“So, you and Gwen put on quite a show at my engagement party last night.”

I’m flat on a bench press at the Blades’ training facility when I hear Beaumont’s wry remark. I don’t answer immediately. Hell, I don’t even know what to say because he’s right. Not only did Gwen and I put on a show, I lost my temper for the first time in what feels like forever. I never lose my cool, not anymore.

I learned impulse control around the time Northeastern recruited me and took me out of the shithole where I’d been surviving.

Still, staring down at Gwen’s pained expression as I lit into her . . . I hate that. I hate that I made her feel less than when I’ve been trying—for years, at that—to show her that she’s more than all that icy attitude she hands out like candy. I’ve seen glimpses to the woman underneath that hard shell of hers when she thinks no one is watching. I’ve seen her give without comment about how it might inconvenience her. Gwen tries damn hard to keep up the Ice Queen façade—is it wrong that I’m tired of trying to crack what I know is just a front?

Six years of doing the chasing with sporadic-as-hell glimmers of hope has worn me down.

I take a deep breath, preparing myself for my final push of the morning. Weight-lifting is my thing. Some people like cardio. Some people like sitting on their asses and working out their thumbs flipping TV channels. Me? It’s all about arm curls and dumbbells and bench presses. If I didn’t spend my days training for the Blades, I’d probably be one of those crazed CrossFit nuts.

Seems like my own slice of paradise.

Metal clangs against metal as I set the crossbar back on the rack. Then I swing myself into an upright position and meet my best friend’s gaze. If you believe the media, I’m the white light to Andre Beaumont’s dark shadows, the angel next to his Belial, the ball of sunshine next to his stench of sulfur.

The media knows shit.

Beaumont plays hard on the ice because it’s required of him. And, yeah, the guy hasn’t always been the most chipper fellow on the block, but the last eight months or so have done a lot to ease the bleakness from his black eyes. His girl Zoe has done that.

And last night, instead of playing up my special platter of sunshine and laughter, I let frustration get the best of me.

Me and Beaumont? We’re not as different as everyone would like to think. I’m just a lot better at hiding my demons behind a charming smile and a playboy lifestyle.

“I’m sorry about that, man,” I say, the only peace offering I’ve got. I could promise him my firstborn, but the way things are looking, I’ll be single for life. The models are great, but all those relationships are casual.

I’ve been hanging onto the thread of hope that one day Gwen James will look at me, reach for the zipper of my jeans, and say, “It’s always been you.”

Hey, a guy can dream, right?

Beaumont casts a quick glance at our teammates. We’ve been conditioning for an hour now. Every day playing for the Blades is somewhat the same. Early morning skate, followed by cardio, followed by weights. Most of the guys have got music blasting into their skulls via their headphones; a few lazy-ass stragglers are preening in front of the mirrors as they arm-curl an equally lazy-ass ten-pound dumbbell. Keep that up and they’ll be back on the farm team before the season even gets fully underway.

“Hunt,” Beaumont says, turning back to me after he’s apparently satisfied no one’s eavesdropping, “you made her cry.”

My stomach sinks, even as I force myself to maintain a neutral expression. “You’re delusional,” I mutter darkly. “Trust me when I say that Gwen James doesn’t cry.”

Wrong. She has, albeit two times.

I don’t blame her for either of them. That first situation six years ago tore her to shreds. It’d hurt to see her feel so strongly about another guy; it’d hurt even more to know that I’d had a hand in her humiliation. Just because it’d been an indirect hand didn’t change the outcome.

Tears were tears and hearts were shattered.

Gwen can play the indifferent card with everyone else, but for the length of Accounting 201, we’d become friends of a sort. Friends who met up for lunch and studied together. Unfortunately, “friends” is as far as we’ve ever progressed. Any attempts on my end to call her out on friend-zoning me, when it’s clear there’s an attraction on her end, have been shut down.

I bat Beaumont back with a wave of my hand so I can snag my Gatorade bottle off the floor by his foot. Popping the lid, I guzzle the blue liquid and try not to think of Gwen crying.

Damn. Can’t do it. Dropping the bottle to my knee, I scrub the heel of my hand across my mouth. “Did she actually cry?”

Beaumont shifts. Since he’s more mountain than man, the movement obscures my line of sight to our captain, Jackson Carter, who’s watching us both. Carter is a true vet: thirty-four years old. He came to us at the start of last season from the Dallas Stars. Appropriate, since the guy is “cowboy” all the way.

“Well,” Beaumont hedges, “she did look like she might cry.”

I lift my gaze to his. “But she didn’t?”

“Eh . . .” He points to his face. “There may have been a tear. Maybe two.”

I almost laugh. It’s just like Beaumont to try and make me feel better, even if it’s by way of making me feel like a dick first. More than anyone else on the team, he knows how much I want that woman. “Like I said, Gwen doesn’t cry. But thanks for making me feel like an asshole anyway.”

We wrap up the rest of training, completing our circuits, listening to Jackson Carter as he tells us to be prepared for our game against the New York Islanders in two days. It’s at home, which I definitely don’t mind—although not for the same reasons as everyone else. While my teammates have their family in the Friends-and-Family section of TD Garden, I’ve got . . . well, to put it bluntly, I’ve got no one.

Except for my older brother, who’s more likely to hit me up after the game in the hope for some cash. Since I’ve earned myself a solid spot on the first line during the last year, Dave has come to only one game.

He spent all three periods hitting on my teammates’ wives and girlfriends.

It was his first and only time sitting with the families. If he comes to watch me anymore, it’s not on my dime and I’m not aware of it.

