I was sure I looked like a pig, but it was so good. Dante didn’t seem to mind; his victorious smirk widened every time I chose a bite over a question. Finally, after sampling each delicious dish on the table, I wiped my mouth and met his glittering eyes.

“So, what’s the real story, Mr. Drake?”

“Please, call me Dante.”

“Only if you call me Livia.”

“Deal.” He smiled that delicious smile. “Anyway. The story. No, hold on. Before I start, let me tell you a few things about Joel so you’ll have some context for all this.”

“Wow,” I said, feeling my eyebrows raise high. “A rivalry which requires context. I am intrigued.”

He grinned into his plate for a moment, then put on a serious expression.

“How much do you know about hockey?” he asked.

I chewed slowly for a moment, choosing my words carefully. After a moment, I decided to be honest.

“Everything I know about hockey I learned in twenty-two minutes on the internet yesterday morning.”

He blinked at me for a second, then threw his head back in laughter. I smiled demurely, patiently waiting him out.

“I’ve never met a sports writer who didn’t know sports,” he said with mirth in his eyes. “How’d you land the job?”

“The Crier didn’t want just another sports article,” I told him. “They wanted to get to know you and Palmer.”

“They? Or you?” he asked, his eyes twinkling dangerously.

“Do I have to choose one?”

His grin widened, and he licked sauce off of his bottom lip, sending quivers through my core.

“Even with just that, you should have some idea of how dangerous hockey can be,” he continued. “Practice isn’t just important—it’s vital. One wrong move on the ice and you’re in for knee surgery or stitches. We have to be in perfect sync. My team has been working hard together for so long that we’re practically telepathic. We know what to do—and what our teammates will do—in just about any scenario.”

“Do you drill for every potential scenario?” I asked.

“Not until we get a psychic on our team,” he teased. “We can’t know everything that’s going to happen in advance. What we can and do know is how our teammates will respond to things. It’s not really about what to do, more like…how to decide what to do. Does that make sense?”

“I think so,” I said, taking a sip of wine. “You’ve trained each other to think the same way when you’re on the ice, to process information the same way.”

“Exactly,” he replied. “But what happens to that coherent strategy when someone just decides not to participate?”

“As in, doesn’t show up to practice, or can’t figure out how to think?”

“The first one,” he said, rolling annoyance off of his tongue. “If you don’t show up to practice, you don’t learn how to think. If you don’t learn how to think, you’re just gonna be out there, putting your team at risk so you can be the star of the show.” He shook his head in disgust.

“How does the coach feel about this?” I asked.

“Like he doesn’t want to cross Joel’s agent,” Dante said darkly. “They’ve got big plans for that screw-up kid. But I would bet money that he washes out of the league long before they get the kickbacks they’re dreaming about.”

“Really? I thought he was a good player?”

Dante shot me a wry look. “The best player in the world would wash out if he didn’t learn to sync with his team. Frankly, I don’t know how the kid made it through peewee hockey without getting tossed out on his ass.”

“So, you think he’s irresponsible…”

“Recklessly irresponsible.”

“That seems a bit strong.”

Dante turned his palm over, searching the ceiling for the words to say.

“It isn’t just that he’s missing practice,” he explained. “It’s why he’s missing practice. He parties, and he parties hard. He could give an entire fraternity a run for their money. If he did show up, he would show up hungover and get himself seriously injured or worse.”

Dante shook his head disapprovingly and took a bite.

“How does that affect your rivalry?” I asked.

He shrugged. “It drives it, to a certain extent. If he wants to win, he’ll need to get his head in the game. If he doesn’t, well…” He grinned wickedly, his brilliant eyes glittering. “It’ll be fun to knock him down a peg or five.”

I laughed at his obvious pleasure. When I looked at him again, his eyes were lingering on my neckline. I casually rolled my shoulders back, leaning forward ever so slightly, a sultry smile twisting my lips. When he glanced up at my eyes, I could almost see the electricity in the air.

“You don’t sound too worried about him,” I observed, cocking my head to the side. “Everybody seems to think that he’s going to overtake you as the star of the team.”

“Not a chance,” Dante said with a cocky twist of his lips. “Not with the way he lives. He’ll burn out in a year, hang in there for another season or so, and disappear. I’ve seen it before. You’re either dedicated to the sport, or you aren’t, and that is the single most important difference between success and failure. A player’s body is his tool, and it needs to be cared for even in his down time.”

“What do you do in your down time?” I asked. “We know Palmer parties. I know a few of the other players are active in different areas—I stumbled across Krushnic’s charity page. Are you all hockey all the time, or…?”

He chuckled softly. “Hockey is my work. I’m passionate about it, but I can’t let it define me. I’ve seen too many legends fall without a stick to lean on. I spend my downtime appreciating life.”

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear.

“Tasting a bit of everything that life has to offer.”

His touch sent shivers through my body. The delicious Thai food before me suddenly paled in comparison to the promise of carnal dessert in the air.

“And what are your favorite flavors?” I asked suggestively.

“The obvious, of course,” he acknowledged, trailing his fingers over the back of my hand. “And also books. Literature is an incredible tool. To be able to wrap truth in fiction…it’s almost like the authors map out new connections in their readers’ brains, open them up to see the world in a new light, without ever letting them know what’s happening.”

“I never thought about fiction that way,” I admitted, surprised at this intellectual side of him. “Words are powerful; that’s why I’m drawn to them—but I’m no good with fiction.”

“Oh, I think you could be,” he said with an assessing look.

I smiled a little, my own confidence swelling slightly with his compliment.

“What else do you like?” I asked.

He grinned at the table, looking almost embarrassed. I found the contrast of that look on his powerful, macho body endlessly attractive, and I shifted my legs under the table to brush my calf against his.

“I enjoy opera,” he said quietly. “And plays. I go out dancing whenever I have the opportunity.”

“To clubs? Which ones?” I asked, wondering if I might have seen him before.

“Oh, no,” he said, his expressive face exhibiting distaste. “I gave up clubbing years ago. No, I go down to the old Dancehall Revival. Ballroom, swing, Latin dance, that kind of thing. Better music, better lighting, and better people. Granted, most of the women who go are either old enough to be my mother or young enough to be my daughter, so it’s not much of a help to my love life.”

“Then why go?” I asked.

“To dance,” he said simply. “Have you ever danced like that?”

I had to think about it for a long moment. Sure, I’d danced plenty—awkward high school dances and girls’ nights out in bars and clubs…but ballroom dancing?

“Once,” I said finally, nostalgia settling on my face as the memory surfaced. “When I was about nine years old. My dad’s friend got married, and there was this huge dance floor at the reception.

“This old man—I mean, he seemed old to me, but he was probably in his mid-fifties—was dancing with everybody. I was bored and energetic from too much cake, and demanded to dance with him.” I laughed at the memory. “Poor guy spun me around the floor for three songs before my dad rescued him. I’d almost forgotten.”

“I would love to remind you sometime,” he said, lifting my hand from the table and pressing it to his lips. “A woman like you deserves to be spun.”

Depth, class, and charm. He was surprising me more with every sentence, exciting my mind along with my body. I wanted more of him in every way, but when he slid his hand down to lightly tease the tender skin on my wrist, the primal need took priority.

I suggested we call for the check.