End Game (New York Stars Book 1)

A MONTH LATER

𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝄠 Light Me Up – Ingrid Michaelson

WHEN I CAN’T GET a hold of him, I try not to freak out.

In my defense, as normal as working for him has been despite his status as an NHL demigod, cue eye roll, staying at his apartment last night has amped up my concern.

I mean, logically, I knew the nightmares were happening. Mom has mentioned it and his PTSD a few times over the past year, and I know he’s still seeing that shrink I found him.

But knowing and hearing them are two different matters entirely.

So, when he goes AWOL, my heart definitely can’t handle it.

I pull some homeland security stalker moves I perfected when I was shadowing them during their first NHL season, because Kow has some magic juju powers that always puts him in danger, and learn that my negotiating skills haven’t lessened any from lack of practice.

I find him in West Orange, New Jersey, of all places.

When my taxi stops outside the rink, a flurry of bikes pass by. Impatiently, I wait for them to fuck off before I can get out.

Through the flapping of Satan’s Sinners’ MC leather jackets, I see Hudson, Liam’s driver, waiting in the parking lot. He raises a hand in greeting, and I nod at him in thanks—he’s how I found my asshole boss.

An asshole only because I now owe Hudson three dozen pierogi in payment for the intel.

Then again, pierogi as blackmail fodder is cheap in the grand scheme of things. Especially when I know getting an in with Liam’s driver is smart if he’s going to pull stunts like this in the future.

When the dozen or so bikers finally get out of my way, I pay the fare and jump onto the sidewalk. It’s a warm day, but knowing this was where I was heading, I dressed up for the occasion, hence my matching mittens and tuque with ‘Make Emo Great Again’ embroidered on them.

Just thinking of the slogan makes me smirk to myself.

It’s a public rink we’re at but it’s dead. Liam must have handled this on his own because I never arranged for some private ice time, and when his bodyguards let me in, I threaten the one I know is the leader:

“You should have told me where he was when I rang you.”

The jerk just shrugs. “You’re not my boss, Ms. Bukowski.”

I sneer at him but swipe past, aware that Liam must have given them the order to let me through if I found him.

When I make it to the board, I yell, “You jerkface!”

In a spray of snow, Liam stops sprinting across the ice. Red-faced from exertion, he skates over to me. That’s when I take in the 35 Esposito jersey and the backward Stars’ baseball cap, his own.

Just sucker punch me right in the ovaries, why don’t you, God?

“Hey,” he greets.

Because I’m turned on as well as annoyed, my scowl is meaner than before. “‘Hey?!’ Why didn’t you tell me where you were? I’ve been looking for you for hours.”

His gaze turns inward. Distant. I don’t know why but it makes my throat grow tight. “Just needed some peace.”

“One minute I was in my office, dealing with a deluge of manga comics that showed up from out of nowhere—thirty, Liam, really?—and the next, you were gone.”

“Thirty-five, actually, and they’re for you.”

Thirty-five? “What are?”

“The comics.”

I blink. “For me?”

“Yes.”

“Thirty-five different ones?”

He shrugs. “Gotta be some perks to working weird hours.”

“Thirty-five?” I squeak.

For the first time, he seems amused. “Excessive spending is a form of therapy.”

“Since when?” I scoff, but I’m still trying to get my head around him buying thirty-five monthly subscriptions for me. “Do we need to stage an intervention?”

“No. But we can get you some skates.”

“I don’t skate.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” I retort.

“You can.”

“Yeah, but not with you. I’ll make an ass of myself.”

“I’ll fall over if you get on the ice.”

I squint at him. “You won’t fall over.”

“On command.” He presses his hand to his heart. “One push of your pinkie finger and I’ll flop onto the ice. How’s that for a deal?”

With a huff, I nod and start to make my retreat to the counter for rentals. That’s when he calls out, “Where are you going?”

“To rent some skates, dingbat.”

“Got some over by the bench for you.”