After a quick shower, I pull on a pair of jeans, a worn Blades T-shirt, and my favorite leather jacket. Once everything is stowed away in my locker, I’m heading out the door. Usually I’ll catch up with some of the guys, maybe grab some lunch at this badass Italian place just around the corner from the training facility. I’m not feeling it today—between Dave hounding me for more money and the whole Gwen showdown from last night, the need to kick back with my teammates is nonexistent.

Nope.

Not today.

The air is frigid as I exit the arena, and my skin tightens like someone’s slid ice cubes down the ridges of my spine. Heading for my truck, I don’t notice the figure standing next to it until I’m feet away, jangling my keys against my leg and looking up from my cell phone.

I’d recognize that red hair anywhere.

What the hell is Gwen doing here?

My stride slows, and she must hear the tread of my heavy boots because she glances up from her phone with a strained expression. The loose curls of her hair are frizzier than normal. Even her clothes, which are usually perfectly tailored, look disheveled today.

Her slim, knee-length skirt is off-center, the row of buttons not aligning with her belly-button. Her flouncy shirt is half-tucked into the skirt. And, hell, the woman is wearing flats.

Gwen James is a stiletto kind of girl.

I haven’t seen her in anything else since Accounting 201.

Be casual, man.

Right. Be casual. How’s that even possible when all I want to do is muss Gwen up even more? With my fingers. My tongue. My cock.

I purposely slide my gaze down her trim frame, taking in my fill, before slipping my phone into the back of my jeans and cocking my head to the side. “Fancy seeing you here, Miss James.”

Her blue eyes flick away from my face, but I suspect the aversion has less to do with checking me out and more to do with hiding her flushed cheeks—a flush that has nothing to do with the chilly weather.

“Marshall,” she says somewhat stiffly, sliding her hands down the length of her skirt. “I was hoping to run into you.”

Had she? I squelch down a burst of pleasure, stomping the bastard hard into the ground. I’m done with the hope. I meant what I said last night. Shoving my hands into my jeans’ pockets, I tilt my head toward my truck. “Looks like you found me.”

The flush burns even brighter, and this time I know damn well the freezing temperature isn’t responsible.

“Yeah, I . . .” She visibly swallows, and I realize that I’ve never, not once, seen her so at odds. Gwen is the epitome of ice and class, a concoction that keeps her nose in the air and her true feelings wrapped up in steel walls.

But this Gwen . . . the messy, uncertain Gwen standing before me? Well, color me intrigued.

Wanting to push her a little more, I lift my brows in a show of deliberate patience. “You are . . .?”

Her red hair is shoved indelicately behind one ear. “I’m here.”

She’s pretty much told me nothing. I nod slowly. “Congratulations. You lookin’ for a trophy or something?”

White teeth sink into her bottom lip. I suck down a groan and force myself to stop thinking about those lips wrapped around my cock. Never gonna happen, that’s for sure.

“I, um.” Gwen shifts her weight, tucking one foot behind her opposite calf like she’s nervous to have me see her this way. “Listen, I . . . So, this is officially a lot harder than I thought it would be.”

I watch her expectantly, giving her nothing. Oh, how the tables have turned. Plus, I doubt she’s here for anything us related. If anything, she’s probably here on her boss’s bidding. Walter Collins has been trying to lock me down into hiring Golden Lights Media for a year now.

I’m not interested.

I’ve already signed on the dotted line for another firm—a firm, I might add, that took me on even when I was still on the farm team, when the Blades had yet to pull me up onto their official roster.

“Okay, okay.” Gwen shoots me a glare, like I’m the one at fault for her halted speech. I hear her mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, “I can do this,” and then she’s straightening her shoulders, thrusting her full breasts up and out, and announcing, “I’d like to take you up on that offer for our date. The date that I won from the charity auction last spring.”

Shock clamps my jaw shut.

But now that Gwen has opened the gates, proverbially speaking, she doesn’t stop. She steps to the side, head down, tucking her hair behind her ears. “I know that I sort of . . . you know, turned you down rather harshly. I’d told Zoe I didn’t plan to bet on you, and I know the money was going to first responders, but I just couldn’t . . . I mean, it’s never been about your looks.” She offers an awkward ha-ha, her blue eyes skirting up to my face before swiftly darting away again. “You’re handsome. And young. Oh, God, what I mean is—I already said that. The I mean thing, I mean. I just did it again.” Her eyes go wide as though begging me to end her misery.

I don’t.

Let the misery continue.

I fold my arms over my chest and keep up the mute act. I like this Gwen. Hell, I really like this Gwen.

She huffs out a heavy breath, repeating the tuck-the-hair motion again. There’s no more hair to tuck. It’s already been plastered behind her ears. But she’s nervous. For the first time in years, I think I may be witnessing Gwen James come undone.

Over me.

Does sweet justice actually exist? I think it does.

“So, yes, I turned you down repeatedly. That’s on me. I was going through . . . life? Yeah, we’ll go with life. But I listened to what you said last night, Marshall, and I realized that I’d like to go on a date with you. It’d be nice. I mean, I think it would be nice. We won’t know if we’re compatible until we go out or whatever. To be honest, I’m not even sure a relationship is the best thing. Does love even really . . . it doesn’t matter.” Her shoulders hike up, her flouncy shirt fluttering around her breasts.

Blue eyes meet mine, hopeful and nervous.

“Will you go on a date with me, Marshall?”

I stare down at her—the woman I’ve crushed on like an idiot teenager for half my adult life—and say the one word I never anticipated telling her.

“No.”