Ice Cold Chemistry (Off the Ice #2)

Chapter One

First Stretch

Winnie

Three rules.

That’s all I need to survive the next six months.

One: No men.

Two: No shrinking myself for anyone.

Three: No repeating old mistakes.

I push through the glass doors of the New York Knights training facility with my yoga mat bag slung over one shoulder. The lobby is all glass and chrome, the particular gleam of organizations with more money than they know what to do with.

I’ve been here before—twice for interviews, once for paperwork—but today feels different. Today it’s real. Today I’m not a candidate. I’m the team’s new yoga instructor.

Holy dream job. Someone pinch me.

Dana Cross, the Director of Athletic Performance, meets me at the security desk with a warm smile and a lanyard. “Winnie. Welcome to day one.”

“Thanks. I’m happy to be here.” I loop the lanyard around my neck, my photo badge settling against my chest. It looks official. I look official.

“The training room is all set up for you,” Dana says as we walk. “The first session is at ten. That gives you about forty-five minutes to get settled.”

“Perfect.”

“Any questions before I leave you to it?”

About a thousand, but none I’m willing to voice.

“I think I’m good.”

“Great.” She squeezes my arm. “You’re going to do great. And if anyone gives you trouble, my door is always open.”

Something in her tone makes me pause, but she’s already heading down the hall before I can ask what she means.

The training room is bigger than I remembered—rubber flooring, good lighting, enough space for twenty-plus athletes to spread out. I take a slow turn, letting it sink in.

This is my fresh start. My new beginning. The first day of the rest of my life, or whatever inspirational poster nonsense applies here.

I think about texting Tori.

She’s been my best friend since college—we met freshman year when we both reached for the last slice of pizza at a dorm event and decided to split it rather than fight. We’ve been sharing things ever since: appetizers, secrets, and the occasional emotional breakdown.

She’s also the reason I have this job. She’s newly engaged to a Knight’s player and recently opened her own sports medicine clinic across town. She’s been so busy building her empire that I’ve barely seen her in weeks, but she still texts me approximately forty-seven times a day.

She’d want to know I survived my first morning.

Me: First official day. I have a lanyard and everything.

Tori: LANYARD PICS OR IT DIDN’T HAPPEN

I snap a selfie, making sure the badge is visible, and send it off.

Tori: Look at you!! Professional yoga goddess for an NHL team. The guys won’t know what hit them.

Me: That’s the goal. Sneak attack flexibility.

Tori: Text me after your first session. I want to hear EVERYTHING.

Tori: Also, Zayden says good luck and don’t let the idiots get to you.

I smile. Zayden Bishop—Tori’s fiancé, the team’s star right winger, and genuinely one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. I’ve only interacted with him a handful of times, but he treats Tori like she hung the moon, and that’s enough for me.

I check my reflection in the mirror along the wall.

Honey colored hair down and wavy around my shoulders, high-waisted black leggings, a fitted tank, and curves doing what they always do—existing whether anyone likes it or not.

I spent two years in oversized hoodies and T-shirts, convinced that covering up meant men would see my brain first. Spoiler: they didn’t. So now I dress for me.

I spend the next thirty minutes arranging foam rollers, testing the sound system, and giving myself no fewer than four pep talks in the mirror. By 9:45, I feel almost ready.

Then the players start arriving.

And—okay. Nobody warned me they’d be this big.

I knew hockey players were large. Intellectually. But there’s a difference between knowing something and having a six-foot-four wall of muscle walk through your door, followed by another one, and another, each bigger than the last.

I feel like a corgi at a Great Dane convention.

“You must be the new yoga instructor.” A guy with floppy brown hair and an easy grin makes a beeline for me. “Logan Palmer. And I gotta say, I’m suddenly very interested in flexibility.”

I maintain my professional smile. “That’s great. Flexibility is key for injury prevention.”

“Injury prevention. Right. That’s definitely why I’m here.” He winks.

Lord, give me strength.

“Why don’t you grab a mat?” I gesture toward the rows I’ve set up. “We’ll get started in a few minutes.”

He winks again—this guy really needs to work on his material—and saunters off to claim a spot in the front row.

Harmless. Annoying, but harmless. I’ve dealt with worse.

More players filter in. The room fills with the low hum of conversation and the energy of men who are used to being the center of attention. I scan the group, mentally matching faces to the roster I studied last night.

