“Stop!” Bo put his hands over his ears and gaped down at her. “Good God, woman. Hit the brakes on the freight train that is your mouth.”

How pathetic. She was getting “assistance”—and she was using that term lightly—from the most assholey of all pro athletes. It was kind of like Mother Teresa asking Stalin for advice on the best way to handle difficult lepers.

And now he was telling her to shut up. Like she hadn’t heard that enough over the years. The only person who had never told her to shut up had been her mother. Blayne could talk for hours, nonstop, and her mother never said a word or complained. Of course, the party was over once Cranky Old Wolf got home, but that was something to be dealt with in therapy.

Novikov lowered his hands and let out an overly dramatic breath. “I didn’t think it would be this easy, but I know what your problem is. You think too much.”

“I can say with all honesty,” she said flatly, “you are perhaps the only person who’s ever said that to me. At least without a definite note of sarcasm.”

“Do you know what I think about when I’m on the ice?”

“Something like, ‘Will I have to go to hell for what I just did to that guy’s face?’”

“No. That never crosses my mind.”

“Shocking.” Dropping her hands to her hips, she asked, “So what are you thinking when you’re on the ice?”

“My puck.”

Blayne waited for more. She waited at least two full minutes for more, but Bo didn’t say anything else, and for two full minutes they stared at each other until she couldn’t stand the silence any longer. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

“ ‘My puck’? You don’t think about anything else? Like strategy or what your teammates are doing or time on the clock or—”

“I’m aware of all that, but I’m thinking ‘My puck.’”

“How . . . one note.”

“It works.”

He had a point. Novikov had brought nearly any team he’d been on to championship, was the all-time scorer in the league, and was considered one of the best players of all time. As much as Blayne hated his lack of fair play, she couldn’t ignore the fact that the man was a winner.

Something Blayne wanted to be, she just didn’t know until this moment how much.

And as she stared up at the seven-one, nearly four-hundred-pound descendent of Genghis Khan himself, it suddenly occurred to her that the one person who could help her become a winner was standing right in front of her.

That’s when, for the first time since Sunday brunch, Blayne smiled.

Why was she smiling at him like that? It wasn’t that big, sweet smile she usually had. What he secretlycalled her “doggie grin.” No, this was the wolf in her coming out, and the cat in him didn’t like it one damn bit.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She skated closer. “So, do you train every day?”

“Of course. Don’t you?”

“Not really.”

“You should.”

“Okay.” She moved around him. “Are you here every morning?”

“Except Sundays.”

“I guess you get in bright and early, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Like . . . what? Five thirty? Or six?”

“Six.”

“You start at the rink or the gym first?”

“Rink. That way I can—” Bo’s eyes narrowed. “Wait.”

She skated to stop in front of him, and her smile had turned decidedly false and misleading.

“Not in this lifetime.” Bo turned away from her, but she zipped in front of him, proving she was as fast as she’d seemed on the track.

“You haven’t heard my offer.”

Bo took a step back. “You’re not going to offer me sex, are you?”

Blayne scowled. “No. I wasn’t. But I’m not sure I like the look of obvious disgust on your face.” She slammed her hands onto her hips. “Are you saying you wouldn’t want to have sex with me? Because you were the one who asked me out. And I don’t appreciate—”

“Freight train. Brakes.”

She snorted at him. Like a bull.

“If you’re going to offer sex,” he went on, “I just think it should be for something life or death. Or money.” He thought on that a moment, nodded. “Yeah. Life-or-death situation or money. But for a chick hobby? That’s a little beneath you, don’t you think?”

“A chick hobby?” she spit at him.

Bo wiped his chin. “What would you call it?”

“A sport! A valid sport!”

“Oh, come on.”

“Great. Another guy afraid of women in sports.”

“I’m not afraid of women in sports. Wait. I’m lying.”

“A-ha!”

“The sows on the Kodiak hockey team . . . I’m afraid of them. They’re mean.”

Her anger slipped away as quickly as it had come. Now she seemed fascinated. “There are women in the hockey league?”

“Yeah. It’s just . . . kind of hard to tell sometimes.”

“I had no idea.”

“Hockey league is coed. And if you saw the women play, you’d understand why.” She slapped his arm. “Ow.”

“You respect the sows in the hockey league—”