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Hart laughed as he left the couch. “Ms. Kelly? Is that you?”

I narrowed my eyes. “You’re not funny, and I wouldn’t have to do all that if you would listen the first time.”

“Yep. Definitely Ms. Kelly.”

“I’m gonna charge you another bullshit fee,” I threatened, following him into the bedroom.

“I’d pay it,” he said with a grin, freeing himself from his shirt. I looked away because I didn’t want to be the reason he stayed up all night and was geeked out on smelling salts tomorrow.

I channel-surfed briefly while Hart finished his social media business, then selected Mission Impossible. Hart tossed his phone aside just as I placed the remote back on the nightstand. In one fluid motion, he pulled me beneath the comforter. I settled against his chest and hooked my leg over his hip like we’d been lovers in a past lifetime. He repeatedly smoothed his hand up and down my thigh, adding to the calming effect he already had over me, and I was lights out by the time Ethan Hunt determined his IMF team had been eliminated.

Falling

Hart

I sprinted down the ice, barely edging out my opponent, who’d been on my ass since a scrum against the boards that left him leaking from his nose. He’d been called up from the AHL earlier that week and was eager to prove himself. He was fast, I’d give him that, but I didn’t have three rings and an Olympic gold medal for nothing, and I wasn’t about to let some puppy dog rookie chirp me like he earned his stripes, especially when his team was down 6-0.

I entered the neutral zone and dropped a pass to Rossi. He shot past me towards the net with the puck. I fell back and crossed over to the left as Rossi skated around the net, putting heat on the goaltender. McKilroy, the rookie, relaxed and gave me a wider berth—big mistake. Rossi passed the puck to Morgan, and Solkov clobbered McKilroy right as Morgan snapped it back to me. I shot, but the goalie was ready for me and slapped the puck away from the crease. The puck collided with my blade and bounced into the net.

“Hell yeah!” I cheered as my teammates collided into me with hugs and harsh pats to my helmet.

“Seven-oh, baby!” Morgan yelled, bumping his helmet against mine as the buzzer announced the end of the second period. We skated towards the bench, and I glanced towards Vera in the stands. She was wearing my fucking jersey, and I was amped. Seeing her repping my number made me feel possessive of her, but more importantly, like I wanted to rush back to her suite and fuck her while she wore it.

I smirked when she formed a heart with her fingers and held it up for me. I shucked off my glove and formed a V with my forefinger and middle finger before heading to the locker room.

“Hartbreak is on fire!” Chandler yelled as soon as I entered the visitors’ locker room. The locker room grew rowdy from cheering and the speakers blasting.

“All right! All right! Cut that shit off!” Coach Wells barked as he entered behind us with the remainder of the coaching staff. The music ceased immediately. I dropped onto the bench beside Marlon and tore my jersey off before working my skates off. “We’re up 7-0, and with how you men are playing, I do not doubt that the game will end in a shutout. However, this isn’t a fucking charity game, so keep it up. You men are playing like a well-oiled machine, and that’s why they can’t touch you out there. If you stay sharp like this all season, we’ll bring The Cup home again at the end of the season. Myers?”

“Yes, Coach?”

“You’ve been working your tail off, and you’ve been on the ice for thirty-four minutes. Do you want to ride the bench for the remainder of the game, or keep going?”

I leaned against the stall and wiped sweat from my forehead and neck with a green-and-white towel. I’d put four points on the board, but I was running on fumes, and I wouldn’t be worth a damn that evening if I didn’t rest.

“I’m gonna sit it out, Coach.”

He nodded.

“Good. I want you well-rested for our game against the Mountaineers tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Coach,” I said, snagging a bag of sunflower seeds from my stall. I tossed a handful of seeds into my mouth and tucked them into my cheek while working them open one by one as Coach continued his spiel. I tried to remain focused, but all I could think about was my sugar baby on all fours with my hand fisting the back of my jersey and delivering backshots until she cried out for mercy. But folding my future WAG like origami would have to wait until after I took her out, showed her a good time, and spoiled her rotten.

***

“Sugar! Let’s go!” I announced when I entered her suite. I tossed my overnight duffle bag on the foyer floor and waited impatiently for her to join me. “Vera? Are you ready? We need to get a move on. I don’t want us to miss our reservation tonight.”

When she still didn’t respond, I threw up my hands in frustration and went to find her myself. I found her in the bedroom wearing my damn jersey with white and green knee-high socks and possibly nothing on underneath.

I closed my eyes and scrubbed my hands over my face as I fought temptation. Yeah, I could fuck her, but Vera was like a bag of chips—you couldn’t simply have one. You’d come back for more and more until you scraped the bottom of the bag with your fingers and tilted your head back to down the crumbs. One taste of Vera and we wouldn’t see the outside of the suite for the remainder of the trip.

Our contract was simple: money, sex, and companionship, but I was finding that I enjoyed the companionship part as much, if not more than the earth-shattering sex.

“Sweet Hart, we can go out later. Let me show you another trick,” she purred, crawling towards the end of the bed.

“No. Get dressed.”

Her head snapped back as if I had punched her in the face.