4. Lukas

As Emma hurries offwith Chloe, I can't help but watch her go, my eyes lingering on the sway of her hips and the way her dark hair cascades down her back.

Damn, she's even hotter in the light of day.

I didn't think that was possible after seeing her all dolled up at The Gilded Lily, but there's something about Emma's professional look—the sleek pencil skirt, the crisp white blouse that hints at her curves—that has me itching to mess her up in the best way.

I turn to Slade, a smirk playing on my lips. "So, what do you think of our new social media manager?"

Slade shakes his head, a hint of disapproval in his eyes. "I think you should be careful, man. We both should. She's not just some puck bunny you can charm into bed."

I laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. "Oh, come on. You know I love a good challenge."

We head to the locker room, the familiar scent of sweat and leather enveloping us. It's our sanctuary, the place where we leave everything on the ice. But today, my thoughts are consumed by a certain brunette with killer legs and a smile that could bring a man to his knees.

As I strip off my pads, I can't stop thinking about the way Emma felt in my arms at the bar, the way her breath hitched when I pulled her close.

I've had my share of women—puck bunnies, actresses, models—but there's something different about her. A challenge, a fire that I'm determined to stoke until it consumes us both.

Maybe it's just that she is most definitely forbidden fruit.

"Lukas, I'm serious," Slade says, his tone firm. He's clearly reading my mind. "Emma's part of the team now. You can't just treat her like one of your conquests."

I roll my eyes, tossing my sweaty jersey into the hamper. "Relax, man. I know how to handle myself. Besides, it's not like you weren't checking her out, too."

Slade's jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it. I know him better than anyone, and I can tell he's just as intrigued by Emma as I am. But he's always been the more cautious one, the voice of reason to my reckless impulses.

That's why he's the captain, and I get to have fun instead.

We hit the showers, the hot water soothing my muscles but doing little to cool the desire coursing through me. As I lather up, my mind wanders to all the ways I could seduce Emma—the stolen glances across the rink, the brush of my hand against her lower back, the whispered promises in her ear.

But as I rinse off, my thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice. "Slade, you in here?"

I tense, recognizing the deep timbre of Ryan Thompson, Slade's childhood best friend and my longtime rival. Inconveniently, Ryan fucking Thompson is also our new star defenseman.

Ryan strolls into the showers like he owns the place already, his broad shoulders nearly filling the doorway.

"Ryan, hey," Slade greets him, his face lighting up. "I didn't know you were coming by today."

Ryan shrugs, his eyes flicking to me with barely concealed disdain. "Meeting up with the strength trainers. Heard we got a new addition to the staff."

My hackles rise at the mention of Emma, my jaw clenching at his interest. Ryan and I have a history, one that's left a bitter taste in both our mouths.

"Yeah, Emma," Slade confirms, ignoring the glares between Ryan and me. "She seems great."

Ryan nods, his expression unreadable. "I'm sure she does. I look forward to working with her."

I bite back a scoff, knowing that Ryan's interest in Emma will be purely professional. He's always been the consummate gentleman, the golden boy who would never dream of mixing business with pleasure.

Not like me.

As we towel off and head to our lockers, I can feel Ryan's glare boring into my back. I know he still resents me for what I did, but it was almost ten fucking years ago at this point. The guy needs to get over himself.

As we get dressed, Ryan leans against his locker, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "So, Lukas, are you going to behave yourself around this new employee, or do I need to keep an eye on you?"

I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head as I pull on my shirt. "Jesus, Ryan, you really haven't changed, have you? Always so quick to assume the worst of me."

Ryan's eyes narrow, his jaw clenching. "Can you blame me?"

I hold up my hands in a mocking gesture of surrender. "Emma's a big girl. She can handle herself."

Ryan scoffs, his dark eyes flashing with annoyance. "Right, because you're so concerned with what she can handle."

I step closer to him, my blood starting to boil. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know exactly what it means," Ryan retorts, not backing down. "You've always been a selfish prick, Lukas. Only out for yourself and your next conquest."

"Fuck you, Thompson," I spit out, my hands curling into fists at my sides. "You don't know shit about me."

Slade steps between us again, placing a hand on each of our chests. "Enough! Both of you. We're teammates now, so you better start acting like it."

"Whatever you say, Captain." I pull on the rest of my street clothes, but my blood is still boiling. "Do you need a ride?" Slade and I share a loft with our buddy Alex, who's also the skills captain here.

He shakes his head. "Ryan and I are grabbing a bite, I'll see you at home later."

Without a backward glance at either of them, I throw up a peace sign and stalk out of the locker room.

My mind is already racing with ways to get under Emma's skin. I've never been one to back down from a challenge, and I sure as hell am not going to start now.

In the parking lot, I catch a glimpse of Emma getting into her car. She looks up, her eyes meeting mine across the asphalt. There's a heat there, a recognition of the attraction simmering between us.

I shoot her my most devastating grin, the one that's dropped panties from coast to coast.

She flushes, ducking her head and hurrying into her car. But I can see the smile playing at the corners of her mouth, and I know I've got her hooked.

I pull into the underground garage of our West Loop loft, trying to shake the image of Emma from my mind. The way her eyes sparkled with mischief, the curve of her lips as she tried to hide her smile. I want to see that look again.

I take the elevator up to the penthouse, the anticipation building in my gut. I love this place—the exposed brick walls, the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a stunning view of the city skyline, the sleek modern furniture that I picked out myself.

It's my sanctuary, the one place where I can truly be myself.

