Puck Off, She's Claimed

Chapter One

Cara

Igrew up watching hockey with my dad and brother, so taking the job covering the Houston Lonestars was a no-brainer. But my boss forgot to mention that my workday would begin promptly at ass o'clock in the morning, on the opposite side of Houston.

It's not an ideal situation, but I'm an optimist. At least, I try to convince myself that I'm going to turn into an optimist the entire way to the arena.

By the time I make it across the city, the sun isn't even up yet, and my internal pessimist has not agreed to this new status quo. She wants coffee and her bed. She's also not entirely convinced I'm prepared to take on a team of professional athletes by myself.

But I've gotten good at ignoring her in favor of my delusions, so I drag myself into the arena anyway, fully prepared to grill Coach Mitch on what to expect from the team for the season.

My notebook is full of questions I want to ask.

My phone is fully charged and ready to go. For once, my hair is cooperating.

I've got this.

"What the fuck?" I stumble to a stop inside the arena, blinking all around. The place is empty. As in, I'm the only one here.

So…maybe I don't have this.

"Where is everyone?" I pull out my phone to check the schedule, though I'm positive I didn't get the day and time wrong. I didn't. Practice started at five this morning at the practice arena. That's here…now. "Weird."

I assumed the lot was empty because the team parked somewhere else. Maybe I was wrong about that?

I shove my phone back into my pocket, glancing around. The practice arena is a lot smaller than the Toyota Center, but it's nice. Murals are painted on the walls, with spectator bleachers arrayed on the opposite side of the ice.

I hesitate for a long moment and then decide to cut across the ice to reach them. Might as well get comfortable to wait. The team has to show up for practice sooner or later, right? Right.

I tiptoe out onto the ice like I'm doing something wrong.

Am I? No clue. Maybe walking on the ice in street shoes is a mortal sin akin to walking on Madame Tulane's floor at the dance studio where I tried—and epically failed—to learn ballet as a kid.

But if the Lonestars didn't want me walking across the ice, they really should have put the visitors' entrance beside the bleachers.

My feet slip.

Okay, so maybe cutting across the ice is a bad idea.

I decide to stick close to the boards, keeping one hand firmly planted against the wall as I slowly circle around. By the time I'm halfway, I'm out of breath from concentrating so hard. Walking the long way would have been easier. And safer.

One day, I'm going to learn to stop taking shortcuts.

They never work in my favor. Like the time I decided to troop through the woods because I thought it'd be faster than walking all the way around campus to my apartment.

You know who troops through the woods? Psychos, serial killers, and big ass bears, that's who.

I got lost, almost eaten by a bear, and rescued by a man who I'm pretty sure was friends with both Davy Crockett and Jack the Ripper at different points in his ancient history.

He asked if I wanted to see his collection of teeth.

They weren't animal teeth, I'm sure of it.

Zero stars, would not recommend.

"Hey! Watch ou—"

"Oof!" A ton of bricks slams into me, smashing me against the boards. My feet slip and slide, my hands grasping for purchase. I find it…but it isn't the boards I grab. Oh no. It's a jersey. Currently attached to a man.

"Jesus," a deep voice growls half a second before massive arms wrap around me, flattening me.

My face presses into his hard chest, my nose grinding against the bottom edge of a hard shoulder pad.

All I smell is sweat, laundry soap, and spice.

All I feel is the frantic thudding of my own heart and the heat of his giant ass body engulfing mine.

Where the hell did he even come from?

"Where did you come from?" he asks as if I'm the one who snuck up and flattened him, his voice dangerously close to my ear.

Goosebumps rise all over my skin, and I'm not entirely sure if they're because I like his voice, because he's too close, or because there's a frisson of heat working where one most definitely should not be working.

"Get off," I grumble, trying to shove him off me. All I manage to do is slip and slide again. I grasp for the boards, making sure I grab the wall instead of him this time, and then pull away, straightening to… Good lord. I blink instead of glare.

Phoenix Michaud is gorgeous in his photos. Up close and way too personal, he's even worse. Better. Whichever means he looks like he was invented just to test the celibacy vows of women and gay men the world over.

He towers over me, all six-foot-something of him in a jersey and gear, a wicked smirk dancing on his full lips.

Stubble covers his square jaw, something deep and beautiful lurking in his dark blue eyes.

