Sweat covered her face, dripping into her eyes with a sting that made the breath hitch in her lungs. Taylor ignored the burning and kept pushing. Harder, faster, the puck cradled against the blade of the stick. She moved down the ice, spun and darted to the left then cut back to the right, darting away from Rachel Woodhouse. She heard the other woman mutter under her breath, calling her a bitch as Taylor left her behind.

Her lips curled in a cold smile, just a quick one as she pulled back with the stick and sent the puck flying. It hit the back of the net with a satisfying whoosh and Taylor smiled again.

No, it didn't count. The net was empty and this was nothing more than practice, but it still felt good. The sweat. The stretching and burning of muscles. The cut of blades slicing across the ice as her legs moved beneath her.

She was at home on the ice. Comfortable. Relaxed. It was where she belonged.

And it was exactly what she needed to work out her frustrations after yesterday morning, when she woke up.

Alone.

She circled around the net then leaned down and grabbed the puck. Her eyes darted to the left, resting on the solitary figure sitting on the bleachers. Her stomach did a slow roll when their gazes met and she looked away as heat rushed to her face.

Or maybe she had only imagined meeting his gaze. Maybe he wasn't looking at her at all.

And maybe she was the world's biggest fool for jumping into bed with him the other night. God, what had she been thinking? She didn't do things like that. Ever. She could count her limited number of partners on one hand—with fingers left over. And she had never had a one-night stand. Never ever.

Until the night before last with Chuckie.

What the hell was he doing here, anyway? No, he hadn't been fired—she had learned that this morning before practice started. But it was a Saturday morning. Shouldn't he be somewhere else, doing whatever it is he usually did?

Coach Reynolds blew the whistle and stepped out to the ice, waving everyone in. Taylor yanked her helmet off and headed toward center ice. Rachel slid up next to her, anger simmering in her blue eyes.

"You're not as good as you think you are, LeBlanc." Her voice was pitched low, laced with venom and dislike. Taylor clenched her jaw and did what she always tried to do: ignore her.

Rachel grabbed her arm, her grip a little too hard. "You shouldn't even be playing on this team, not after the embarrassment you caused the other night with the media."

Don't say anything. Don't say anything.

Rachel moved closer, her face only inches away, her mouth twisted in a sneer. "And you sure as hell don't deserve that C."

Taylor had seen that one coming. The only surprising thing was that it had taken Rachel this long to say anything. She had seen the woman's face this morning when Coach Reynolds had made the announcement, naming Taylor as Team Captain and Sammie and Maddison as Alternates. Rachel had been livid, her face turning an unbecoming shade of red. Taylor was surprised the woman hadn't thrown a hissy fit right then and there.

But Rachel was too smart for that. She would have drawn the ire of the coaching staff if she had said or done anything.

So why was she doing it now, when Coach Reynolds was watching them?

"Let it go, Rach."

"No. It's bullshit. We both know the only reason you're even on this team is because of your last name."

"Whatever." Taylor jerked her arm from the woman's grasp and started to move away. Rachel grabbed her again, spinning her around.

And snapping Taylor's last nerve.

She tossed her helmet and stick to the ice and moved forward, fast, shoving her shoulder into Rachel's chest. The move caught Rachel by surprise and she stumbled back, her arms pinwheeling for balance. Taylor reached out and curled her hand in the woman's jersey, catching her before she fell. Then she yanked Rachel forward until they were nose-to-nose.

"I'm on this team because I'm good. Damn good. I have no idea what the fuck your problem is but you need to get over it. We're supposed to be on the same fucking—"

The shrill blare of a whistle sounding in her ear interrupted her. Taylor glanced to the right, not surprised to see Coach Reynolds standing right next to them.

And she was pissed.

Taylor released her hold on Rachel's jersey and stepped back, her jaw clenched so tight that her back teeth actually hurt. Silence descended over the rink, thick and uncomfortable. Was everyone watching them? Of course they were. Why wouldn’t they be? They were squared off at center ice, looking like two combatants ready to tear each other apart.

Coach stared at both of them, her face a mask of anger and impatience—and disappointment. The silent scrutiny went on for so long that Taylor started fidgeting on the ice, anxious for Coach to dish out whatever punishment she was going to deliver.

"Laps. Both of you."

Rachel glanced over her shoulder then looked back at the coach. "But—"

"Now. I'll tell you when to stop." Coach spun around and walked away. Taylor muttered under her breath and retrieved her equipment from the ice. Rachel spun toward her, her face red with anger.

"This is all your fault, you stupid bitch."

"Whatever, Rach."

"I have somewhere I need to be."

"Then start skating."

"If it weren't for you—"

"You know something, Rach? I'm sick and tired of your attitude. Maybe if you learned to keep your mouth shut, shit like this wouldn't happen."

