LOGINTerry Wilde is the ruthless, hot-headed captain of the Boston Blizzard. After a violent locker-room brawl threatens his multi-million dollar contract, the front office delivers an ultimatum: find a stable girlfriend to clean up his image, or spend the playoffs benched. Eve Brooks is the team's brilliant new Head of Analytics. She is sharp, data-driven, and completely immune to Terry’s infamous charm—partly because she thinks he’s a reckless jock, but mostly because she’s a lesbian. When Eve’s ultra-conservative family threatens to cut off her career funding unless she presents a "respectable" male suitor, Terry’s PR team pitches the ultimate trade. The Deal: Fake-date for the season. Terry gets a wholesome image makeover, and Eve keeps her dream job. To fool the aggressive paparazzi, Eve moves into Terry’s luxury penthouse. Living together is supposed to be safe. With zero sexual tension on her end, they form an unlikely alliance—she fixes his game strategy, and he acts as her secret wingman at elite sports galas. But as the high-stakes NHL playoffs loom, the lines between fake and real begin to blur. Through late-night hockey tape sessions and fierce on-ice protection, Terry finds himself falling for the one woman he can't have, while Eve faces an unexpected emotional awakening with the one man who truly makes her feel safe.
View MoreThe headlights of the sleek black town car sliced through the pouring Boston rain, illuminating the crimson carpet stretched outside the historic theater. Beyond the heavy velvet ropes, a sea of umbrellas, flashing camera lenses, and screaming fans created a wall of sensory overload.Inside the quiet sanctuary of the vehicle, Eve smoothed down the midnight-blue silk of her dress. Her hands were surprisingly steady, though her analytical mind was currently running a high-speed simulation of every possible PR disaster that could occur over the next three hours."Heart rate is elevated," Terry noted softly from the seat beside her.Eve turned her head. Terry looked completely striking in a custom black tuxedo, the crisp white of his shirt contrasting with his tanned skin and the sharp shadow of his jaw. His dark hair was styled back, though a few rebellious strands fell over his forehead. He looked less like a brute on skates and more like royalty."I am simply reviewing the protocol," E
The text from Eve's father didn't just change the rules of their living arrangement; it changed the timeline. Marcus, functioning on pure PR panic, had decreed that if Eve was moving into Terry's penthouse, she needed a wardrobe that matched the tax bracket.Which was how Eve found herself standing inside a private, appointment-only boutique in Beacon Hill at ten o'clock on a Tuesday morning, staring at a rack of evening gowns that cost more than her entire annual data-software budget."You're scowling at the silk, Brooks," Terry said from the plush velvet couch across the room.He looked entirely out of place among the minimalist gold racks and champagne flutes, yet completely at home with the luxury of it. He was wearing dark tailored trousers and a casual knit polo that perfectly accentuated the heavy lines of his chest. His long legs were stretched out, an iPad balanced on his thigh as he skimmed through the latest practice clips she had sent him."I am calculating the sheer ineff
By noon, the quiet awkwardness of the morning was replaced by the unforgiving brightness of the Boston Blizzard practice facility. Eve stood on the management observation deck, her fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the steel railing. Down below, the team was running drills. The sharp crack of hockey sticks hitting the puck and the heavy thud of bodies slamming against the plexiglass echoed through the chilled arena. Terry was a force of nature on the ice. He moved with an aggressive, terrifying grace, his blades slicing through the ice as he led the first line. He wasn't wearing his reading glasses now. His jaw was set, his eyes locked on the net as he took a pass and fired a wrist shot so fast the puck became a blur before tearing into the top corner of the goal. "Impressive, isn't he?" Eve didn't need to turn around to recognize Marcus’s voice. The PR director stepped up to the railing beside her, holding a tablet of his own. "His velocity is standard for a top-tier w
Eve did not sleep well. The guest bed in the east wing of the penthouse was incredibly comfortable, but the unfamiliar sounds of the high-rise—the distant hum of the elevator, the whistle of the wind against the thick glass windows—kept her tossing and turning. By five in the morning, she gave up. She pulled on a pair of black leggings and an oversized grey sweatshirt, grabbing her tablet before padding quietly out of her room. The penthouse was dead silent, cast in the cool, blue shadow of early dawn. Following the rules of engagement, she stayed strictly to her side of the apartment, navigating toward the kitchen island to hunt for caffeine. She pressed the button on Terry’s ridiculously complex, high-end espresso machine, waiting as it hissed and whirred to life. "You're up early," a low, gravelly voice rasped from the shadows. Eve gasped, spinning around so fast she nearly knocked over her ceramic mug. Terry was sitting on the dark leather sofa in the living room. He was il
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