My Hockey Hearthrob

The Assignment

The last time I saw Jax Carter, he was kissing me in a truck bed behind the rink, promising that when he made it to the NHL, he'd put my name on his first jersey.

The first time I saw him after five years was on a 70-inch screen in my boss's office, shirtless, dripping wet, with a blonde model's legs wrapped around his waist.

"Ratings gold," my boss Diane said, pausing the video.

I wanted to throw up.

"Are you listening, Reyes?"

I forced my eyes off the screen. "I thought I was on the junior figure skating piece."

"You were. Until Frost Wolves PR called us. They want exclusive behind-the-scenes access for their championship run. And they asked for you. Specifically."

That didn't make sense. Nobody at Frost Wolves knew I existed. Nobody except —

"Jax Carter asked for me?" My voice cracked.

"No. Their GM did. But Carter is the captain. You'll be embedded for three months. Practices, locker room — well, the edges of it — press conferences, road games. You get the story no one else gets. The girl who infiltrates the most testosterone-fueled team in the league."

My stomach dropped. "Diane, I can't."

"Why? Because you two have history?" She slid a folder across the desk. I opened it. Inside was a photo from senior year — me and Jax at prom. How did she even have that?

"I did my research. You and the golden boy of Minnesota hockey. High school sweethearts, brutal breakup when he got drafted and you went to Columbia Journalism. This is perfect. You have access no one else has."

"I haven't spoken to him in five years," I whispered.

"Then it should be easy. It's just an assignment, Ella. Professional. Unless you can't be professional?"

That was the challenge. And Diane knew I never backed down from one.

I took the folder. "When do I start?"

"Tomorrow. 5 a.m. tryouts. And Reyes? They added a twist. Since you're so keen on being a 'serious sports journalist,' they want you to actually try out for the practice squad. For the story. First woman to ever try out for a men's pro-track team. You in?"

I thought about Jax's cold eyes on that screen. About the way he used to look at me like I was the only warm thing in a rink.

"I'm in."

The Frost Wolves facility smelled exactly the same — rubber, ice, and boys' body spray trying too hard.

I was late, my hair was still damp from running, and I was carrying a notebook that screamed I don't belong here.

The ice was empty when I walked in, except for one person doing laps so fast he was a blur in black. Number 17. C on his chest.

Jax.

He didn't see me at first. He moved like he was born on blades — powerful, effortless, angry. He shot a puck into the net so hard the whole goal shook.

Then he stopped. And turned.

His helmet came off. Sweat made his dark hair stick to his forehead. That jawline that used to clench when he was trying not to kiss me in class was sharper now. Older.

His eyes found mine across the ice. And everything — the Zamboni hum, the flickering lights — just stopped.

For a second, his whole face cracked. Surprise. Pain. Something raw that looked a lot like you.

Then it slammed shut. Ice.

He skated toward the boards where I was standing. Slow. Deliberate. Every stride a warning.

"Ella."

One word. Low and rough.

"Hi, Jax," I managed. My notebook was suddenly very heavy.

"What are you doing here?"

"Your GM hired my publication. I'm covering your championship run. Embedded journalist."

He stared at me. His chest was heaving, sweat dripping down his neck into his jersey. I remembered what that neck tasted like.

"I told them I didn't want press."

"Well, they wanted me anyway."

He leaned on the boards, so close I could see the scar above his eyebrow from when he took a puck in junior year. I was there that night.

"You cut your hair," he said.

"You got taller. And colder."

A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You shouldn't have come."

"Wow. Welcome back too."

We were inches apart, separated only by the boards. Five years disappeared. I could feel the heat coming off him despite the ice.

"If you're going to write about me, Reyes, get one thing straight," he said, voice low enough that only I could hear. "On my ice, I'm not your ex. I'm your captain. You call me Carter. You don't get special treatment because we used to f**k in your car."

My face burned. "We did not — we never — in my CAR? You have the memory of a goldfish. It was YOUR truck."

For the first time, something like a smirk touched his mouth. "You remember it, then."

"I remember you had more personality back then."

His smirk died. He pushed off the boards. "Tryouts are at five. Don't be late. And don't wear that perfume. It distracts my team."

He skated away before I could say that it was the same perfume he used to love, the one he said smelled like home.

I stood there, heart pounding, notebook shaking.

The cold captain act was new. But the way his eyes had raked down my body before he turned away? That wasn't cold at all. That was burning.

And tomorrow, I had to try out for his team.

God help me.