Archer Lockwood, the goalie, claims a spot in the back corner and immediately lies down like he’s preparing for a nap. Zayden catches my eye and gives me a small nod of encouragement. A few others I don’t recognize fill in the gaps.

No sign of Banks Callahan—the intense defensemen known for his temper. Dana mentioned that he doesn’t do group sessions. “He’s particular,” she’d said, in the same tone you might use to describe a cat who only drinks from the faucet.

Fine by me. One less intimidating presence to worry about.

By ten, the room is full. Twenty-something professional hockey players are arranged on yoga mats, looking at me like I’m about to make them do something embarrassing.

Which, to be fair, I am.

“Good morning, everyone.” I project confidence I don’t entirely feel. “I’m Winnie Garrett, your new yoga instructor. I know some of you might think yoga is—”

“Sexy,” someone mutters, and there’s a ripple of laughter.

I push on. “—not relevant to your sport. But flexibility work prevents injuries, improves recovery time, and can actually increase your power output. So.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s start with some basic hip openers.”

I move through the first few stretches, walking the room, making corrections. Most of the guys are trying, even if they’re comically inflexible. Logan keeps “accidentally” needing help with his form. I handle it.

Then I get to the middle of the room.

There’s a guy lounging on his mat like it’s a throne, making zero effort to follow along.

Dark hair, smug smile, the face of a guy who’s never once been told no and has built a whole personality around it.

I mentally flip through the roster I studied last night.

Grayson Reed. Rookie forward. The one with the Instagram following and the reputation for partying.

“Everything okay?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

“Just enjoying the view.” His eyes travel slowly from my legs to my chest before reaching my face. “Gotta say, when they told us yoga was mandatory, I didn’t realize it came with… perks.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” I keep moving. Don’t engage. Don’t give him the reaction he wants. I breathe in and release the breath slowly.

“It is a compliment.” He sits up, leaning back on his hands. “Do you do private sessions? Because I’ve got some positions I’d love to try—”

“That’s enough.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended. The room goes quiet.

Grayson’s eyebrows rise. “Whoa. Relax. I’m just joking around.”

“I’m here to do a job.” I meet his gaze steadily, even though my heart is hammering. “If you’re not interested in participating, that’s fine. But I’d appreciate it if you kept the commentary to yourself.”

He holds my stare for a beat. Two. Then he smirks and shrugs. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart? The word lands like a slap.

I want to say something. I want to put him in his place, make him feel as small as he’s trying to make me feel. But twenty-plus players are watching, and this is my first day, and I can’t afford to make a scene.

So I smile tightly and move on. “Next stretch, left leg extended, right ankle crossed over the left knee.”

The rest of the session passes in a blur. I go through the motions, making corrections, offering encouragement, but part of me is somewhere else entirely. Grayson doesn’t say anything else, but I can feel him watching me. That smug smile never quite leaves his face.

When I finally dismiss the group, the players file out faster than I expected. A few offer polite thanks. Most avoid eye contact.

Zayden lingers by the door. “Hey. You okay?”

“I’m fine.” The lie comes automatically. “First day jitters.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he nods. “Reed’s an ass. Don’t let him get to you.”

“I won’t.”

He gives me one last look—concerned, maybe, or maybe just awkward—and then he’s gone too.

I wait until the room is empty before I let myself exhale.

This is fine. It was one guy. One comment. I handled it. I shut him down. It’s over.

Except it doesn’t feel over. It feels like the beginning of something that might become a thing. A thing I don’t want.

I grab my phone and text Tori before I can talk myself out of it.

Me: First session done.

Tori: AND?? How was it??

I stare at the screen. I should tell her. She’d understand. But she also has her clinic now. Her new life. A wedding to plan. She doesn’t need to worry about me.

Me: Good! The guys are hilariously inflexible. Going to have my work cut out for me.

Tori: Ha! Give them hell. Drinks soon to celebrate?

Me: Definitely.

I pocket my phone and start collecting the foam rollers, stacking them in neat rows.

My reflection catches in the mirror along the wall. I look the same as I did this morning. Professional. Put together. Like someone who has her life figured out.

Day one, I remind myself. It’s just day one. It’ll get easier. Besides, this is my fresh start, and I’m not letting anyone take it from me.

I take a breath, square my shoulders, and get back to work.