Pucking Off-Limits (Metro Raptors)

Chapter 1

IVY

An Eyeful of Manhood

The Metro Raptors’ training facility looms ahead like a testosterone museum. The place for men who dream about skating on ice, smacking each other, and flipping a freaking six-ounce puck around two hundred by eighty-five feet.

I stand in the lobby, clutching my worn leather messenger bag like it's a shield. Everything here gleams: polished floors, trophy cases, even the receptionist’s smile as she waves me through security. This place is built to worship men who chase rubber discs for millions of dollars.

My phone buzzes. Sloane.

“Do you even understand what this means?” she squeals through the phone. “You're stepping into a tower of million-dollar abs. Actual living, breathing, sculpted legends, and you get to study them!”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it. I duck into a side hallway, lowering my voice.

“They’re hockey players, Sloane. Not Greek statues carved by lust.”

“Oh, please.” There's a rustling sound, probably her flipping through a magazine she pretends to read. “Half of them are glorious lust wrapped in muscles. Just promise me you'll get me one. Preferably tall, rich, and stupid.”

“That's oddly specific.”

“Just my type. I don’t follow sports. I barely know what hockey is. Do they use a ball or that flat disk thing?” She chuckles. “But I can’t be picky about where a good-looking, loving man comes from.”

I roll my eyes. “They use a puck. And you’re hopeless.”

“I’m selectively educated. Sports equals waste of brain cells. I’d rather see a good movie.”

A sigh sneaks past tight lips. The Raptors’ logo glints from every surface; a predator mid-strike, all sharp edges and frozen glory. Somewhere in this building, my brother Marcus is probably grinding his teeth at the thought of his younger sister invading his sacred man-space.

“Marcus already hates this,” I mutter, adjusting my bag. “He thinks I'll embarrass him or... I don't know, get body-checked into next week.”

“Then don't embarrass him. Seduce one of his teammates instead.”

“Sloane!”

“What? Call it research. You're just... gathering empirical data.” She pauses. “But seriously, Ivy. Remember why you’re there. You’re Dr. Ivy Chandler, not Marcus Chandler's little sister. You've got groundbreaking research that is going to change how teams handle concussions. Focus on that.”

“I know, I know. That's exactly what I'm trying to do.”

“Good. Now go be brilliant. I've got to get back before Dr. O'Connell realizes I'm not actually in the bathroom.”

The call ends, and I'm left standing in the hallway with my racing thoughts.

I've deliberately avoided hockey for as long as I can remember. While Marcus moved from the shining high school star to building his NHL career, becoming the golden boy who could do no wrong, I buried myself in academics. Undergrad at sixteen. Masters at twenty-two. Doctorate at twenty-six.

Now, my research is going to revolutionize how professional teams identify and manage concussion risks before permanent damage occurs. If I'm right—and I am—teams will be able to intervene earlier, potentially saving careers and lives.

The hallway narrows as I venture deeper into the facility. Framed photos of championship celebrations, game-winning goals, and men who look like they were sculpted by someone with very specific fantasies line the walls. My sneakers squeak against the tiles with each nervous step.

A left turn, then another. The sign reads: Recovery and Rehabilitation wing. Perfect. Dr. James Logan is supposed to meet me here at nine a.m. sharp to give me a tour of the facility and introduce me to the training staff. I check my watch. It's eight fifty-seven a.m. Early, as always.

But the hallway is empty. Just the soft thump of bass-heavy music drifting from one of the therapy rooms.

I hesitate. Maybe Dr. Logan stepped into one of these rooms? The music grows louder as I approach a door and knock.

A voice answers. Deep. Lazy. Dangerous.

“Come in,” it drawls.

My hand freezes on the handle. That does not sound like a sixty-year-old sports medicine physician. But maybe it’s a trainer. Or an assistant. Or someone who can at least point me in the right direction.

I open the door.

Warm air rolls out, thick with eucalyptus oil and expensive cologne. The door swings open, betraying my attempt at stealth. A massage table dominates the center of the white room—but my eyes lock onto the naked man beside it.

He’s standing next to the table, towel in hand, clearly in the middle of wrapping it around his hips, his back to me. Thank god.

Tanned skin. Broad shoulders. Muscle layered over muscle, like it was sculpted purely for intimidation.

“Oh—” I squeak. “Sorry. Wrong room.”

