Connelly starts to laugh. “You’re really something else, Di Laurentis. No filter whatsoever.” He tips his head. “Doesn’t embarrass you at all to admit that, huh?”

“Nope.”

“Why should she be embarrassed?” Brenna challenges. “What, you don’t think girls are allowed to hook up?”

Jake’s mouth hitches in a wry grin. “Jensen, I think no matter what I say, you’d still argue the point.”

“That’s not true.”

“You’re arguing right now.”

“Because you’re annoying me.”

“What a coincidence,” he mocks. “You’re annoying me too.”

A collective gasp from the crowd interrupts their bickering. I’d turned away, so I’m not certain what happened, but I stumble to my feet when I glimpse the blood.

“Oh shit, that’s Fitz,” Brenna says. “What the hell happened?” I guess she hadn’t been watching, either.

The freshmen in the row ahead help us out. “He took a shot to the face,” one girl says.

“What!” My heart jumps to my throat.

“He laid out to block Cassidy’s shot,” Weston explains. “Puck was deflected.”

“But he’s wearing a visor,” I protest.

“Visor’s probably what cut him,” Jake says wryly.

“He’s fine,” Weston says. “Doesn’t look too bad.”

Now that the whistle has been blown and the players have skated away from the net, I can clearly see the red drops staining the white surface. It’s not as much blood as I thought. But still.

My panicked gaze seeks out Fitz. He’s on the Briar bench. His head is being tipped back by a woman I assume is the team doctor. She’s pressing a square of gauze to the outer edge of his right eyebrow. Not his eye, then. Relief flows through me.

Fitz is arguing with the doc. His mouth is moving, and his body practically vibrates with frustration. He wants to go back on the ice, but the woman keeps shaking her head. She readjusts the gauze, and my stomach churns when I glimpse the river of blood pouring down the side of his face.

“He needs stitches,” Brenna says unhappily.

Fitz flings a gloved hand toward the scoreboard, I assume to point out the game clock. There are eight minutes left in the third. Clearly he’s determined to keep playing. The doc once again shakes her head, unyielding. Then Coach Jensen shouts something at them, and Fitz stands up.

With my heart still lodged in my throat, I watch as he’s ushered away. He slams an angry glove against the boards before disappearing in the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.

I’m already marching toward the aisle. “Later, spies,” I call to the Harvard boys. To Brenna, I issue a sharp order. “Come on, Bee.”

I expect her to object, insist we need to watch the rest of the game, but she surprises me by following me down the steps. Outside the rink doors, I gaze imploringly at her. “Can you sneak me into the locker room? Or the medical room? Whatever you call it. I want to make sure he’s okay.”

She nods, her eyes softening. “Sure. I’ve got you.”

In the hallway, she takes the lead, while I scramble to keep up with her brisk pace. When we reach a door that requires a keycard, Brenna whips one out of her purse and holds it to the scanner. It turns green and off we go. Being the coach’s daughter comes with perks, apparently.

The doctor who’d been arguing with Fitz exits the locker room at the same time we approach it.

“Hey, Alex,” Brenna greets her. “How’s Fitzy?”

“Physically? He’s fine. I stitched him up.” The woman—Alex—rubs the bridge of her nose. She’s visibly aggravated. “But his attitude could use an adjustment. Your dad said he’s done for the night.”

Brenna nods. “Makes sense. We’re ahead by two.” She gestures to me. “You mind if Summer pops in to see him?”

Alex scrutinizes me for a moment. She’s a short, stocky woman with sharp features and a narrow jaw, but there’s kindness in her eyes. Finally she nods. “Be quick,” she tells me. To Brenna she says, “If your father asks, I never saw either of you.”

“You rock, Alex.” Once the team doc disappears around the corner, Brenna gives me a cheeky grin. “I’ll stand out here and keep watch. If someone comes, I’ll hoot like an owl.”

I swallow a laugh. “Solid plan,” I reply, reaching for the door handle.

When I enter the locker room, I find it completely empty. No Fitz, only sleek benches, padded lockers, and a faint whiff of sweat and old socks. In all honesty, the room smells a hell of a lot better than other locker rooms I’ve been in. Briar’s hockey facility boasts the kind of ventilation system other teams probably have wet dreams about.

The sound of rushing water captures my attention. I glance toward the wide doorway across the room. Wisps of steam float out of it, but I don’t see any light. There’s nothing but darkness beyond that doorway.

“Fitz?” I say warily.

A beat.

Two.

Then his equally wary, albeit muffled, voice replies with, “Summer?”

“Yeah, it’s me. I’m coming in, okay?”

I cross the threshold and am greeted by a cloud of steam. It takes a second for my eyes to adjust to both the darkness and the haze, for me to make out the bulky figure in the stall nearest the door. I’m not sure why I don’t turn on the light. I guess because he didn’t. If he wants to take a shower in the dark, who am I to stop him?

I inch my way toward the stall. In the shadows I glimpse the swirl of his tats and the ridges of his abs. Cotton fills my mouth when it occurs to me that he’s naked. The only barrier between Fitz’s naked body and myself is a short swinging door. All I have to do is nudge that partition, and I’d get an eyeful of—

“What are you doing in here?” His gruff voice interrupts my thoughts.

“I wanted to make sure you’re all right. How’s the eye?”

“Fine,” he grunts.

He turns the shower off and steps toward the little door. My heart rate triples. Water drips down his bare chest, rippling over his tattoo and trickling between his defined pecs. One muscular arm reaches out, and I forget how to breathe. Is he—

Reaching for the towel on the hook behind my head? Yes, he certainly is.

I gulp hard, hoping to bring some moisture to my arid mouth. Fitz wraps the towel around his waist and exits the stall, but rather than go into the other room, he stays put. We stand there in the darkness, facing each other. The air is still hot and muggy from the steam, but now it’s also thick with tension.

The sexual kind.

The “holy shit, this guy is looking at me like he’s already inside me” kind.

I try to ease backward, but my knees knock together. I honestly didn’t think it through when I decided to check on him. He’d just left the ice in the middle of a fast-paced, demanding game. He’s in pain because he took a puck to the face. He’s probably still hopped up on adrenaline.

He’s dangerous.

I don’t fear for my safety. But I fear for my sanity.

Shadows dance across his masculine features. I catch a glimpse of his tongue dragging over his bottom lip. Long fingers scraping over his wet hair. Then he speaks in a gravelly voice that sends a hot shiver up my spine.