Naughty Or Ice

by Sylvia Pierce

  It was raw, unfiltered passion.

  Yeah, the guys on the Tempest loved playing hockey. Tore it up on the ice, every single game, no matter what else was going on in their lives or how badly they were getting their asses kicked. But this was different. This was Eva, totally alone, lost in her own fucking beautiful world out there, skating for no other reason than the pure joy of it, and the sight of her stirred something in Walker that he hadn’t felt in years.

  Hell, maybe he’d never felt it. He certainly didn’t know what the fuck to call it, that was for sure. All he knew was that right now, seeing that woman skate, seeing that look of pure bliss on her face, he wanted to be part of it. To know what she was all about.

  She slid across the ice again, twirling into another spin, faster and faster until she was nothing more than a redheaded blur on the center ice.

  And then she stopped. Just like that. One dainty toe pick against the ice, totally in control.

  It felt like every molecule, every atom in that rink halted in an instant, the whole world going silent. If not for the white cloud of breath puffing out of her mouth, he might’ve thought she’d stopped breathing.

  Walker certainly felt like he had.

  He’d traveled all over the country, all over the world. Yet he could say with absolute certainty that Eva Bradshaw skating was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Walker sighed, his bad mood creeping back in. What the fuck was he even thinking? Women like that weren’t for him. They were for the good guys, the undamaged guys, the ones who could promise her the world and fucking deliver. Not for guys like Walker. Guys who, no matter how many friends and teammates they had, no matter how many women offered up their company for the night, always woke up alone.

  She was hired to do a job. And Walker had a job, too. Follow her instructions. Work through the pain in his knee. And get his ass back on the team. End of fucking story.

  “Show’s over,” Walker said, trying to fight off the shiver he felt right down to his bones. He sat on the bench and hauled his skates out of the bag, ready to lace up and get his damn head in the game. “Time to work.”

  Chapter Seven

  Eva glided across the empty ice, smoothed and buffed to a glassy sheen overnight, all evidence of yesterday’s practice erased.

  Holy snowballs, a girl could get used to this.

  In her regular life, Eva made her living teaching people how to skate competitively—mostly kids, but also a handful of older teens and adults who’d gotten a late start on their dreams. Depending on the season, she spent anywhere from twenty to sixty hours a week on the ice, skating alongside her clients, demonstrating the jumps and combinations that had once made her semi-famous.

  But it’d been a long time since she’d had an entire rink to herself—an entire, beautifully groomed, totally luxurious rink. Years, actually.

  Gracie would love it, Eva thought. The girl wasn’t exactly following in her mom’s footsteps when it came to competitive sports, but she definitely loved being out on the ice, sliding around, falling on her butt, being silly. Maybe they’d let her bring Gracie in on a weekend one day, just for a little while.

  Eva sucked in a deep breath of crisp, icy air. She’d been here an hour already, and she only had a few more minutes of bliss before she had to meet Walker. Closing her eyes, she looped into a set of graceful figures on the ice, the swish-swish of the blades calming her in a way that only skating could. She moved by instinct, by feel, her skates an extension of her own body. Picking up speed, she glided down to the goal line, the chilly air snapping at her cheeks as she picked up speed, faster, faster still, launching into the air for a double axel/double toe loop combo jump, landing flawlessly.

  God, what would it be like to get to do this every day?

  She’d nearly forgotten how much she loved to skate. Just skate—no audience, no other responsibilities, no anxious parents shouting from the sidelines as Eva tried to mold their children into future Olympians.

  Eva smiled. It wasn’t often she could indulge like this.

  And you can’t today, either. Walker Dunn—remember?

  Eva wobbled on her skates, her serenity interrupted by memories of her time with Walker yesterday. Her blood still boiled with anger and frustration at how hardheaded he’d been, how cocky and cold. Didn’t he realize how many people were trying to help him?

  No matter. All she could do was try to teach him her techniques. The bad attitude? That was for his coaches to tackle. Eva would not let Walker scare her off—not with that potentially life-changing job offer on the line.

