Accidentally Fudging the Beast

Chapter One

Dani

I f hell froze over, took over the North Pole, and then staffed it exclusively with athletic trainers and physical therapists, you'd have a pretty good idea of what the Chicago Wind's training facility looks like the day before Christmas Eve.

Festive red and green scream from every corner of the facility, with LEDs blinking like our Christmas souls depend on it. I just got here, and it's already giving me a headache.

But, as usual, we're out of ibuprofen. We're out of ice. And we're definitely out of regular creamer, because the entire team has, apparently, made it their personal goal to drink me into a lactose-intolerant rage.

Yay for me.

I balance a tray of homemade fudge between my hip and the sticky glass door to the PT suite, praying the edible stacked bricks don't slide off.

If they land on the floor, my eternal soul is landing in hell.

It's inevitable at this point. I did not slave over a burning oven and a recipe crafted in the pits of doom just to drop it now.

There's already a crowd on the other side of the door. Some of the guys are in team beanies and joggers. Some are still half-padded. One of the players, Colt Brisbane, is in nothing but compression shorts and a Santa hat, which is both anatomically impressive and emotionally scarring.

It's eight thirty in the morning, and I've had no caffeine. I am not mentally prepared for Colt—or not-so-little Colt—in compression shorts.

"Hey, Dani!" he shouts, waving at me.

I grunt a response as I pass by, too focused on not dropping the fudge to be polite. Somehow, I find a patch of counter not buried under athletic tape and set the fudge down, then suck in air precisely like a deranged woman who spent half the night cursing at an oven that runs ten degrees too hot.

I instantly regret my decision to practice deep breathing in here. It smells like ass.

I lean close to the fudge and inhale a big whiff to chase the ass stench.

So much better.

Honestly, if my new job as the team's glorified massage therapist doesn't pan out, I can always apply to be a contestant on The Great British Fudge-Off, right ?

I eye the massive batch of fudge and quickly decide I probably shouldn't risk it. I hate making fudge. But desperate times and all of that.

This qualifies.

Apparently, the whole organization does a thrifty Secret Santa every year—and I drew Sandra's name.

She hates everything. She's also the team's nutritionist, which means she'll probably sniff the fudge, groan that it's just so bad for her , and then immediately regift it to her carb-loading boyfriend.

But I did not spend a whole paycheck on Ghirardelli and then nearly singe off my own eyebrow just so her boyfriend can eat fudge in a locker room while doing hip thrusts.

Hell, no. I made this fudge for science.

If Trent Kirk—six-foot-three, beast of a hockey god—eats a piece of my fudge, I officially have at least one advantage over the models who haunt his DMs.

If he likes it, I get bonus points.

And if he asks for the recipe? Well, I will be writing that into my future wedding vows.

I have the whole wedding planned out already. He's shirtless and oiled up. I'm naked. There's a Jumbotron, and we're the only audience.

Best. Wedding. Ever.

"Frost!" A glove slaps my ass, and I almost faceplant into the fudge.

I whip around to see Ryan Clarke, one of the team's defensemen, grinning like a two-year-old who has just discovered the destructive potential of permanent markers. It's an apt description for the man. He's an overgrown terrorist with impulse control issues and a troublemaking reputation.

"Stop slapping my ass, Ryan," I growl, swatting him with an empty tape roll. "Or I'm swapping out your jock for one covered in jalapeno juice."

He just chuckles and shoulders past me, immediately plucking two squares of fudge off the plate.

"Sandra's gonna flip when you give her these," he says, shoving one in his mouth.

"Hold up," I say, gaping in disbelief. "How do you know they're for Sandra?"

"You drew her name."

"How do you possibly know that?"

He smirks at me. "The new girl always gets her name. It's tradition."

So much for Secret Santa being, well, secret.

"So you know they're for her, and you still just help yourself anyway?" I demand, hands on my hips in outrage.

He gestures at the plate, mouth full. "It's fudge, Frost. Did you really expect it to be safe in a room full of hockey players? "

He's not wrong. Every member of the team in the immediate vicinity is already lining up behind him like it's Black Friday at Best Buy, jockeying for their turn.

Typical.

Thank God I have Sandra's tray gift-wrapped in the car for this very reason.

Never trust food around an athlete.