As I step inside, I'm greeted by the sound of Alex cursing at the TV. He's sprawled out on the massive leather sectional, a forgotten playbook open on his lap.

"Slade's out with Thompson," I tell Alex before he can ask, tossing my keys onto the counter.

"Cool," Alex replies, his eyes never leaving the screen.

I grab a beer from the fridge and drop down next to him. "Is this tape from last season?" I ask him.

Alex glances at me, then back at the screen, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Yeah, it's from our game against Milwaukee last March. Something's been bugging me about our defensive strategy in the third period."

I take a swig of beer, studying Alex's profile. There's an intensity radiating off him, a restless energy that I recognize all too well.

Alex is a perfectionist to the end, always striving to be better, faster, smarter. It's what makes him such a brilliant coach.

But I've also seen that drive push him to unhealthy extremes.

"You need to give that big brain of yours a rest," I tell him, nudging his shoulder. "We won that game, remember? Slade scored the game-winner in overtime. And besides, defensive strategy isn't even part of your purview."

Alex is a skills coach, although I have no doubt he's going to work his way up to assistant coach soon.

Alex shakes his head, hitting pause on the remote. He turns to face me, his hazel eyes burning. "It's not about winning or losing, Lukas. It's about being the best team we can be. And right now, there are holes in our game that need to be fixed."

I sigh, taking another swig of beer. "Alright, Coach. Show me what you've got."

For the next hour, Alex breaks down every play, every missed assignment, every botched scoring chance. His attention to detail is staggering, his hockey mind operating on a level that few can match. By the time he's finished, my own head is spinning with X's and O's.

"Jesus, Alex," I mutter, rubbing my temples. "You're going to give yourself an aneurysm."

Just then, my phone starts ringing. I glance at the screen, my stomach sinking when I see my dad's name flashing across it.

"Shit," I mutter, my thumb hovering over the answer button. "I gotta take this."

I step out onto the balcony, the cool evening air a welcome break from the sudden tightness in my chest.

My dad and I have always had a complicated relationship, ever since he pushed me into hockey as a kid. He was a great player in his day, but he never quite made it to the big leagues. So he poured all his hopes and dreams into me, determined to make me the star he never was.

"Lukas," he says, his voice gruff and businesslike in rapid-fire Czech. We moved to the States when I was a little kid, so I don't have an accent but I still speak it, too. "I wanted to talk to you about the upcoming season."

I lean against the railing, my jaw clenching. "What about it?"

"I've been looking at the team's roster, and I have to say, I'm not impressed," he continues, his tone dripping with disdain. "That new guy, Thompson? He's a liability on the ice. And don't even get me started on Harrison. I know he's your little buddy, but I don't understand why he's captain and not you."

I feel a flare of anger in my gut, my grip tightening on the phone. "They're good players, Dad. And they're my teammates. I trust them."

"Trust is a luxury you can't afford in this game," he snaps, his voice rising. "If you want to win, you need to be ruthless. And that means rooting out the weak links, making sure that only the best stay on the team."

I take a deep breath, trying to calm the rage coursing through my veins. "I am the best, Dad. But I'm not going to throw my team under the bus just to prove it."

"Damn it, Lukas," he growls, his frustration palpable even through the phone. "I raised you to be a winner, not some soft-hearted pussy who cares more about his teammates' feelings than his own success."

I feel like I'm sixteen again, sitting in my childhood bedroom while my dad lectures me on the importance of perfection. The weight of his expectations, the suffocating pressure to be the best, the constant fear of disappointing him.

But I'm not a kid anymore. And I'll be damned if I let him control me like one.

"Listen, Dad," I say, my voice low and steady. "I appreciate your concern, but I know what I'm doing. I'm a grown man, and I make my own decisions. On and off the ice."

There's a long pause, the silence stretching between us like a chasm. Finally, he speaks, his voice cold and hard. "Fine. Do what you want. But don't come crying to me when it all falls apart."

He hangs up before I can respond, the dial tone echoing in my ear. I take a deep breath, my head falling back as I stare up at the night sky.

Fucking hell.

Even after all these years, he still knows how to get under my skin. How to make me doubt myself, my choices, my very identity.

I need a distraction. Something to take my mind off the bullshit, to remind me that I'm my own man, that I don't need his approval or his blessing.

Normally, I'd call up one of my regulars, a puck bunny or a groupie who's always down for a good time. But tonight, I find myself craving something different. Something new.

My mind drifts back to Emma, the way she looked at me with those big, brown eyes.

The way her lips curved into a smile, like she knew exactly what I was thinking.

God, what I wouldn't give to have her here right now, to lose myself in her softness and her warmth.

But she's not an option. At least, not yet. I don't have her number, and I'm not about to go stalking her at the office like some kind of creep.

No, I need to find my distraction elsewhere.

I grab my keys and my jacket, a smirk playing on my lips. "I'm heading out," I call to Alex, who grunts in response, too engrossed in his game to care.

I step into the elevator, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls. I look good, and I know it. The black leather jacket, the artfully tousled hair, the cocky grin that says I'm ready for action.

And action is exactly what I'm looking for tonight. The kind of action that comes with short skirts and low-cut tops, with too much tequila and not enough inhibitions.

I'm going to find a girl, a pretty little thing with a wild side and a talent for making me forget my own name. I'm going to take her back to my place, or maybe just fuck her in the back of my car.

I'm going to lose myself in the heat and the sweat and the pleasure, until there's nothing left but the rush of release.

So what if a part of me wishes it was Emma beneath me, her nails digging into my back as I make her scream my name?