Russo pokes control of the puck from Bower, snaps the rubber disc to me. I intercept the trajectory, glide it easily past our opposing d-men for today's scrimmage. Deking left, I snap it through Johnson's five-hole before he can butterfly for the save.

That does it.

"Son of a motherfucking whore!" Johnson throws his stick in the most outrageous of all temper tantrums.

I dodge the thing – barely – and it shatters against the boards.

"Hey now!" I guffaw. "My mother is a very nice lady!"

Johnson's got his gloves off, skates right up and gets in my face. "I'm fucking sick and tired of you, Killfeather." He shoves against my chest, squares his shoulders. "After the sheep stunt last night and—"

"Hey!" Coach Burt snaps at us, jerking us each apart by the front of our jerseys. "You want to box? Get the fuck out of the arena. Otherwise play some goddamn hockey."

Johnson clenches his jaw, face still flushed and furious. I glance to the benches, where Haart is shaking his head at me.

Fuck. Alternate-captain, right.

Swallowing the urge to egg on a fight, I skate to where Johnson slugs a drink from his water bottle on the back of the net. I can't exactly start the conversation with, "Hey, asshole, you just trashed a hundred-dollar stick acting like a bitch."

"Where'd you go to college?" I ask instead.

"Northern Mass." Johnson glowers at me. "Got kicked right down to the minors. What's it to you, hot-shot?"

I ignore the jab. NHL training camp pits 60 players against one another for 23 slots on the roster. Usually veterans slap the younger folks down to the dregs. A few, like me, remain on the bubble. There's more opportunity for forwards than there are for goalies, though.

"I went to McGill," I respond. "Had to do my freshmen year against Haart and Victor Turgenev."

Johnson's eyes widen with appreciation. "Oh."

Turgenev is now part of the US Olympic team. He's a hell of a goalie and it used to be my greatest pleasure to irritate the shit out of him.

I cock a brow. "You know what he did when I pissed him off?"

Johnson rolls his eyes. "Beat you bloody?"

"Don't threaten me with a good time." I wink.

He chugs a mouthful of water. "Whatever."

I clap his shoulder through the dense goalie pads. "Exactly. That. Right there."

"Not giving a fuck?" Johnson guffaws.

"Knowing he had me next time." I clarify. "How many attempts on goal did Russo and I make?"

"Dunno," Johnson shrugs. "Thirty?"

"Thirty-six," I correct with a chuckle. "And we landed four. That's pretty damn good."

Johnson gives me a grudging smile. "I guess you're right."

"Yeah." I catch the replacement stick Spencer tosses out, hand it to Johnson. "Keep up the good work, man. If I piss you off, it means I'm doing something right."

"Noted, Killfeather." Johnson spits on the ice, drags his helmet back on, and slaps his new stick with an echoing crack. "Lets go!"

Morning skate winds down with a few more scrimmages. We're uneasy without Haart. I'm a left-handed shooter and now have to cover his center position. To call it awkward is an understatement. All the shots I pass or score are opposite to where I'm supposed to be. It's a horrible combination and Coach knows it. Yet he won't switch me, seems to delight in watching my struggle. Can't say I blame him after the sheep prank.

I make it work. I'm nothing if not adaptable.

Showered, pads hung and Lysoled for the game tonight, Haart drags me into another windpipe-crushing headlock.

"My safe word is 'mistletoe'," I wheeze as I duck my chin.

"You did well out there today," Spencer says, scrubs his knuckles over my head in a noogie.

I snarl, feint, and twist away from him. "You're full of shit."

"I'm serious, Killfucker," Spencer beams, "You managed not to ice Johnson and you got his morale back up."

"I hated every minute of it." I deadpan.

I wish it were true. There was something kind of inspiring about making Johnson understand what I was doing. Mocking him, sure, but ultimately improving his skill. He's been a damn ninja on that goal, and I attribute it to the brutal reaction time the team conditioned him into. His reflexes are sharp, his gaze assessing. He knows what's up and, really, he's a fucking blockade in the crease.

I never cared about improving the team before. That was the coach's job. The Captain's.

I blame my newfound optimism on Reece.

Warmth, wonderful and soft, greeted me past the blaring of my alarm clock this morning; set me up for a good mood. I can't remember the last time I woke up with a woman in my arms. Another truth: I like cuddling, light kisses, and the eucalyptus smell of her hair against my chest better than the concept of sex. Skin to skin, just having the right to touch her is incredible.

Too bad we had our first squabble last night. Not as friends, not as acquaintances, but as a couple. And she'd completely broken me.

She was right in her accusations about fighting and pain. Still, I couldn't condone her excuse for marring her own skin. Maybe it's controlling of me. Maybe I'm a shitty person for demanding that she cease the self-destructive behavior.

I'm just thankful that she fought back.

No more cowering.

"You love this team," Spencer continues, elbowing me in the ribs. "Don't pretend you don't."

"Fuck you." I sneer.

Spencer just chuckles. "No thanks. Blue and I have plans. She packed this swimsuit. Plus an assload of condoms."

