Ella O'Connell knew the lines of loyalty were drawn in sharp, unforgiving black on the white ice. And her line the one she was never allowed to cross was named Jimmy Thorne.
Jimmy was the star captain of the Panthers, the bitterest enemy of the Wolves, the team led by her older brother, Caleb. For three years, the entire league had been fueled by the vicious, unrelenting competition between Jimmy and Caleb. To Ella, Jimmy was supposed to be a walking, talking penalty box: arrogant, irritatingly talented, and far too charismatic for the enemy.
She was the Wolves' unofficial cheerleader and Caleb's fiercely loyal sister. But every time she saw Jimmy off the ice, tying his skates, or smiling that reckless, insolent smile during warm-ups a dangerous current of awareness zipped through her core. He was forbidden, and that only made the voltage stronger.
It was a late, icy Thursday after a particularly brutal Wolves loss. Ella was sitting on the curb outside the rink, defeated, trying to wrestle a massive duffel bag of team laundry into her tiny car's passenger seat. The zipper was hopelessly jammed.
"Need an assist, O'Connell?"
Ella jumped, nearly knocking her head on the open door. Jimmy Thorne stood over her, his Panthers jersey pulled off, revealing a sweat-damp black shirt that clung to his chest. His hair was wet and slightly tousled, and he looked impossibly handsome, even while gloating.
"Go celebrate your win, Thorne," she snapped, digging her nails into the stubborn zipper. "This is Wolves business, which you have no access to."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound that made her skin prickle. He knelt effortlessly beside her, not asking permission, but simply taking the bag. His fingers, strong and callused from his stick, deftly worked the metal.
"I have access to everything, Ella. Just ask for it."
The zipper released with a sharp zip. He glanced up at her, their faces suddenly inches apart. His eyes a startling shade of deep amber held hers captive. The air grew immediately hotter, thicker, ignoring the cold January night.
"You're supposed to be celebrating with your team," she whispered, her voice husky.
"I got distracted," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. "Thinking about the one thing Caleb hates more than losing."
"Which is?"
"Me, touching you."
He moved with startling speed. Before Ella could even form a protest, his hand cupped the back of her neck, his thumb brushing a nerve ending behind her ear. He leaned in, and his mouth found hers.
The kiss wasn't gentle; it was a hungry, demanding claim, fueled by months of rivalry-induced tension. It was the taste of cold air and warm skin, of immediate, unapologetic possession. Ella's mind screamed Wrong! Enemy! but her body betrayed her, melting instantly against his warmth. Her hands clutched the damp cotton of his shirt, pulling him closer, desperate to deepen the shocking connection.
Jimmy groaned softly into the kiss, shifting his weight to press her back against the side of the car, pinning her with his body and his mouth. He kissed her with an arrogance that suggested he'd always planned this, that she was just waiting for him to stake his claim.
He broke the kiss suddenly, leaving her breathless, her lips tingling and swollen. He rested his forehead against hers, his breath hot against her skin.
"That's what's been on my mind, Ella," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble. "That connection on the ice we share it has nothing to do with hockey."
He pulled back just far enough to look her in the eye, his expression intense and possessive. "You are officially pucked, O'Connell. I'll text you tomorrow. Don't ignore it, or I'll walk into your house and tell Caleb exactly what we just did."
He winked, the perfect blend of danger and devastating charm, and then he was gone a phantom leaving behind the lingering heat of his kiss and the absolute knowledge that she was now tangled in a thrilling, high-stakes game only they knew they were playing.