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 quiet inside Penthouse 4001 felt like a sacred, physical weight.Outside, midtown Manhattan was a blurred canvas of neon and low rain, the distant hum of city traffic muffled by thirty-two floors of glass. Inside, the suite was dark save for a single amber floor lamp near the lounge chair and the soft, cool illumination of Eve’s tablet.Eve sat cross-legged near the headboard of the California King, her dark hair freed from its severe knot and spilling over her shoulders in soft, dark waves. She wore a long-sleeved silk sleep shirt and soft lounge pants, her posture relaxed for the first time in weeks. Across her lap rested her tablet, displaying the comprehensive post-game telemetry file from the 3–1 victory over the Vipers.Beside her, leaning back against a mountain of white pillows, was Terry.He had showered away the ice and sweat of Madison Square Garden, but his fatigue was written in the faint, dark circles beneath his eyes and the tight, rigid line of his jaw. He wore a d
For a agonizing, heart-stopping second, twenty thousand people in Madison Square Garden held their breath.Terry had Hunter Vance by the collar of his sweater, his bare hands gripped so tight the blue fabric groaned under the tension. Every unwritten rule of hockey dictated what came next: the helmet popped, the gloves dropped, and the fists flew.Up in the executive suite, Vance Brooks leaned forward against the glass, a cruel, satisfied smirk curling his lip. A major fighting penalty here would mean a match misconduct, an automatic game ejection, and a potential league suspension for his captain. It would give Vance every legal and public relations weapon he needed to strip Terry of his standing and regain total control over Eve’s narrative.And up in the tactical box, Eve felt her heart shatter. Her telemetry screens were screaming in bright red, Terry’s heart rate hovering at a dangerous 202 BPM.*Don't do it, Terry,* she prayed silently, her hands pressed flat against the glass w
The impact didn't just rattle the glass; it shook the steel foundations of Madison Square Garden.Hunter Vance hit Terry like a freight train flying off the tracks, his shoulder driving straight into Terry’s compromised left side with malicious, premeditated intent. The collision was a sickening crunch of composite fiberglass, heavy leather, and compressed cartilage.For a fraction of a second, the laws of physics seemed to pause. Terry’s left knee buckled under the sheer force of the kinetic load, the patellar tendon screaming in white-hot agony as it absorbed the brunt of the hit. The world went blindingly white at the edges of his vision.Yet, somehow, Terry didn't go down.With a primal grunt that tore from the depths of his chest, Terry dug his right edge into the scarred ice, locked his core like a steel vault, and met Hunter’s momentum head-on. Instead of flying backward, Hunter found himself hitting an immovable wall of bone and muscle. The Vipers captain bounced off Terry’s c
The ice at Madison Square Garden wasn't smooth; it was scarred, chopped into white powder by sixty minutes of relentless, bone-crunching violence.Up in the executive suite behind reinforced glass, Vance Brooks and Julian Ren watched like Roman emperors. Down on the ice, the atmosphere was suffocating. The New York Vipers played hockey like a bar fight with skates on, and tonight, their entire game plan boiled down to a single directive: break Terry Wilde.Leading that charge was Hunter Vance.Hunter was Julian’s cousin—a six-foot-three power forward built like an anvil, with a dark visor, a jagged scar across his chin, and a reputation as the dirtiest captain in the Eastern Conference. Where Julian used contracts and boardrooms to bully people, Hunter used elbow pads, timber-hard cross-checks, and a foul mouth that never stopped running.The whistle blew in the neutral zone, killing a play after a offside call.Terry glided to a stop near the red line, his breathing heavy, the sweat






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