My cock gives an unwelcome throb of acknowledgment, remembering the box and lacey lingerie that tumbled out of Reece's duffel bag. I thought I came prepared, but damn.

Spencer and I part ways, each heading to our now-separate hotel rooms. Reece is still snoozing when I key myself in. Not that I blame her. Last night was late between herding sheep and flushing razors. Not to mention confessing one of my own darker secrets to her.

Hurt me.

I shudder at the recollection.

Each day is a gift, not a given right. I've been raised my entire life to treat each moment like my last, revere what I have. Now, more than ever, there's someone I need to ensure is cherished and loved. I want her to understand what I see in her, what I want with us. That doesn't involve pain – just adoration.

I strip my t-shirt and sweatpants, prepared to get into my suit and tie for the charity luncheon. Some fundraiser for national head injury awareness. Great on paper, a drag in person. I can't even get buzzed, seeing as I have to play a game afterward.

Reece stirs, glances up at me where I stand in just my boxer briefs. Her eyes light with a bit of fire, looking damn sexy against her sleep-tousled bangs and over-large t-shirt.

"Oh, hello," she purrs, sitting up a bit straighter.

Because I'm a tool, I sway my hips and make a suggestive grab at my crotch. "Hello yourself."

I'm more than pleased when her gaze dips south. Longing flares and I feel it as a brand.

Skin aflame, I saunter forward. Sliding onto the bedsheets, I coax her chin up to meet my eyes. "We cool?"

Of course, I'm talking about our fight last night. I've never been great at shuttering my temper and I certainly didn't then. Except instead of ducking my ire, Reece had met it. Some sick part of me remains proud of that.

"Yeah, Killfeather." There's a brief flutter of hesitation before Reece matches my terse bro-tone. "We're cool."

I cage her with my body, one hand threading fingers into her hair while the other brushes her t-shirt aside and admires her tattoos. "Good."

She gasps. I pause, lurch up to meet her eyes worried I'm pushing too far too fast. Except I find no fear, just brazen eagerness to prove herself. A small hand comes to my nape, twists into my hair.

"Reagan." It's a heated moan against her neck. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

Instead of answering, my gaze drops down to her duffel bag. Somehow, I manage to disengage. Because if I let myself stay so close to her I'll miss the luncheon and the game. I don't know how much longer I can resist worshiping every inch of bare skin she gives me.

Picking up the strappy, lacy lingerie, I dangle it by my pinky in front of her face. "Is this for you?"

Twin stains of red perk on Reece's cheeks. "No!"

"Oh," I reply, drape the soft material against my torso. "Then it must be for me."

"Bas!" She shrieks.

Too late.

I already have the titty-holsters over my chest, my arms through the straps. No part of it fits and I don't attempt to latch the eyelets in the back, but I still make a valiant effort at a shimmy.

"Didn't know you were into this, Reagan," I tease. "Guys in lacy underwear? Kinky."

"Give it back!" Reece is equal parts hilarity and humiliation as she reaches for me. "You'll stretch it!"

"You like what you see?" I say in falsetto, posing for her.

"You could be a Victoria's Secret model!" She giggle-snorts

I enunciate with over-inflection. "Queen, puh-lease!"

Reece tackles me to the ground. We both collapse with mirrored puffs of shocked air. She strips me of the half-applied brassiere and makes a skillful toss back into her duffel. Before I can remark on how great her lateral aim is, she presses her mouth to mine in a tongue- and teeth-heavy kiss that leaves me hard and gasping on the floor of the hotel room.

"Damn," I groan when she lets me up for air.

She shushes me with a hand against my lips. "You have a charity lunch to go to."

I skim my piercing over the underside of her palm, pleased when I make her shudder. "Dinner. After the game."

Reece blinks. "What?"

"I owe you." I remind her as I loll my tongue along her middle finger. "Dinner, eh?"

"Oh," she gasps as my tongue twines around her digit, coils with the same suckling pressure I applied when first I tasted her. "You still want that?"

"Always," I groan against the smooth silk of her skin. "Wear the lingerie under your dress. Or hoodie. I don't give a fuck."

She arches a brow, that ferocious gleam returning. "Ask me nicely."

"Please." I grab her hips, grind my erection against her belly. Then, because I'm completely shameless, "Make me drop on my knees at your mercy."

That gets her. Her eyes fog, lips part, and nails clamp on my bare skin. "You really are a filthy boy."

"Absolutely." I moan in response.

**

Without Haart, we play like a dog walking on its hind legs. Our offense is lacking without his blitzkrieg style of nabbing first-touch and it shows. Debroski goads me into a fight when he slashes me in the second period and no amount of multisyllabic soliloquy deters the ref. I get a two-minute minor and seethe as the Kalamazoo Wings score not one, but two goals on Johnson on a power-play.

So much for a morale boost.

The third period doesn't tie us up and we lose the second game to Kalamazoo 2-0. It doesn't shake our standing in the division, but still undermines our confidence a bit. There are plenty of games left in the season, a lot of which will happen without Haart.

For once, I'm not troubled by a loss. After I shower and change, I evade the PR bullshit – nobody wants to interview the losing away team – and march to the hotel. My heart hums with delight, thinking of a quiet evening with just Reece and me.

