Trouble on Ice (Manhattan Mavericks #3)

Chapter 1

JOELLE

"Come on, Jo, let's go out tonight before you fly out to Italy." Polly's voice carries down the hallway.

I don't look up from the suitcase open on my bed. It's a mess of folded linen and half-decent intentions. I've got a list on my phone titled Italy, and the first two items are wine and more wine.

"I'm exhausted," I call back. "I have so much to do.

" Which is true. I'm one of the physiotherapists for a London rugby team.

Five years of bodies breaking and healing and breaking again.

Players who swear they're fine while their hamstrings scream otherwise.

Coaches who want miracles. Schedules stacked like a game of Jenga, where I'm always the one holding the tower up.

Polly appears in my doorway, arms folded, her blonde hair in a glossy ponytail, eyes bright with determination to get me to come out. "You're stressing about the wedding," she says. Not a question. A fact. "One night. And honestly …" She grins. "You also need to get laid."

I drop my head back with a groan. "I've been busy."

"That's not an excuse, that's a crime." She walks into my room like she owns it. "I don't know how you do it," she continues. "Rubbing those men down every single day. Your hands on their thighs, their arms." She wiggles her brows.

"Because I'm not boy crazy like you are.

" I give her what's supposed to be a stern look, but it doesn't last. A smile forms despite myself.

Polly collects men like loyalty cards. She doesn't even mean to.

She's a PR girl with a roster and the confidence of someone who has never questioned her own appeal.

"Not my fault I'm irresistible," she says, grinning.

That part is unfortunately accurate. Gorgeous blonde hair.

Blue eyes. Curves that could stop traffic.

The rugby boys look at her like she's the best thing they've ever seen. Then there's me. I’m usually in sweats with no makeup, my dark hair pulled back so tight it could pass as a facelift. My hazel eyes only pop when I’m angry or sleep deprived, and I’ve never exactly been known for curves.

I’m all straight lines. I could make more effort.

I know I could. I just don't see the point when my hands smell like menthol rub half the time, and my brain is always scheduling someone's recovery timeline.

Polly leans on the suitcase, blocking me from folding anything else. "Come on. Let's get dressed up and hit the town."

"I'm tired." I moan.

"You're always tired.” She softens just a fraction. "You don't get weekends. You don't get to be a normal person. One night won't kill you."

I stare at her. I want to say no. Should say no. I have a flight tomorrow. My family is waiting in Italy. A brother who's about to get married to a woman the entire family doesn't like. But Polly looks at me like I'm a rescue mission, and I can feel my resolve slipping.

"Fine," I say, surrendering.

She squeals. "Yes!"

"I have conditions."

"No conditions."

"I'm wearing pants," I tell her. I feel more comfortable in them.

Polly’s face scrunches up. "Absolutely not." Then her grin turns wicked as she darts out before I can argue. I know I’ve already lost. I hear drawers open and hangers clatter. When she returns, she's holding up a white mini dress.

"No," I say immediately.

"Oh, come on." She pouts. "You would look hot in this."

"Polly,” I warn, already knowing I’ve lost.

"Just once," she begs. "You always wear a top and pants out. It's boring."

"It's comfortable."

"Comfortable is what you wear when you're grocery shopping. Tonight, you're going to be … seen."

I hate attention. "I don't want to be seen."

She steps closer. "Do it for me. Please. One night. Then you can go back to being a hermit physiotherapist who scares rugby players into stretching."

I narrow my eyes. "I don't scare them."

"You absolutely do. They call you Ice Queen behind your back."

"That's not true."

"It's a little true." She smirks before shoving the dress into my hands. "Go. Put it on. I'll do your hair if I have to."

I glare at the dress. The fabric is soft, expensive, and shorter than anything I own.

"What harm could it do?" Polly asks, too sweet.

I exhale. "Fine."

Her squeal is immediate and violent. "YES!"

I change in the bathroom, pulling the dress over my head. I tug it down, as I feel like my ass is exposed. It's unforgivably short. But it fits, clinging in places I usually hide. It makes me look like someone who goes out on purpose instead of by force. I step out and sulk about it.

Polly's eyes widen. "Oh my god. Joelle."

"Don't," I tell her.

She claps her hands. "You look …"

"Don't."

She grabs my shoulders and steers me toward the mirror. "You look hot. Like … actually hot. Like you could ruin a man's life in one night."

I stare at my reflection. It's me. But not the version I live in. My stomach twists.

Polly grins. "Perfect."

I want to argue, but she's already dragging me out the door.

The club is exactly what I hate. Noise and lights and bodies pressed too close.

Perfume mixing with sweat until everything feels sticky.

Music is so loud it turns thoughts into static.

I can feel my pulse in my teeth. Polly loves it.

She moves through the crowd like it parts for her, all confidence and laughter and ease.

