2. Luc

LUC

"You can't just merge without signaling!" I grumble, honking my horn at the driver who pushes in front of me. I'm already in a foul mood as I navigate the early morning traffic on my way to the arena. Yesterday at training, Coach made the decision to put a rookie on the first line with me, and it's grating on my nerves. I mean, sure, the kid"s got talent, but he"s a late sign, untested and unpredictable. One wrong move could cost us a game, or worse, our shot at the playoffs. As captain, it"s my job to make sure the team is in top form, and I can"t afford any weak links.

Sitting in traffic, I drum my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to push down the frustration bubbling up inside me. The line between determination and obsession is thin, especially when it comes to hockey. I run through plays in my mind, mentally preparing for the upcoming game. The traffic inches forward, but my impatience grows with each passing second.

As the traffic clears up, I step harder on the gas pedal, eager to get to the rink and sort out this mess of a line change. But when I make the turn that leads toward the player entrance, I"m brought to a screeching halt when a detour sign blocks my path, redirecting me to the main entrance of the arena. No fucking way am I going that way. I'll be inundated with fans and reporters, asking questions I don"t have time for. The last thing I need is to be bombarded before I can even get my skates on.

Growling under my breath, I pull over slightly and cut the engine while I try and figure out what to do. There's a large crane is blocking the road, hoisting what looks like a massive glass panel up to the front of a building under construction. I squint at the sign posted on the sidewalk: "DuPont"s French-Creole Fusion - Opening Soon."

Great. Just what we need. Another overpriced, pretentious fusion restaurant in a city already overflowing with them. I"m more of a steak and potatoes kind of guy, but that"s beside the point. The real issue is that this construction is blocking my way to the arena, and I"m not about to let that slide.

I get out of my car, not bothering to hide my annoyance as I storm up to the nearest worker. "Whoa, whoa, man!" he shouts, waving a gloved hand to try and halt my approach. "You can't be in here without a hard hat."

"I don"t need a hard hat," I growl. "I need to get through. This construction mess is keeping me from where I need to be." The worker"s eyes widen as recognition flashes.

He takes a step back, the realization dawning. "Oh, you're Luc Bouchard! The Nighthawks" captain, right?"

I nod curtly, not in the mood for pleasantries. "Look, I need to know how long it'll take you to get this thing out of the way?" I point at the crane. "I have get to the rink. Now."

The worker stammers, clearly flustered by my abruptness. "Uh, well, sir, it"s going to take a few hours at least to finish the job. You'll, ah, h-have to go ‘round."

He gulps, and I grit my teeth in frustration, running a hand through my dark hair. "Who"s in charge here?"

The worker points to a woman standing a few feet away, her back turned to me as she studies a set of blueprints. "That would be Ms. DuPont, sir."

Turning on my heel, I march over to her, ready to give her a piece of my mind, but the moment she turns around, I"m struck dumb. She"s gorgeous, with wild curly hair and soft, luscious curves that would make a grown man weep from the pain of the constant hard-on he had around her. For a split second, I forget why I"m even angry. All I can think about is taking fistfuls of flesh and plowing myself into her pillowy softness. A grunt leaves my throat and my blood flow travels south.

Her eyes meet mine, and there"s something in them I can't read. Ms. DuPont doesn"t seem fazed by my presence or by the way I'm staring at her. In fact, she arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at me, an amused smirk dancing on her lips. "Can I help you with something, Mr. Bouchard?" Her voice is like liquid honey, smooth and tantalizing.

I shake my head slightly, trying to regain my composure. "Yes, actually, you can. Your workers are blocking my way, and I need to get to the rink."

She raises both brows, clearly unimpressed by my tone. "I have all the necessary permits for this work, Mr. Bouchard. As the sign with the big arrow on it suggests, you'll need to go around."

I grind my teeth and ball my fists at my sides, trying to contain my anger. Does she seriously think I don't understand what a detour sign means? "Look, Ms. DuPont?—"

"Natalie," she interrupts, tilting her head slightly as I continue to speak through clenched teeth.