"But—" Rachel's mouth snapped closed as she blinked, then blinked again. And oh shit, was she getting ready to cry? It sure as hell looked like it.

Taylor hesitated. Rachel was too hard, definitely not the kind of woman to cry. Then again, she was the kind of woman who would stop at nothing to get her way.

Whatever. Not her problem. Taylor dropped the helmet onto her head then started moving around the boards, her stride long and steady and slow. Rachel finally moved in next to her, anger rolling off her in waves.

Coach's voice rang out across the ice. "Pick it up ladies. I want to see some speed in that stride."

Taylor groaned, the sound echoed by Rachel. She gritted her teeth and pushed forward, picking up her pace as she rounded the boards.

How many laps? How long before Coach took pity on them and let them stop? Five? Eight? Twelve? Taylor lost count, could focus on nothing more than putting one skate in front of the other.

On her chest, heaving to draw air.

On her legs, burning with fatigue.

On her eyes, stinging with the sweat dripping into them.

The whistle finally blew, ending the agony with one short blast. Taylor bent over at the waist, her stick braced against her legs, and glided to a stop. She wanted to drop to the ice and simply collapse but that wasn't an option—she needed to stretch. To cool down. To rehydrate.

But not yet, not when Coach stepped onto the ice and faced both of them, the expression of anger still clear on her face.

"Now do either one of you want to tell me what the hell is going on with you two?"

Taylor exchanged an uncertain glance with Rachel before they both shook their heads and answered in unison.

"No, Coach."

"You're both on the same team. I need you to remember that. And to start acting like it. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Coach."

"I've got enough to worry about without two of my players going at each other every chance they get." Coach Reynolds brushed the light brown hair off her face and leveled a biting glare at Rachel. "Woodhouse, get off your high horse and accept that LeBlanc is on this team because of her skill, not her name. Whatever petty jealousy is lurking inside that blonde head of yours needs to go away. Is that clear?"

Rachel slid a tense glance at Taylor, gritted her teeth, and nodded. "Yes, Coach."

Coach turned her anger on Taylor. "LeBlanc, I gave you that C because you deserved it. Don't make me regret it. Start acting like a leader. Understood?"

Taylor swallowed, the heat of embarrassment filling her already-flushed face. "Yes, Coach."

Coach stared at both of them for a long minute then finally stepped to the side. "Both of you, get out of here."

They both headed toward the door, their pace even until they reached it. Taylor sensed Rachel's hurry and moved to the side, letting her pass. The woman tossed her a glance, one filled with anger and worry, then pushed past Taylor and practically ran to the locker room.

"Gee, you're welcome." Taylor muttered the words under her breath and stepped off the ice, only to come to a sudden halt when Chuckie pushed away from the boards and stopped right in front of her. He held a bottle of water out in a silent offer.

Taylor almost walked right past him—she wasn't in the mood to deal with him right now, not after those grueling laps. But the water was too tempting to pass up so she grabbed it from his hand, uncapped it, and downed half in one long swallow. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand then gave him a curt nod.

"Thanks." She started to step around him but he moved, blocking her.

"Remind me to never piss off a coach."

"Yeah."

"You look beat."

"You think?" She shifted her weight from one skate to the other then blew out a deep sigh. "Was there something you wanted, Chuckie?"

"Just wondering if you wanted to grab something to eat."

"All I want to do is shower and pass out." She hesitated, frowning. "Alone."

Confusion flashed in his eyes. His brows lowered in a frown and he leaned closer. The frown turned into a grimace and he quickly stepped back. Taylor tried to swallow the laughter that threatened to break free but couldn't, not at the look of horror that crossed Chuckie's face when he realized what he'd done.

"Yeah, pretty ripe, huh?"

His face turned an even deeper red. "I didn't mean—"

"It's not a big deal. I'd do the same. Which is why I really need to hit the shower."

"And then we can grab something to eat?"

"Why?"

"What do you mean, why? Because you need food. And because I wanted to talk."

"About what? The other night?" A brief spurt of anger flared inside. "Or maybe about how you disappeared afterward?"

"I didn't—" He stopped midsentence, his mouth snapping shut at her frown. "Okay, I screwed up. You can beat me up for it over lunch."

"Not in the mood."

"Sure you are. You're just being stubborn."

"I don't want—"

"And after you beat me up, I have something I want to run by you."

"Not interested."

"Don't care. Go, hit the shower. I'll wait for you."

"Chuckie, I'm not going to lunch with you." But she was talking to air because Chuckie had already stepped around her, heading toward Coach Reynolds. Taylor hesitated then finally shook her head and started toward the locker room. Let him wait all he wanted. She still wasn't going with him.

Even if she was curious about what he wanted to run by her.