He's a younger, slightly smaller version of his father, Jonas Michaud, a hockey great who retired two decades ago.

Like his dad, Phoenix is one of the best in the league. He's a workhorse with no quit and a stellar reputation. I've always wondered if he works as hard as he does to live up to his dad's name or if that's just who he is. Maybe now that I'm reporting on the team, I'll get the opportunity to ask.

I don't think now is the time, however. I have more pressing questions. Namely…why is he so damn big? And why is he grinning at me like that?

I hear movement behind us, but it doesn't really register. All I can focus on is the giant in front of me. He really is unfairly beautiful.

"Chase the Bunny isn't an on-ice activity, sweetheart," he drawls, his eyes flicking up and down my body. "That usually happens later."

Oh, gross.

Maybe I overestimated how true those reports about his reputation actually are.

I draw up to my full height, which, let's be honest, isn't that impressive standing next to a giant, and cross my arms to glower at him. "First of all," I growl, furious, "I'm not a puck bunny. Second, I wasn't running from you for you to chase. I was crossing the ice. Third, gross."

His grin widens, sexy little lines appearing around his mouth. "Point taken. You good?"

"No."

"Shit." His smile slips, his eyes widening. "I hurt you?"

Well, now I feel a little bad because he's genuinely distressed by the idea, worry carved into the deep furrow between his brows. And I'm not hurt, only annoyed.

"No," I grumble. "You didn't hurt me. You skated into me."

"You were standing on the ice," he reminds me as the noise behind us grows, alerting me to the fact that the rest of the team has arrived.

They don't do it quietly. The hum of their voices and the clack of skates and sticks ricochet throughout the arena. Oddly, none of them bother us, either, like they aren't the least bit curious who I am or what's happening here.

"Crossing the ice, Michaud. I was crossing the ice. Do you not watch where you're going?"

I'm not sure why that makes him smile again, but it does. "You know who I am."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Cocky, aren't we?"

"No, just impressed." He leans against the boards, still staring at me in a way that's making me uncomfortably hot. Maybe I'm going into early menopause. It can happen at twenty-five, right? "A beautiful woman knows who I am."

I stare at him for a full three count and then roll my eyes before pulling out my notebook to jot a note.

"What are you doing?" he asks, curiosity in his tone.

"Making a note."

"What kind of note?"

I don't answer until I finish writing and then turn it around for him to see.

"Phoenix Michaud," he reads, "cocky, arrogant, and full of shit. Hits like a freaking truck. His dad is hotter." His deep laugh booms across the ice, echoing off the walls. "What the fuck is this?"

"Notes," I say, tucking the notebook back into my pocket. "So I know what to say about you when your name comes up in my first article about the team."

His eyes light up. "You're the new reporter we were warned about."

I came with a warning? Nice!

"That's me. Now, if you'll excuse me…" I try to step around him, but he blocks my path, still grinning like a madman.

"What's your name, gorgeous?"

"It's not that," I grumble.

"Tell me."

"If I tell you, are you going to move?"

"Tell me," he says again.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're annoying?"

"A few times." He cracks another smile. Maybe he's been concussed a few times too many.

It's decidedly unnatural to be this happy this early in the morning.

Is he always like this? I run through everything I've read about him, but there was nothing about him being a weird little ray of sunshine.

"You going to answer my question, or do I need to hit like a freaking truck again? "

"Cara Oliver," I mutter, giving up, not because I'm convinced he'll flatten me again, but because he's going to learn my name either way. It's not like my identity is a state secret or anything. If giving it to him gets him out of my way, I'll play along. "You can move now."

"I have a better idea."

"Of course you do," I sigh, tipping my head back to look up at him. "Let's hear it then."

"You can go out with me tonight," he says, "to make up for the mean things you're going to write about me in your first article about the team. My pops is absolutely not hotter than me."

"Oh, absolutely not!" I cry, my voice louder than intended. That's not my fault. He's shameless, and it's a little shocking. Does he hit on everyone like this? I haven't heard a single rumor about him, but the answer is probably yes. I don't know why that annoys me, but it does.

"Why not?"

"I don't date hockey players," I growl.

"Why the fuck not?"

Truthfully, there is no reason. It's a new rule, established approximately thirty-nine seconds ago. But it's a good rule, and he doesn't need to know when it was created. That's my business.

"Because I'm here to do my job. That's it," I say, my tone final.

