Tyler bent low, moving his stick from side to side across the ice. Metal rang behind him, two quick taps on either side as he hit the pipes with the blade of his stick. Not once. Not three times: twice. Every time. He straightened, rolled his shoulders and neck, took a deep breath and crouched low, getting into position.

Concentrate. Focus. Follow the pucks as they careened toward him. Left. Right. Right again, higher. He caught one midair, tossed it to the side, batted another one away with his stick. Another one shot toward him, catching him in the chest before he could react.

Tyler swore, stood to his full height, and pushed the mask back on his head. "What the fuck are you doing? You're supposed to be warming me up!"

"Yeah. Sorry." Jason slid to a stop in front of him, his gaze narrowed on something at the other end of the ice. No, not something. Someone. Tyler reached out with his stick, tapped Jason on the leg to get his attention. The other man turned to look at him, his eyes slowly focusing, as if he just now realized Tyler was standing there.

"Are you trying to take me out?" Jason's shot had been hard, a hell of a lot harder than a warm up shot should have been. But the man looked oblivious. Distracted.

More distracted than usual as he shook his head, frowning.

Tyler followed his gaze, wondering who he was looking at. The only people at the other end of the ice were the players from Bridgeport, warming up in their own zone before the start of the game.

"Can't stand that fucker."

Tyler turned back to Jason, curiosity overriding his own caution. He tossed a glance at the bench to see if Coach Torresi was watching them. No, not right now. He was huddled together with Coach Richards and Coach Kroncke, all three of them focused on the clipboard in Torresi's hand. Tyler leaned closer to Jason, nudged him with his stick one more time.

"Which one? Who are you talking about?"

"Krasnoff. The dirty fucker."

"What about him?"

Jason finally looked at him, his eyes widening then narrowing, as if he just realized Tyler was talking to him. He shook his head, frowned, shook his head again.

"I just don't like him. Don't need an excuse."

Tyler rolled his eyes then skated back to the net. That was Jason, always sputtering nonsense. "Yeah, whatever."

"He's an asshole."

"Fine. He's an asshole."

"I should have punched him when he dumped Jenny."

Tyler stumbled, nearly lost his balance, caught himself on the top bar of the net before he fell to the ice. "What?"

"You heard me. I should have clocked his ass when he dumped Jenny."

"Your sister? That Jenny?" No way. Jason had to be talking about someone else. He couldn't be talking about—

"Of course my sister. What other Jenny is there?"

"She, uh, she went out with Krasnoff?"

"Yeah. A little more than a year ago. She doesn't know I know, though."

"Your sister? With Krasnoff?" Tyler couldn't keep the surprise from his voice. He looked down ice, his gaze narrowing on the hulking form of the big Russian. The man was an asshole, nothing more than a big goon with as bad a reputation off the ice as on it. Jealousy speared him, quick and biting. He shook it off, tried to put it out of his mind. Tried to tell himself it didn't matter. It didn't. It shouldn't. So what if Jenny had dated the goon? She was entitled to her past, just like everyone else. Hadn't he told her that? He didn't care about her past, didn't care about what she may have done.

But Krasnoff?

An image flared to life in his mind. Jenny, straddling the big Russian, her head tilted back, mouth parted as her chest rose and fell with quickening breaths. Fuck. Fuck. No. Fuck no. No way. He could not think like that, couldn't even let those images enter his mind.

Her past wasn't his business. Just like his past wasn't her business. It was the past, as in past tense, as in not now.

Don't think about it. Don't picture it. Push it away.

But Krasnoff?

"Hey, you okay?"

"What?" Tyler choked on the bile creeping up his throat, tried to force it back down as he faced Jason. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, fine."

"You sure? You look a little weird."

"Yeah. Fine. I just—" He snapped his mouth closed and shook his head, swallowed again.

"If you say so." Jason sent one last look to the other end of the ice then heaved a sigh. "Can't stand the fucker. No idea what the fuck she saw in him."

Tyler nodded, unwilling to trust his voice. Jason didn't pick up on his struggle because he kept talking, as if Tyler wasn't even there.

"Maybe it wasn't really him. Maybe it was just because he's a hockey player."

Tyler couldn't believe his ears, couldn't believe Jason had just said what he did. He choked, his last breath lodged in his throat, strangling him. He coughed, sucked in another breath, managed to get out one hoarse word. "What?"

"Jenny has a thing for hockey players. Why the hell do you think I don't want her around you guys?" Jason frowned, leaned closer to Tyler. "Are you okay, man? You look a little pale."

Tyler's hand tightened around the stick, his grip damn near hard enough to snap it in two. "You're a fucking asshole."