I step back.

The man turns his head, and the world narrows to two piercing green eyes that pin me in place. Not friendly or safe. The come-here-so-I-can-ruin-you-and-you’ll-thank-me-later kind.

A slow smirk spreads across his angular face.

“About time,” he murmurs, his voice pure gravel and honey. “Didn’t think the team hired new massage therapists, but I’m not complaining. They’re definitely upping their game.”

Heat floods my face. I turn and drop my things on a nearby bench, desperate for something—anything—to look at besides him.

“I’m not… I’m not your… masseuse.”

“Tsk tsk.”

The sound snaps my attention back to him.

Slowly—deliberately—he turns.

The towel isn’t secured.

My brain registers that detail a split second too late.

Gravity does the rest.

The towel slips from his fingers and pools at his feet.

Oh.

Oh no.

Oh wow.

He’s big. Obnoxiously big. Confidently big—the kind of big that suggests he’s never once worried about disappointing anyone in bed.

My eyes—traitorous, disloyal things—drop before I can stop them.

And stay there.

I hear a low chuckle.

“Careful,” he says mildly. “If you’re going to stare, at least pretend you didn’t mean to.”

My gaze snaps upward so fast my neck protests with an audible crack. “I wasn’t staring,” I blurt. My voice is three octaves higher than usual.

His eyebrow lifts. One slow, mocking inch. He doesn't even reach for the towel. He just stands there, comfortable in his own skin, while I’m vibrating with enough nervous energy to power the arena's scoreboard. “Sure.”

Heat detonates across my cheeks, down my neck, straight to places that have absolutely no business reacting right now.

“Anyway, I said I’m not your masseuse,” I manage, scrambling for dignity while standing in front of a naked man who looks like he belongs on a billboard titled Poor Life Choices.

“Mm.” He takes a step closer. Still naked. Still infuriatingly relaxed.

I force my eyes to stay on his face. It’s a Herculean effort.

“No?” One eyebrow arches. “Shame. You look like someone who knows how to use her hands.”

The audacity. The sheer, unmitigated, breathtaking audacity.

“Wow.” I blink. “That’s possibly the most unoriginal line I’ve ever heard.”

The smirk turns into a grin, revealing perfect white teeth.

“Unoriginal works,” he says. “It gets results.”

“What results? Restraining orders?”

“You’re still here, aren’t you?”

He’s got an annoying point. I glare.

“That’s because I’m lost.”

“Funny,” he says. “You don’t look lost.”

“I very much am.”

His gaze flicks to the bench where I dropped my bag. My ID badge sits right on top, face up.

“Ivy,” he reads aloud. The way he says my name feels like a violation. “You sure about that?”

I move fast, snatching the badge and shoving it into my bag.“I didn’t give you permission to read that.”

“You walked into my room naked,” he counters.

“I did not—”

He grins. Wide. Sharp. Dangerous. “Kidding,” he says. “Mostly.”

I glare at him. Hard. “Put. Some. Clothes. On.”

“You don’t like what you see?” He gestures lazily at himself.

Heat blazes up my neck. My eyes snap back to his face. I need to save face. Now. I straighten to my full five-foot-two inches. “No,” I lie—unconvincingly.

“Then why were you checking me out like you’d never seen anything more impressive in your life?”

“I was verifying the anatomical accuracy of arrogance,” I shoot back. “It’s fascinating.”

His low, rough laughter vibrates straight through my bones.

He finally bends, retrieves the towel, and this time wraps it around his hips with exaggerated slowness—like he’s making sure I catch every second. My eyes flick down before I can stop them, then snap back up.

“So,” he says, gaze sweeping over me with open curiosity. “If you’re not my masseuse… what exactly are you doing here, Ivy?”

I straighten, lifting my chin. “I’m a researcher,” I say, lifting my chin. “Biomechanics. I have a doctorate—I study injury patterns in professional athletes.”

His expression shifts. Interest replacing mockery. “Is that right?”

“Yes. And if you don’t mind, I’m looking for Dr. Logan.”

He hums. “You’re early.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

“But in case you aren’t actually here to see Dr. Logan and just snuck in to get me into bed,” he says lightly, “you didn’t have to go through all this effort. You could’ve just asked.”

“Sneaking in here?” I sputter. “You must be delusional if you think I planned this. I’m not here to sleep with you—or entertain someone who peaked in high school and has been coasting on his jawline ever since.”