"Look, Natalie." I attempt to inject some charm into my voice, but it comes out sounding more like a growl. "You seem to be familiar with who I am."

"Yes, Mr. Bouchard. I'm very well aware that you're the captain of the Nighthawks. The part I'm struggling with, is why does that hold any relevance here." She points to the ground. "At my restaurant where I pay the bills. You see where I'm going here?"

I sigh, exasperated. "Look, Natalie, I"m not trying to be a jerk here?—"

"And yet, you're doing such a good job."

My teeth are about to crack as I clench them so hard to try and maintain my composure. "Look, can you just move your people aside for a few minutes so I can get through? In fact... this construction is going to make it incredibly difficult for the entire team to get to the rink on time for practice."

"Well, Mr. Bouchard—or can I call you Luc?"

"Mr. Bouchard is fine."

She smirks. "As I was saying, Luc... your feelings, wants, desires—whatever it is you're going through right now—are all irrelevant. I have my permits. And you can use the main entrance to the rink like everyone else did and make it to practice just fine."

I let out a frustrated sigh. "I"m in a hurry. Can you just move your workers for five minutes?"

She folds her arms beneath her ample bosom and I just about lose my train of thought. "No, Luc. I can"t. They"re busy doing what our permit says they can do. Now, if you don"t mind taking a detour, you"ll be on your way in no time."

I open my mouth to retort, but before I can get a word out, a familiar voice interrupts us.

"Nat? What"s going on?"

I turn to see the rookie, Emile DuPont, jogging up to us with a concerned look on his face. Great. Just what I need. The kid sticking his nose where it doesn"t belong when he's already got his skates in my way.

"Nothing of concern, Emile," Natalie says, shooting me a glare. "Just having a friendly chat with your captain here."

I narrow my eyes and fold my arms across my chest, glancing between them. "You two know each other?" As soon as the words leave my mouth, I mentally kick myself for not realizing it sooner—DuPont. "Wait. Let me guess," I say. "You"re siblings."

Natalie gives me a sly smile. "Emile here is my little brother. So yes, we know each other quite well. I'll be at all the games from now on to cheer him along."

I feel my jaw tighten. The rookie is her brother? Just my luck. Natalie winks at me, clearly enjoying my discomfort at this new piece of information.

Emile looks between us, clearly picking up on the tension. "I'm guessing you two aren't hitting it off the way one would hope?"

I let out an exasperated sigh and run a hand through my hair. "It"s nothing, rookie. Your sister and I just got off on the wrong foot."

Natalie scoffs. "That"s putting it mildly. Mr. Bouchard here seems to think he can bulldoze his way through a construction site because it"s inconvenient for him to drive around the corner."

Emile's brows rocket upward, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Sounds about right. The guy didn't get to where he is without laying a few hits on the ice, you know?" Emile pats me on the back as if we"re old buddies. I resist the urge to shrug him off.

"And here I thought he was the captain because of his good looks," Natalie teases.

Emile laughs, but it's got an uneasy edge to it. "Right. Listen, we've actually got security keeping the fans back at the main entrance so the team can get inside. We should get going or we'll be late." Emile's nervous glance from his sister to me is lost on neither of us.

"Ah, yes, wouldn't want to be late to do all that manly grunting and smashing. You two go have fun now. Let the grown ups do the big jobs," Natalie says with a wicked grin, waving us off.

"Thanks, Nat," Emile says, laughing her jab off.

"Oh, and Emile, you better show your captain how we DuPonts handle the heat—both on and off the ice."

I grunt in response, turning to leave, but not before shooting Natalie a disgruntled look. "Keep your day job, DuPont. Leave the skating to the professionals."

"Oh, Luc," she calls out over her shoulder. "It's a good thing you're great at hockey because those barbs of yours…" Natalie"s laughter rings out as I stride away, a punchy, confident sound that sends an unexpected jolt through me.

I shake my head, trying to push aside the strange sensation away as I get back into my car. Hockey has always been my focus, my passion, the only think I care about. But five minutes around Natalie DuPont, and hell…I already feel thrown off my game. Fuck.