I twist around to gape at him. “You did not.” I snort. “Let me guess, thirty-five pairs?”

His smile is slow.

He doesn’t mean for it to be sexy, but oh, dear Lord, it is.

Whipping away from him so he can’t see my reaction to that smile, I call out, “How did you know my size?” And why did you plan for me to show up without telling me where you are?

The man is such a weirdo.

“I looked at your shoes?” he repeats back at me like it’s a question.

Fuck.

I pull a face at the three-hundred-dollar pair of skates.

Why does he have to keep doing this stuff?

What, with the Cameos and the show tickets, now the comics and then this?!

You cannot kiss him, Gracie.

STOP.

Huffing and grunting and snarling under my breath like a rabid dog, I put on my skates, hating that they feel like a second skin.

As I tie up my laces, I watch him make a couple practice shots as he flies across the ice like Peter Pan.

I want to ask him if he’s okay, but I already know that he’s not.

His concentration is locked in a way that tells me this practice isn’t about working out or the sport itself—it’s about him. About escaping. About finding peace in the muscle memory of the stick in his hand as it winds up when he shoots the puck, of his blades on the ice, of the chill in the air biting at his cheeks.

I could watch him for days.

I guess it helps that it’s the first time he and I have been alone at a rink in years.

I know that he’ll remember I’m here soon enough, so I grab my compact from my purse and quickly check out my face—swiftly, I rearrange my features so they’re blank.

My earlier desire to maul him is no longer evident in my expression, nor is the faint hurt I felt from hearing him being terrorized in his dreams.

That’s when he wings across the ice, so fast it looks as if he’s going to crash into the boards, but instead, he swings into a one-foot spin that has me choking on a laugh.

And the desire to attack him is back.

Every part of him.

Every.

Inch.

There were rumors back in the day that he’s massive too.

Fuck.

My pussy clenches.

NO.

Do. Not. Go. There.

I smile at him as I carefully clamber onto the ice.

The smile has his brows lifting. “You like them?”

“Yeah, I do. Thank you.”

He shrugs. “Figured I’d get you here sooner rather than later.”

Jerkface.

Perfect, perfect, perfect jerkface.

With kissable lips.

And that baseball cap.

CUTE.

I’m so screwed.

He skates over to me like he’s flying and his hands grab mine. That’s as rough as he gets. The next five minutes he spends coaching me on how not to fall on my ass.

When I can finally stand up straight, I can’t say that it’s like riding a bike, but the motions are definitely coming back to me.

I eye him up. “You ready?”

Because he’s perfect, he knows exactly what I’m talking about.

His lips twitch. “Yeah, I’m ready.”

I swipe my pointer finger against his chest and like magic, he takes a dive with all the theatrics of an overenthusiastic Glee kid who’s also a star of the hockey team.

When he stares up at me, not looking at all winded despite wearing no padding, he grins. “There, your ego’s been stroked. You okay now?”

I skate over to him.

Hold out my hand.

Wish like hell I could straddle him.

Then, the asshole tugs me down so I’m on the ice too.

In a flustered array of limbs that is the least graceful fall in the history of ice skating.

“You dick!” I cuss, embarrassed and mortified and everything in between.

He smirks and drawls, “You didn’t forget how to land.”

I squint at him, flustered and suddenly really freakin’ hot.

My hands are on either side of his shoulders, so I slide them out and plunk on him, giving him all my weight. My nose brushes his and I snarl, “That’s what you take from this?”

His breath whispers over my mouth.

That’s the first warning sign.

Oh, fuck.

Why was this a good idea?

Why didn’t I—

My knees scramble over the ice but instead of helping me up, they work against me—one slides close to his crotch.

So close.

Fuck.

I gulp when I see his pupils have—

No, that’s wrong. They’re not dilating. Are they?

It’s just all the light in here—it’s too goddamn bright.

He smells like Juicy Fruit.

I want to taste that.

I could—

Jesus Christ.

I could kiss him now.