“My jawline, huh?” His smirk deepens. “So you noticed.”

“It’s hard to miss when it’s attached to such a massive ego.”

“You know what they say about big egos…” He lets the sentence trail off, eyebrows lifting suggestively.

“That they’re compensating for something? Yes. I’m familiar with the saying.”

He throws his head back and laughs. “Okay. I like you, Ivy.”

He steps closer, his presence overwhelming enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

Coming here was a mistake. A terrible, horrible, mortifying mistake.

“Nice meeting you…” He leans in, eyes locking onto mine. His breath is warm against my skin. “Ivy.”

The way he says my name feels indecent—like he’s stripping it for sport. He straightens, crossing his arms, muscles flexing. I swallow and force myself not to look away.

“And you must be?” I say. “It’s only fair you tell me yours now that you know mine.”

“Declan Hawthorne.” He gestures lazily at his nearly naked form, from head to toe. “In the flesh. Note that.”

My eyes betray me, tracking the movement of his hands and cataloging every detail. The mischievous green eyes. The broad shoulders. The massive tattoo sprawling across his chest and down tight abs. The strong legs—and the very deliberate suggestion of what’s hidden beneath the towel.

Heat creeps up my neck as I take a step back.

Of course it’s Declan Hawthorne. Marcus’s best friend. The one my brother refuses to bring home because he’s a notorious playboy. The exact type of man he’s warned me away from with increasingly creative threats.

This isn’t just a disaster. It’s a heart-pounding, dangerous temptation.

I want to throw something—anything—at him. The massage oil. The useless towel. Maybe my entire body. Instead, I summon my most brittle smile, the one reserved for irritating thesis committee members.

“Already noted,” I say coolly. “Inflated ego. Zero professionalism. Probably operating with a feather-light brain.”

His laughter fills the room—richer this time, genuine amusement cutting through the arrogance.

“You’ll fit right in here, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart. The word slithers through the space between us like smoke.

He steps closer, his gaze sharpening. I inhale sharply, forcing my eyes to stay on his face. His proximity makes it hard to think—harder to breathe.

Leave, Ivy. Now.

I grab my bag and hold it to my chest like a shield.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I say tightly, “I have actual work to do.”

As I turn for the door, his voice follows me—teasing, almost tender. “Careful, Doc. Places like this can bruise more than just bones.”

I don't dignify that with a response.

Opening the door, I flee into the hallway, my face burning hot. My heart hammers against my ribs as I speed walk down the corridor, passing door after door until I'm safely around the corner.

This is fine. Everything is fine. So what if I just verbally sparred with my brother's best friend while he was naked? So what if those green eyes are now permanently burned into my retinas? So what if some disloyal part of my brain is replaying the way his legs moved when he...

No. Absolutely not. We're not going there.

I take a deep breath, then another, and finally spot Dr. Logan walking toward me from the opposite end of the hallway. He's an unremarkable-looking man with a fatherly smile.

“Dr. Chandler.” He waves. “There you are. Sorry I'm late. There was an emergency meeting with the head coach. Ready to get started?”

“Absolutely.” Smoothing down my cardigan, I force my brightest professional smile. “Let's do this.”

The rest of the morning passes in a blur of introductions, facility tours, and protocol reviews.

Dr. Logan walks me through the state-of-the-art equipment, introducing the training staff and outlining the team’s current injury prevention protocols.

It's fascinating work. Exactly what I've been dreaming about for years.

I manage not to think about Declan Hawthorne.

Much.

Okay, that's a lie. I think about him approximately sixty times, but I'm excellent at compartmentalization.

It’s well past noon by the time Dr. Logan finishes the tour and shows me my temporary office.

My stomach growls, reminding me I skipped breakfast in my nerves. I reach into my bag to grab my phone and text Sloane about lunch.

My fingers close on nothing.

I freeze.

I dig again. Deeper this time. Notebook. Pens. Protein bar. Hand sanitizer. A sad granola bar from last week.

No phone.

My pulse kicks up. “No. No, no, no.”

I dump my bag onto the desk. Everything spills out in a mess of paper and plastic.

Still nothing.

I must’ve lost it somewhere between the lobby this morning and now. In a building this size, that means anywhere. I let out a shaky breath and start retracing my steps.