  Eva looped through a figure eight, pushing herself harder and faster, then leaned forward, raising her leg high above her head, gliding into an arabesque spiral, her thoughts emptying of everything but here, but now, but the cold air on her cheeks, the ice beneath her blades.

  When she reached the center ice, she arched into a seamless layback spin, keeping her eyes open this time, her head thrown back, the colors of the rink blurring like watercolors until Eva wasn’t sure where she stopped and the rest of the world began.

  And then, when she was ready, she slowly rose to her full height, placed her toe pick against the ice, and stopped.

  The world came back to her slowly, one sense at a time. First the sound of her breathing, the feel of her breath whooshing in and out of her lungs. Then the bright red seats and polished mahogany benches of the arena, sharpening into focus. The crisp, slightly chlorinated taste of the air. The whir of the ice machines below.

  And there, at the other end of the rink, Walker Dunn, heading right for her.

  She wondered how long he’d been watching her, whether he’d seen her nail those jumps. The idea sent a little jolt of excitement through her nerves, and as his mouth hitched into a crooked grin, her first instinct was to smile back.

  But… no. She couldn’t allow herself to warm up to him. Couldn’t expose her heart, even for a casual friendship. The risks were too great. She would never, ever put herself through that kind of hurt again. Never end up broken on the kitchen floor, sobbing and afraid, wishing she could hit the rewind button on her whole life.

  She wasn’t a reckless, impulsive teenager anymore. She was a mother. A single mother with the sole responsibility for keeping another human being alive, for nurturing that sweet little human into adulthood. Gracie came first, full stop. And that meant Eva had to keep very clear, very solid boundaries between her work life and personal life, no matter how much Walker had secretly intrigued her, no matter how bright that flame of attraction flickered inside her. It just wasn’t happening. Not with Walker. Not with anyone.

  If that made her a cold-hearted bitch in the eyes of everyone around her, so be it. She’d rather be cold-hearted than broken-hearted, even it meant being alone.

  At least when you were alone, no one could break your heart but you.

  “You’re early,” she said, forcing some ice into her voice.

  Yeah, that’s me! Stone-cold Eva Bradshaw. Watch out, world!

  “Had I known you’d be doing a show, I would’ve been a hell of a lot earlier.” Walker’s gaze swept her face, trailed slowly down her body, then back up. Through another cocky grin, he said, “Pretty sweet moves, princess. I’ll give you that.”

  He was blatantly flirting with her, but she didn’t know if he was just screwing around, or if he was feeling the same sparks of attraction that were currently setting off little fires in her belly.

  Again, she bit back her smile.

  What is wrong with you? You’re an Olympic champion, not some schoolgirl with a crush. Pull it together!

  Eva squared her shoulders and held his gaze. “How’s the knee today, old dog?”

  “Holding up just fine.” He flexed it a bit. “It’ll take more than one night with you to knock me down.”

  “Who’s your friend?” Eva nodded behind Walker as another man approached, broad-shouldered and sexy—God, they were practically a matched set. But where Walker was guarded an
d cocky, this man smiled openly, his demeanor loose and carefree.

  “Evangeline Bradshaw,” Walker said, “meet Roscoe LeGrand. He’s my left winger.”

  “And an excellent cook,” Roscoe said, shaking her hand. “How do you feel about Italian? When you’re done mopping the ice with my boy here, maybe we could go back to my place and—”

  “Ah, Roscoe. Such a kidder, this guy.” Walker clamped his hand down over Roscoe’s shoulder. “He’s here to help. I asked him to video the session, give me some pointers later.”

  “Fair enough,” she said. “As long as he doesn’t get in the way.”

  “He won’t,” Walker said. “Not if he knows what’s good for him.”

  Is he… jealous?

  That spark zinged through Eva’s nervous system again, making her cheeks go hot. She resisted the urge to unzip her fleece. As far as she was concerned, the more layers between her and Walker, the better.

