Cajun Rage weren’t doing the same thing.
“It’s a new play,” Christensen said.
“So practice.” Until every move was like breathing.
Christensen scoffed. “What, you’re ready to show me how it’s done?”
More than ready. Watching the games from the visitor’s suite was torture. “Let’s do it.”
He’d been on the ice with Christensen running the passing drill under Coach’s watchful eye for close to thirty minutes before he realized Shelby wasn’t there anymore. One moment she’d been on the bench watching them, and the next time he looked over, she was gone. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’d set up this little “brotherly” practice session.
Christiensen came to a fast stop next to him, the edge of his skates sending snow-cone-thin layers of ice flying. “You know she did.”
Had he said it out loud? Was he finally losing it? Nah. There’s no way. “What are you talking about?”
“I can still read you like an unlocked phone. She totally made this happen right after she was telling me what a great coach you’d be.”
Fuck. Was he that easy to maneuver? “You’re both a pain in my ass.”
“You’re not wrong, but she’s right, too. You are a pretty good coach.” Christensen looked away, down toward the empty goal. “I’ve been working on the play for weeks. This is the first time it felt right.” He cleared his throat and started toward the tunnel leading to the locker room. “Thanks, Petrov.”
“Anytime,” he shot after him, taken aback when he realized he meant it.
What if his mom was right? Maybe Christensen did have a side to this story. A very feminine laugh yanked his attention away from that unpleasant thought. Shelby was back, this time chatting with Lucy in the stands. He couldn’t have looked away if he’d been run over by the Zamboni.
Because he was staring, he was looking right at her when she tried to sneak a peek at him, her cheeks going pink the moment she realized she’d gotten caught. Her fingers went immediately to her lips, as if she couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, either.
Makes two of us, sweetheart. So what are we going to do about it?
Chapter Twelve
Shelby was going to hyperventilate and pass out alone, all because of one stupid headline and an out-of-context pic. She wasn’t even out of her softest cotton nightgown and hadn’t started the hotel room coffee maker, but she was 100 percent fully awake at the ungodly hour of six a.m. thanks to her social media notifications going on a buzzing spree. Ignoring the sound would have been the best plan. Then again, so would sticking to her original plan of not lusting after one Ian Petrov. That hadn’t worked out, either.
So in a move that would surprise absolutely no one, she’d looked.
Secret Brothers Share More Than Just Their Famous Hockey Dad?
Underneath the headline on the sleaziest hockey gossip site on the entire internet was a photo of Ian, Alex, and her in Chicago last night. She had no idea what they’d been talking about when the picture had been taken, but at first glance it definitely looked like there was more to last night’s dinner than just deep dish. It was cropped so the viewer couldn’t see the other table with the rest of the team sitting at it. Also, the angle was shooting downward so it looked like the V-neck of her shirt went deeper than it did. And whatever filter or magic the photographer had used to make it look like Ian was gazing adoringly at her as Alex refilled her water glass without a doubt made it seem as if they were at an intimate dinner for three.
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