"What? What the hell did I say?"

"You just called your sister a fucking bunny."

"No I didn't."

"Just about."

"I said she had a thing for hockey players. Not the same thing."

"Might as well be, with that damn look on your face."

Jason skated closer, anger flashing in those pale blue eyes. Tension sparked between them, lightning quick and just as dangerous. "I said she had a thing for hockey players. I didn't say she was fucking them."

"Jesus Christ. What the fuck? Are you even listening to what's coming out of your fucking mouth? You don't talk about your sister like that. You're a—"

Jason moved closer, his stick held in front of him. "What the fuck is it to you?"

Tyler slid toward him, the toes of his skates damn near touching Jason's. The other man leaned forward, pushed against Tyler with his stick. But Tyler had been expecting it, had braced himself and pushed back, hard. Hard enough that the other man stumbled and damn near fell. Anger flashed in his eyes. He pulled back with his arm and Tyler braced himself for the swing he knew was coming. Let him. Just once, that's all Tyler needed before he let loose—

The swing never came. Bodies pushed between them, separating them with low words of sharp warning. Tyler pushed away from Harland, moving back a few steps. Each breath ripped from his lungs; heated blood zinged through his veins with each thunderous beat of his heart.

"What the fuck is going on with you two?" Harland's voice hissed with fury as he glanced between the two of them. Tyler shook his head, rolled his shoulders in an effort to ease the tension knotting his neck and back. He kept his voice low, his gaze never leaving Jason's.

"Nothing. Not a damn thing."

"Whatever the fuck it is, save it for the game. You don't pull this shit here, not now." Aaron's voice was just as low, just as dangerous. Steady, warning. Jason nodded, nothing more than a jerky motion of his head, then turned and skated away, Aaron right on his heels. Harland stayed where he was, his eyes fixed on Tyler.

"What the hell was that about?"

"Nothing. Don't worry about it."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, positive."

"Bullshit." Harland glanced over his shoulder then looked back at Tyler. "Whatever the fuck it was, save it for later. Got it?"

"Yeah, fine. Whatever." He pulled his gaze from Harland's and moved back to the net, trying to get back into his pregame routine. But his gaze kept moving to the other end of the ice, following Krasnoff as he warmed up.

Was he the one?

The timeline fit, if what Jason said was true. Had Jenny actually dated the goon? But why?

Tall, broad. A mediocre player. Nothing exceptional about him as far as Tyler was concerned.

The image of Jenny straddling the big Russian came back to him in stunning detail. Full lips, parted with passion. Stunning blue eyes, glazed with desire. Jenny, her head tilted back, her hands roaming over every inch of her sensual body as the big Russian drove his cock into her tight heat.

Tyler groaned, the sound harsh and wounded. He bent over, swallowing against the bile burning its way up his throat. Anger rushed over him, stealing his breath, making it hard to breathe. No, this was more than anger. This was fury in its finest form, undiluted and powerful and raging. And close on the heels of the fury was jealousy, primal and just as powerful.

Dammit. Fucking dammit.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his stick resting on his knees, and struggled to pull in deep breaths. He needed to get the images from his mind, needed to banish the jealousy tearing him apart. He told Jenny he didn't care about her past. He shouldn't care. He shouldn't be feeling this insane jealousy. This anger. This pain.

But he did. And fuck, it was tearing him apart, shattering shit inside him he didn't know existed.

Was it Krasnoff? Was he the one who had taken the pictures and passed them around? Did he still have them? Still look at them?

Fuck. The air was too cold, each breath a frigid slice to his lungs. Stop. Just stop.

But he couldn't stop, couldn't banish the images. Couldn't banish the jealousy.

Then think of something else.

He kept his eyes closed, willed his mind to empty. Called on every bit of his training to replace the horrifying images flashing through his mind.

Jenny's body, soft and warm against his.

Jenny's voice, filled with magic as she whispered in his ear.

Jenny's laughter, light and contagious as she relayed tales from her job.

Jenny. Just Jenny, so open and trustful as they cuddled together on his sofa, doing nothing but being.

His pulse slowed, each breath coming easier as the horrifying images slowly faded away.

Jenny. His Jenny. Her past didn't matter. What mattered was their present. Their future. Yes, their future. That's what he wanted: a future with Jenny. Nothing else mattered except that.

He pulled one last breath deep into his struggling lungs then straightened. His gaze drifted to the other end of the ice, searching for Krasnoff. There, leaning against the boards, his face pressed close to the glass.

Right where Jenny was sitting.

Tyler was going to fucking kill him.