"Sorry about the game." Reece purses her lips over her wine glass. "That Debroski guy is a dick."

I chuckle, place my hand over hers where we sit in the little booth of the hotel restaurant. Not exactly my ideal locale for a dinner date, but Spencer banned me from using the truck for the remainder of the trip. Besides, we're afforded more privacy from snooping media outlets.

Reece is in a black lace number totally inappropriate for the blizzard outside. Not that I'm complaining. The smoky eye she's rocking makes her look like some heroine from a 1950's gangster movie and those heels make her long legs even longer.

I do notice though, that her back remains entirely covered under a silk shawl, and her wrists are banded with an assortment of bracelets that clink when she moves. The dress, though short, falls just below where her scars are. Somehow, she's managed to hide everything she hates about herself. And everything I love.

"You're sweet," I murmur.

"Seriously." Reece huffs. "Having Spencer in the seats beside us? I thought he was going to hurl himself over the Plexi. Kaila counted at least four illegal checks on you. I, well," she looks a bit shy, "I just nodded along. Then that fight—"

I silence her with a quick, if not entirely appropriate, kiss. She tastes like red wine and lipstick, a delicious combination.

"Babe, we don't have to talk hockey," I reassure her. "I'm happy just being here with you."

Delicate fingertips trace the bruising along my jaw. Courtesy of Debroski. "You got hurt."

The shiver of delight is entirely involuntary. "I like it."

Those big brown eyes grow pensive.

I admire what a strange combination blonde hair and brown eyes is. I'm used to seeing blonde with blues. I like the edge it gives her appearance, thrill that I know just how hot they can get.

And she's talking to me.

"Huh?" I offer lamely, too lost in admiring the artwork of her face.

A slight flush comes to her cheeks. She takes a fortifying sip of wine before repeating. "Last night, when you asked me to hurt you instead of myself. You said it was different."

"It is." I drop my gaze, consider how to explain. "Have you ever heard the expression 'there's a fine line between genius and insanity'?"

She swallows thickly and nods.

I nod to the candle flickering between our wine glasses. Splaying my fingers, I toy with the flame, delight in the lapping sting its heat gives my fingertips. I watch her gaze track my movements, wait for realization to dawn.

"The same can be said for pain and pleasure." Claude described it to me once before, I try and repat the scientific jargon now. "Something about endorphins firing at similar stimuli and overly-sensitive synapses."

"So..." Reece starts, pauses, licks her lips. "What? You get off on pain?"

"Other things, too." I withdraw my hand from the candlelight, sip my wine. "The proper term is a masochist. Sometimes a sub."

That actually makes her laugh. "You? The tenacious hockey player is a submissive?"

I cock a brow. "I like to give people control – then make them lose control."

Her gaze darkens. "You're not...?"

Another sip of wine, then, "Not what? Scared?"

She gives a nod that is shy and curious all at once.

I shake my head, eager to teach. "In a healthy relationship, there's an understanding. There's communication and listening. Anyone I'm with will know my limits, know how much is too much, and know to stop before I'm seriously hurt beyond what I can handle."

Reece gives another pensive swallow. "How many people know what that is?"

I round my fingers, make a giant goose egg. "Nobody."

She emits an airy laugh. "How...? Why...?"

"I've never trusted anyone enough to offer it." I shrug. "Really, I thought I needed a shrink for a while. Until my sex-therapist older sister clued me in to a couple of things."

Now she laughs for real. "That's pretty convenient."

"Right?" I chuckle.

The waiter comes around to refill our wine and place our food in front of us. Somehow, I manage to stave off digging into my porterhouse and keep Reece's gaze across the table. I take another sip of my wine, make a slow lap over my lower lip in a way that ensures my tongue ring catches the light.

I like that it makes her eyes glow.

"Tell me you didn't like taking control." I challenge.

"I..." she shudders. "I don't know."

"Yes you do," I smirk. "You've just never been allowed – no – encouraged to embrace it before."

Reece fixes me with heated brown eyes. "Bas, I—"

"Tell me you didn't like marking my skin," I emit in a whisper-growl. "Tell me you didn't like giving me orders."

She makes an adorable little squeak. Her eyes, though, are all molten longing.

"Tell me," I rumble, "that you don't get off on making me beg for release."

"Bastien!" She slams her palms down on the table, peers around us like someone might be listening to our sordid little conversation.

"Don't lie." My lip curls. "It turns you on, doesn't it?"

Reece closes her eyes. Deliberately, she takes up her fork and knife, makes a calculated excision of her baked potato. Her jaw works as she chews, savors, swallows. After another mouthful of wine, she finally meets my gaze once more.

"Fine." She grits. "Maybe it does."

I chuckle. "Good."

She rolls her eyes, shoves her bangs out of her face. "Now what?"

"Now," I tuck into my steak. "We finish our dinner, enjoy a few more glasses of delicious vino." Lifting my gaze to hers, I smirk. "Afterward, we dip into that box of condoms you had the foresight to pack."

Her face burns brilliantly, and I can't suppress my smile.