The arena was still pulsing with victory when I slipped into the locker room corridor, my heart hammering louder than the chants of “Storm! Storm!” that shook the rafters. The New York Storm had just clinched the playoffs in triple overtime, and the energy was electric—raw, sweaty, masculine. As the team’s social media manager, I was supposed to be capturing the perfect post-game shots, posting the victory reels, keeping things professional. But tonight, all I could think about was him.Jax Rivera.My favorite player. The one I’d been quietly obsessed with for two seasons. Six-foot-four of pure power, dark tousled hair damp with sweat, those piercing green eyes that always seemed to find me in a crowded press room. His forearms alone could ruin a girl’s focus—veined, thick, made for gripping sticks and, I’d fantasized more than once, hips.The official celebration was in full swing in the main lounge—champagne popping, players shouting, media snapping photos. I’d already posted the ob
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