Apparently, you can't trust Secret Santa around here, either.

Why am I not surprised that it's rigged? No one wants Sandra's name.

I peel off my jacket and hang it on the back of my office chair, which is two inches from the window overlooking the PT exam room.

I glance at my reflection in the glass and make a face.

Frizzy blonde ponytail, undereye circles not even Jesus can fix, and bright orange scrubs that make my curves look more like a traffic cone than anything.

Perfect. Just the vibe I wanted for my last pre-holiday shift.

My phone pings with a schedule update while I'm trying to tame my hair. The words "PT APPT – KIRK, TRENT" glare at me from the screen, sending butterflies into my stomach.

I immediately start sweating. It's not a gentle, delicate shimmer of sweat, either. Oh, no. This is a hot, sticky, armpit Niagara Falls. Awesome .

I don't even have to check the air vent to know the heat's cranked up to Hell Mode because the team plays better when it's warm .

I don't buy it. There's no way ass sweat is aerodynamic.

Trent is on my schedule more often than not these days. Which means I'm a sweaty, stuttering mess most days. He's a beast of a man with a smirk that's probably been outlawed in seven states.

I plop into my chair, trying to focus on updating some case notes, only to give up immediately and Google how to talk to hot people, instead. The Internet unhelpfully informs me that I should focus on being myself.

Thousands of years of human knowledge at my fingertips, and that's all I get. Clearly, the internet isn't aware that myself is a socially awkward, never-been-kissed virgin with no filter.

"Thank you for nothing, internet," I grumble, closing out of the browser before anyone sees it.

A thump rattles the glass above my head.

I look up to see Liz, one of the athletic trainers and my closest friend here, pressing her face against the window like a bored goldfish. She mimes eating and points to the fudge, then gives me a thumbs up. I flash her a grin before she disappears.

Behind me, there's a familiar scuffle as more players filter in and start roughhousing. I swear, the entire team's collective maturity level is stuck at frat house at two a.m . Individually, they're great. Together? I want to murder them daily.

"Look out!" someone shouts half a second before there's a loud crash.

I don't even have to look to know who's responsible.

Only two players have that particular stompy walk—Ryan, and the reason I even came into work this week instead of faking a mild flu: Trent Kirk, also known as my future husband.

I mean, if I ever figure out how to act like a normal human being around him, anyway.

I hear his rough growl before I see him. "Why the fuck are you standing in front of the door, Clarke? And is that fudge?"

I'm not sure if my heart or my ovaries react to the sound of his voice first. Both are embarrassingly enthusiastic.

"Didn't expect you to come busting in like the goddamn police," Ryan grumbles. "Frost, tell him to stop touching my fudge!"

I turn in my chair, trying to appear casual, and catch sight of Trent looming in the doorway.

God, he's perfect.

His dark beard is perfectly trimmed, his jaw as sharp as the blades on the skates looped around his broad shoulders.

Like always, his hair is a little wild, as if he's just run a hand through it…

which he probably has. He's wearing a too-tight long-sleeve t-shirt that leaves nothing to the imagination, and—oh, cool, my brain just blue-screened over gray sweats again.

Why is he so freaking gorgeous?

And why am I having a hot flash?

He sees me staring at him and his lips quirk up into his signature half-smirk before he saunters over to the plate of rapidly vanishing fudge. "Hey, Dani. Did you make these? Or did you just claim credit for someone else's baked goods?"

"I slaved over them," I say, which is only a little bit of an exaggeration considering the last two hours involved both a broken hand mixer and what is now an uninsurable kitchen. "If you're not on your best behavior today, I'll put a laxative in next year's batch."

Actually, I'm not entirely sure this year's batch won't have the same effect. But I probably shouldn't tell him that.

"I'm always on my best behavior," Trent smirks, and pops a tiny square of fudge into his mouth. I watch a little too intently as he chews thoughtfully before his lips quirk up again. "It's good."

Score one for Team Dani.

"Sandra's going to be so pissed," I whisper.

"Yep," he agrees, "especially when she realizes you loaded these with actual butter and not that fake plant bullshit she tried to convince me to buy last week." He wipes chocolate from the corner of his mouth, and my soul briefly leaves my body.

I have got to get it together around this man. He's just another player on the team. That's it.

Yeah, right.