  “I’ll be over here,” Roscoe said, skating off to the side. “Not getting in the way. Unless you change your mind and want me in the middle, or on top—”

  “Roscoe?”

  “Wait, don’t tell me… fuck off?”

  Both men laughed, and this time, Eva couldn’t hold back her smile. The mood was instantly lighter; seeing Walker joke around with one of his friends had humanized him a bit. Reminded her that he really was just a man, after all, just like she’d told her sister yesterday in the locker room. Not some impossibly unreachable hockey god who’d descended down from the sky just to become her complete undoing.

  “Ready to work, forty-six?” Eva asked.

  “Ready to be worked, you mean?”

  “Yes, that.”

  Walker nodded, returning her smile as he pulled on his helmet and fastened the chinstrap. “I’m all yours, princess. Let’s do it.”

  Chapter Eight

  Death by ball-busting.

  Maybe it didn’t exist, but Walker was pretty sure that’s what was going on his death certificate when they wheeled his ass into the morgue later.

  Eva crossed her arms in front of her chest, clipboard dangling from one hand, her eyes tracking Walker’s every move. She had him powering through a line of orange cones without lifting his skates off the ice, trying to harness energy from shifting his weight back and forth. Physics, as she loved to keep reminding him.

  It was working. Maybe. But Walker’s knee didn’t like it a bit. Each time he took the weight back to his right side, his joints protested.

  “Is your knee holding up okay?” she called out across the ice.

  “Just fine,” he called back, trying not to grit his teeth.

  “No sharp pain?” She skated up close. Despite her all-business tone, there was concern in her eyes, a softness that would’ve made him melt if he still had a heart beating in that empty chest of his. “No swelling or pressure?”

  “I said it’s fine.”

  “Okay. Let’s try another drill, then.” She glanced at her clipboard, scribbled something with the pen chained to the top. “Inside and outside edges. Ready?”

  Fuck. Far as his knee was concerned, that was the worst drill. Worse than the forward strides. The c-cuts. The slalom. The running crossovers. The mohawk turns. She’d been running him through the gauntlet, familiar hockey moves tweaked with her own figure skating twists, and Walker was struggling to keep up.

  Despite his best efforts to keep his discomfort on lockdown, Eva seemed to sense his hesitation.

  “We can break any time you want to,” she said.

  “Nah, I’m good.” Ignoring the pain, Walker pushed ahead, propelling down the rink as he shifted back and forth between the outside and inside edges of his blades. It felt like rocking on butter knives, and now both his knees were grumbling.

  “Trust your edges, Walker!” she called out.

  “Okay!” he shouted, biting back the urge to add “Mom.” The thought made him smile, just for a minute. His own mother had been his number one supporter from the start, and had done her fair share of shouting at him from the sidelines—even after he’d been drafted into the NHL. Walker figured she’d earned it, though.

  She’d scraped together every penny, hiding half of the tips she’d earned from two different waitressing jobs in a box of tampons under the bathroom sink just to keep his father from stealing it for booze. She’d paid for Walker’s hockey lessons with that money, standing up to his father during the man’s worst rages.

  Up until she got sick, she’d never missed a game. But two seasons ago, her doctor worried that the games were too disorienting for her. The noise, the flashes, the people. She’d come home confused and scared more often than not, and Walker wouldn’t put her through that again—not even if he could play.

  He hadn’t decided what—if anything—to tell her about Eva.

  Mom would love her.

  Shaking off the ridiculous thought, Walker skated to the net at the other end of the rink and paused for a breather. He crouched down to retie his laces—a stall tactic—but Eva was already shouting orders again.

  “Now, I want you to skate back toward me,” she said. “Same drill, but see if you can pick up the pace a little. Ready?”

  He caught Roscoe’s eye from the penalty box and rolled his eyes, but there was no solidarity to be found there. Roscoe just grinned and gave him the thumbs up, holding up his video camera to capture the moves.

  Fucking traitor.