Hazel, one of our friends, spots us first. "You guys made it!" She squeals, rushing over and hugging us both. “Fucking hell, Jo, you look bangin’.”

“She’s my creation,” Polly says smugly.

Tate, our other friend, waves from the booth, drink in hand.

Hazel and Tate are Polly's friends, which makes them mine by association. They adopted me when I moved to London the way Polly did. With the same lack of permission.

"You're looking good, girl," Tate says, spinning me.

"Polly made me do it."

Tate smiles. "Good, about time. You look amazing."

We slide into the booth, where drinks appear out of thin air.

Polly is already in conversation with someone she knows.

Because Polly knows everyone. Hazel is telling me about a PR nightmare she handled today.

Tate is laughing too loudly. I try to relax, but I can’t.

I keep tugging at the hem of the dress, wishing I was wearing pants and wishing I was at home with a cup of tea in bed.

Then I see the booth beside ours in the VIP section.

A group of men clustered together, looking like they've been forced here. My gaze catches on one of them. He looks too big, too broad, for the booth compared to his friends, who are not small at all, but compared to that giant, they are. Athletes, probably, but not rugby players as none of their faces ring a bell. I notice the giant isn’t laughing like the other guys are.

He isn't flirting with the array of women who seem to have found the booth.

He isn't scanning the room like he's on the prowl like most men in nightclubs do.

He's sitting back, one arm slung over the booth, with dark hair that's slightly too long, a sharp jaw, and a face that looks carved from discipline and bad moods.

There is scruff along his square jaw, not in an unkempt way but also not in an overly styled way.

His eyes are dark, assessing, and not interested in anything around him.

He's massive, easily six-five. Broad shoulders strain against a black button-down he's left open at the collar, and he has thick forearms, leading to large hands wrapped around a glass he hasn't touched in minutes.

He looks slightly miserable. Like he, too, has been dragged here against his will.

Relief curls in my chest because I'm not alone in my misery.

Our eyes meet.

It isn't electric. It's … recognition. Not of a person. Of a mood. A shared understanding that this is not where either of us wants to be. He looks away first. I should, too. But I don't. I’m emboldened suddenly.

Polly is mid-sentence about a player's scandal when Hazel leans closer to me. "They're cute, aren't they?"

I blink. "Who?"

She tips her chin toward the adjacent booth.

I shrug. "Not my type. I don’t do athletes.” The man isn't my type because I don't have a type. I don't date. I don't collect men. I don't go out wearing white mini dresses. But my body reacts anyway with a low awareness. A tightening low in my belly. An interest I resent.

Tate nudges me. "The grumpy one keeps looking over here at you."

"He's not looking at me," I tell them.

Hazel grins. "He is. He's definitely looking at you."

I shake my head, ignoring them, and try to forget about the giant whose eyes I can feel on my neck.

Of course, it doesn’t take long for the booths to mingle because that's what happens when Polly is present. Someone knows someone. Someone introduces someone. Suddenly there are men standing near our table, laughing and leaning in to hear because the music is too loud.

Hazel is charming. Tate is bold. Polly is in her element.

The grumpy man remains where he is until he doesn't. He stands, the movement deliberate, unhurried. Tall enough that for a second, the space seems to tighten around him. He walks closer and stops at the edge of our booth. His gaze flicks over me once, a sweep that feels clinical, then back to Polly. Of course, he’s not interested in me. Something in my stomach sinks.

Polly beams at him. "Hi! I'm Polly."

He doesn't smile. "Your friend looks uncomfortable.”

My spine goes straight. Is he talking about me?

Polly looks at me. "Are you?"

"No," I lie automatically.

The man's gaze returns to me, steady, unblinking. Not flirtatious. More concerned. He leans in slightly so I can hear him over the music. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere but here.” There’s no judgment in his voice, just observation. Maybe even sympathy.

Heat crawls up my neck. He’s not wrong, but it still feels exposing. I know I don’t belong here, not when I have three supermodel besties. A blind man can see that.

“So do you. You look like you'd rather be at a dentist appointment."

His mouth twitches, amused by my comment. “Fair point, I would.”

Something about his honesty makes me relax a fraction.

"My friends dragged me here," he adds quietly. "Yours?"

"Same."

"Thought so." He nods like we're in on the same joke. "Kindred spirits."

Silence stretches between us, but it’s comfortable.

Polly tries to include him in the conversation by asking him questions that he answers politely but briefly. But I notice he doesn't leave. He stays near our booth. Near me. Not crowding. Just ... present.

The man doesn't try to impress me. He doesn't lean in too close like most men do at clubs, he doesn't make a show of being here. He just exists near me.

And for the first time tonight, I stop tugging on my dress and let myself … be. Enjoying the company of this man, who has intrigued me.