Home > Risk on Ice (Boys of Winter #11)(4)

Risk on Ice (Boys of Winter #11)(4)
Author: S.R. Grey

This truly sounds like the only good option. I’d hate to imagine what kind of living situation the Wolves might come up with.

I could get stuck with a real douche.

Or they still could assign me a life coach.

No way.

Feeling like this is the only way out of the stupid situation I put my own ass in, I sigh and say, “Okay, let’s do this.”



Yes, He’s Hot, but He’s Clearly Trouble



Once I reach Las Vegas, I follow the GPS directions to Sebastian’s neighborhood.

From what he’s told me, he lives in a small enclave of six very nice, very upscale homes. He sent me a picture of his house after he bought it. It is magnificent, with a stucco exterior, terra-cotta roof, and so much massive square footage that it takes up the whole cul-de-sac on which it’s located.

Needless to say, I’m excited to see his awesome home in person. But more importantly, I can’t wait to surprise my brother.

First, though, I have one last stop to make. My stupid stomach is grumbling like crazy, demanding a small snack.

It’s no surprise, as I haven’t eaten a proper meal today, besides breakfast.

So food first.

Yeah, I would never just waltz into Sebastian’s house and expect him or Bettina to provide me with something to eat, especially since it’s getting late.

Yeah, no, that’s not happening.

So I take the next exit and search for an open fast-food joint with a drive-thru.

I find a place pretty quickly, and several minutes later, I’m parked in a space on the side of the building, chowing down on fries straight from the brown bag in which they came.

“Not the most nutritious snack, but these are delicious,” I murmur as, with my free hand, I pick up my phone to check for messages.

There aren’t any, no new emails either, but there is an alert from a well-known hockey blog that I follow.

Yep, Sebastian isn’t the only one in the family who loves the sport.

I open the alert to find a post about how the Wolves’ most recent trade acquisition, a guy, Alex Hartwell, who played on another team with my brother, is in some hot water.

“Pfft, I can see why,” I scoff around the fry I just popped into my mouth as I check out the accompanying photo.

It’s a selfie of Alex and two puck bunny-type blondes positioned lasciviously on either side of him. His black tee is pulled up, and the women are scratching their long powder-pink nails down his rather impressive taut abs.

Oh, and everyone’s tongues are out.


The whole scene is obnoxious, but there is one thing I can’t help but notice—this Hartwell dude has some freaking amazing abs.

“Talk about a six-pack,” I murmur as I run my thumb over the image of his nice torso. Sighing, I add, “Yes, he’s hot, but he’s clearly trouble.”

I recall reading about his former partying ways right after he was traded to the Wolves.

He’s supposed to be reformed.

But this pic tells an entirely different story.

He’s still up to his old ways.

But, damn, the guy is cute.

I can’t deny that.

He would’ve been my kind of man, for sure, back in the day, what with his sculpted body, chiseled jaw, cute dimples, and mussed up auburn hair that makes him look like he just rolled out of bed.

Mmm, bet he’s wild in the sack.

But I’ll never know, as I’m done with his kind.

Not that I’d really have any dealings with him, anyway. If I stay in town for a while, I may see him at some hockey functions, but that’s about it.

Why do I feel a little disappointed about that?

Am I crazy?

Maybe so, as I touch the screen once more, wondering what all those hard ridges would feel like under my fingertips.

His puck bunny friends sure know.


Okay, this long drive has obviously gotten to me.

I shake my head, clearing my thoughts and tossing my phone aside as I run my hands down my jean-clad thighs.

One thing for sure—it is definitely time to go.



New Living Arrangements



Sebastian picks me up at my hotel in his siren-red Lamborghini, and we then drive to the Desert Sports Complex, where the Wolves play and the management offices are located.

“Here goes nothing,” I say, sighing, as we pull into the players’ lot.

“You’re going to be fine,” my friend assures me as he parks and cuts the engine.

Shit, I hope he’s right.

After we go into the facility, we proceed straight to the main conference room to meet with the Wolves’ representatives.

In attendance is the director of player operations, Mr. Smith, Coach Townsend, and some stuffy corporate-type. I’m so on edge that I don’t even catch the guy’s title or name when we’re introduced.

After the obligatory handshakes, we take our seats at a long table. Sebastian and I are on one side, with the other three guys seated across from us.

With the sound of my blood rushing in my ears as I prepare for the worst, the meeting gets underway.

First off, I notice Coach is disappointed. He doesn’t say so, but his displeasure is clear from his dour expression. Same with Mr. Smith. He’s not real talkative, either, but he frowns a lot and shakes his head.

Conversely, the corporate dude—apparently he’s an attorney for the team named Mr. Bricker—sure has a lot to say.

After a stern lecture, most of which I tune out, he clears his throat loudly.

I look over at him, and he says, “Mr. Hartwell, the bottom line is that the Wolves take player behavior both on and off the ice very seriously.”

As he adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses, I reply honestly, “I know, I know, and I’m sorry. That picture was a stupid idea, but it was never supposed to get out.”

“But it did get out,” Mr. Bricker states dryly.

“Yeah, it did.” I sigh. “And, again, I apologize for that. I clearly had a lapse in judgment. But from this day forward, I promise you nothing like that will ever happen again.”

“I should hope not,” the attorney scoffs. “That’s why we need to discuss what specific measures you plan to take so no more embarrassing situations like this one occur again.”

“Of course,” I agree, feeling sorrier by the minute. “I don’t know what to say. I can only try to do better.” I rake my fingers through my hair and add remorsefully, “I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

It’s true.

I’m ready to accept my fate.

After clearing his throat, Mr. Bricker says, “Excellent. That’s a fine attitude. And it’s a good start. Still, I’m thinking a life coach might be in order.”

Shit, no.

Not that option.

Thankfully, Sebastian jumps in. “If it’s okay with everyone, may I make an alternate suggestion?”

“Sure,” Mr. Bricker says as the other two men nod in agreement.

“What if Alex stays with me for a while?” He raises a questioning brow.

There’s silence at first, but then Coach Townsend says, “Mr. Alderman is quite settled. He’s older too. I think he could be a calming influence. This may work.”

Good God, they act like I got caught with my pants down. Okay, sure, my shirt was pulled up. But my jeans were firmly in place, damn it.

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