  Taking a deep breath, Walker stood up and shot back across the ice, shifting his weight between the inside and outside edges of his blades, just like she’d instructed.

  “That was better,” she said when he’d reached the net on Eva’s side. “But your right leg is still holding you back. Look—watch me.”

  She slid across the ice in front of him, rocking on her blades, easy as pie. Turning to look at him over her shoulder, she said, “You’re not bending in enough on that inside edge—see?” She did it again, barely breaking a sweat. “This move should help you, but the way you’re doing it, it’s costing you time and energy. I want you to try again, but this time focus on—”

  “Got it. Thanks.” He zoomed back around for another go, determined—for some twisted reason—to please her. To prove that he could handle anything she threw at him. He got down to the opposite net, but before he made it back, she was skating toward him, shaking her head.

  “No, no, no,” she said, exasperated. She slid to a stop in front of him, her eyes narrowed, one hand on her hip, the other still clutching that damn clipboard. “Walker. You need a break.”

  “And you know that because… you’re in my head? I don’t think so, princess.”

  Her eyes sparked with fire, just like they had yesterday. “You tell me your knee is holding up, yet—”

  “It is holding up.”

  “—yet your right leg is dragging. You’re favoring it on every turn. You can’t pivot properly, your hips are way too tight, you’ve got limited range of motion, those edges are a hot mess, and—”

  “Jesus.” Walker barked out a dry laugh. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?”

  Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring. The tips of her ears turned bright red, and Walker bit back a smile—a real one. Damn, he liked seeing her all riled up. Liked that he was the one pushing her buttons.

  “How I feel is irrelevant,” she said. “What I’m observing—from one professional to another—is that you are completely full of shit.” Her gaze flicked to his knee, then back up again. “And if you don’t start owning up to it, you’re going to delay your recovery, or worse—do permanent damage to your body. So instead of sulking like an overgrown baby, maybe you should—”

  “Maybe I should what? Do a few more twirls and loop-de-loops for you? Dance like a trained monkey while you stand on the sidelines thinking up new ways to torture me?” Yeah, he knew her moves were supposed to help him, but the more time he spent out here on the ice with her, the more ridiculous he felt. He didn’t need skating lessons. He needed
a new knee. And despite Eva’s many talents, he was pretty sure she couldn’t help him with that.

  “You’ve got to give this stuff a chance,” she said. “You’ll get there—it just takes some time to learn my methods. To unlearn some of that hockey training that’s holding you back.”

  “Unlearn the training that got me to the NHL? Hard pass, princess. And for your information, the knee is just fine. Go ahead and write that on your little clipboard.”

  “Are you even listening to yourself?” Without warning, she cocked her arm back and winged that clipboard across the ice so hard, it slid into the boards with a clatter.

  Wow, Walker hadn’t seen that coming. She was seriously pissed.

  Walker blew out a breath. “Eva, take it easy. I’m—”

  “Don’t tell me to take it easy, forty-six. Your job is on the line. You’re fucking around out here, cocky as hell, insulting me, lying about your injury, and meanwhile your whole career is about to slide into the gutter.”

  “You are the expert there, aren’t you?” he spat.

  Shit.

  He hadn’t meant it. It was just a nasty little barb that had come into his head and fallen out of his big dumb mouth, totally unfiltered.

  A flicker of hurt passed through her eyes, and Walker’s gut twisted. He didn’t know why she’d left the Olympic track—couldn’t really find much about it online. Just that she’d gone to the games twice, kicked ass, and everyone thought she’d be back for a third round, but it didn’t happen. The media eventually lost interest, Eva got into coaching or whatever else she did now, and that was it.

  But that wounded look in her eyes… damn. Whatever had happened back then, it obviously hadn’t been easy on her. It was probably still an open wound, and he’d just poured some salt in it.

  You fucking piece of shit.

  “Eva… shit.” He skated closer, reached out to touch her shoulder. She pulled back immediately, that wounded look in her eyes evaporating, replaced by the icy, untouchable gaze she seemed to keep on speed-dial, just for him.