"Well, that's a pity," another voice drawls from somewhere behind me.

I whip around to find Corey Simms skating toward us, a cocky smirk on his face.

Like Phoenix, Corey is hot, but in an all-American sort of way.

Messy blond hair, deep green eyes, and dangerous dimples.

Unlike Phoenix, he isn't a star anywhere except his own mind.

He's a decent skater, but he isn't great.

Phoenix was a first-round pick. Corey barely made the draft. And yet, for some reason, Corey still manages to find a way to end up in the papers regularly. The man steals attention like some men steal valor. It has to be because he's hot, right? That's the only logical explanation.

"Simms," Phoenix growls, his smile slipping when Corey stops a little closer to me than I'd like.

"Michaud," Corey murmurs, his eyes still locked on me. "You going to introduce me to your beautiful new friend?"

"No," Phoenix says bluntly.

If Corey hears the tension in Phoenix's voice, he ignores it, reaching for my hand with a smirk. "Fine, then I'll do it myself," he murmurs, lifting my hand like he's going to kiss it. "Corey Simms. Who are you, beautiful?"

"Cara Oliver," I say, snatching my hand back before he can kiss it. And not because Phoenix growls, either. He has nothing to do with anything. "Reporter."

Corey grins at me, and Phoenix scowls at him. "You're the new reporter, huh? Nice."

"Yes. Now, you've met her. You can go away," Phoenix says, trying to place his big body between Corey and me, but Corey manages to sidestep. Phoenix tries again, and Corey sidesteps again.

"She already shot you down, Michaud. Why don't you move out of the way and let me say hello?" Corey says.

"Why don't you fuck off and go away?" Phoenix shoots back.

"Nah, I think I'm good here."

"You'd be better over there," Phoenix practically growls at him.

I stare at the two of them, trying to figure out what the hell is going on with them. Phoenix looks pissed. Corey is amused. And I'm just…annoyed.

"Are you two always like this?" I ask.

"Like what?" Phoenix asks.

"No," Corey says at the same time.

"Right." I scowl at both of them. They're like two dogs fighting over a bone. But I'm not a bone, and I'm not interested in being fought over. Hell no.

Women aren't spoils of war. We're people. You don't get to just shoot someone on a dusty street at high noon and claim a woman as your prize in this day and age.

I don't think these two got that memo, though. The guys on the minor league team I covered at my last job were not like this. Well, most of them weren't anyway. I guess there's always one or two, right?

"Seriously, Simms," Phoenix says. "Fuck off."

"Seriously, Michaud, no."

Jesus Christ on a cracker. If this weren't ridiculous, it'd almost be funny.

Two of the hottest men in the league are glowering at each other over me, a woman who hasn't even been on a date in two years.

My sexiest lingerie is the thong collecting dust in the back of my drawer, and my idea of small talk involves oversharing about fanfic and my true crime obsession.

And yet, they look ready to come to blows over who gets to stand closest to me.

Ridiculous.

"You two can stop whatever weird macho crap you have going on right now," I say when they repeat the same cycle for a third time, with Corey trying to get closer to me and Phoenix blocking his path. "I'm not dating either of you."

Phoenix glances from Corey to me, his gaze tangling with mine. "You'll date me, gorgeous. Trust me."

He sounds so certain that it's spooky. And the way he's looking at me with such cool confidence… It's not like he's trying to convince me. It's like he knows what he's saying is true.

For some reason, that freaks me out as much as it irritates me. There's no way in hell I'm dating this man. No way. He's a hockey god. I prefer my heart intact.

Except every nerve ending in my body is singing a different tune.

What—and I cannot stress this enough—the fuck?

This is not happening. Absolutely not.

"Pigs will fly first," I growl, ducking under his arm before he has a chance to stop me.

Corey laughs like he thinks my rejection is hilarious, so I pin him with a deadly glower. "And I've seen the press about you. I'm definitely not ever dating you," I snap before hurrying across the ice, praying I don't land on my ass in front of the entire team.

Neither of them follows me, thank God. But I feel Phoenix's eyes on me the entire way, burning a hole through me. It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to turn around and look back at him.

Maybe today was a bad day to decide I want to be an optimist, because my future here is not looking rosy. Quite frankly, it's looking a little like a nightmare shaped like a giant defensive skater, his annoying teammate, and a stupid war I don't want any part of.

Lovely.