Moments later she gave a rap on his open door and appeared there. Christ. She was still wearing nothing but underwear. He knew he shouldn’t look, but it was impossible not to.

“I’m done!” she said cheerfully. “Bathroom’s all yours.” Then she turned, giving him another view of that excellent ass.

He was having a heart attack. Was that what that pain in his chest was? He rubbed a hand over his heart as he hauled himself back to the bathroom to shower. Once again, she’d filled the room with her sweet scent. Some kind of shimmery powder had spilled a little onto the marble vanity and her pink poufy sponge hung dripping from a hook in the shower. He tried to block all that out. It wasn’t as if he’d never shared a bathroom with a woman before. He’d lived with Marissa for two years. Why was Lovey’s girl shit getting to him?

She was in the kitchen when he’d finished showering, shaving, and dressing, sitting at the counter with her laptop open, eating Greek yogurt from a container, a steaming mug of coffee beside her computer. Thankfully she was now dressed, yet he couldn’t help but picture that sheer lacy lingerie beneath the turtleneck sweater and jeans she wore.

“Sorry about hogging the bathroom,” she said. “I don’t want to get in your way.”

“No worries.” He grabbed the loaf of bread. “I didn’t expect you to be up this early.”

“I have stuff to do.”

“Like checking Facebook?” He glanced at her laptop.

She looked up from her computer and blinked at him. “Actually, no. I’m reading ‘Women’s Wear Daily.’ ”

“Oh.” Yeah, that was much better than Facebook. “What are you up to today? Job-hunting?”

She gave him a long, unreadable look. “Sure.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”

“Are you going to be on my case, like my big brother?”

He held up his hands, leaning against the counter. “Hell no. Just making conversation. It’s your life.”

“Nice to hear someone say that,” she muttered. She focused on her screen and clicked her trackpad. “Wow. The Sutton Group is acquiring Elin Olsen.”

Whatever that meant.

The condo door opened and closed and Army appeared, carrying a plastic shopping bag. “Had to get more chocolate milk.” He pulled a big jug out of the bag. “You driving to the arena with me?”

“No, got some stuff to do after. Having lunch with Evert.” His agent.

Army nodded. “Okay.” He looked at Lovey and opened his mouth.

She held up a hand. “Please. Do not ask me if I’m going job-hunting today.”

Army frowned. “Lovey—”

“I have a plan.” She snapped down the lid on her laptop and picked it and her coffee mug up. “See you later.”

She disappeared down the hall.

Army sighed. “Okay, I’m outta here. See you at the arena.”

“You bet.”

After Army had left, Marc looked at the closed door of Lovey’s bedroom. He’d apologized. But he still felt unsettled. Things seemed unfinished. But not only did he have to leave Lovey alone because of her brother, he had to stay focused. For a Stanley Cup champion team, it was humiliating to be playing so shitty. They had a game tomorrow, another chance to snap the winless streak and show their fans—and themselves—they could still do it.

Hockey had to come first.

After practice, Marc found Dale Ronson, whose unofficial role was team enforcer. The guy was six foot six, two hundred eighty pounds. Sometimes he didn’t even have to fight guys to intimidate them—just a mean look would do it. He was out for surgery on his back last year and had been skating for only a few months. “Hey, man, got a few minutes?”

“Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“Let’s go into the screening room.” They could have a little privacy in there.

When they got there, Marc leaned against a desk. “You were late to practice today.”

Dale nodded, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“This wasn’t the first time. And you missed a team meeting last week. You doing okay? Your back bothering you?”

Dale gave a brief shake of his head. “I’m okay. But yeah, my back still hurts. Probably always will.”

“You still working with Tony?” Their head trainer.

“Yeah. Sometimes.”

“You need to stick with it, man.” Marc paused. “You taking anything?”

Dale gave him a brief, narrow-eyed look. “Yeah. Some painkillers.”

Marc waited.

“They don’t help like they used to,” Dale admitted. “I have to keep taking more and more.”

Shit. Just what he’d been worried about. “Look, man. We need you here, a hundred percent, every time. If you’re not recovered, do something about it. Get more PT. Tony’ll help you. We need you. We need you to come out skating and hitting. Saturday, you looked like you didn’t even want to be here. We can’t win games like that.”

“I know, I know.” Dale rubbed his face.

“I’m concerned about you,” Marc said quietly. “You don’t have the energy you used to. You don’t seem very happy.” If he was being honest, Dale seemed depressed.

“I’m fine.”

Marc nodded, studying his teammate. “There’s help if you need it. Just saying.”

“Yeah. I’m good. Look, I gotta go.”

“Yeah.” Marc stood. “Me too. Got a lunch date with Evert. See you tomorrow.”

He watched Dale leave. His gut was telling him there was more going on with him than he’d admitted. That brief comment about needing to take more and more painkillers scared Marc. He’d seen this happen before, guys who’d been injured came back and started popping pills so they could play, ended up addicted to narcotics. They were trying to save their career and ended up trashing their whole life. Yeah, he was worried about Dale’s impact on the team, but he was also worried about Dale.

Well, he’d put a bug in the guy’s ear and hopefully Dale would give some thought to what he’d said.

—

Lovey spent the morning online, working on her blog and finishing the industry research she’d started while eating breakfast. She was getting annoyed with Marc’s little jabs about Facebook and she’d seen his skeptical expression when she’d said she was reading “WWD.” Truthfully, she had been on Facebook, messaging with Jillian about how her skating date had gone, but that was only a few minutes. But she didn’t want to reveal too many details of what she was doing until she was more successful.

She had a meeting that afternoon with a potential client, a women’s clothing manufacturer and retailer. Not one of the biggest in the country, but well known in the Midwest. Their headquarters was here in Chicago and she had a meeting there this afternoon to talk about her social media plan for them. She wanted to be knowledgeable about what was happening in the women’s apparel industry. This acquisition by the Sutton Group, a major competitor of Panache Clothing, was big news and she needed to know how it could affect her client.

She had her presentation all ready to go. After she ate a light lunch—tuna and some raw veggies she’d purchased at the Italian market yesterday—she changed into a suit and did her makeup. She’d already been on Google Maps and figured out how to get to the Panache offices, which weren’t that far away. She hadn’t wanted to ask Duncan or Marc for help, because if this deal didn’t work out, she’d rather they not even know about it.

Panache would be her biggest client yet and she really, really wanted them. It would be a big kick-start to her fledgling business.

She wore her black high-heeled boots today and a charcoal suit, a silky blouse in silvery gray and black beneath it. She carried her laptop in a case over her shoulder and her purse, and headed out for her meeting.

Three hours later she was back home. She felt things had gone well but they hadn’t offered her the contract on the spot, and she wasn’t sure what to make of that. She walked into the condo to find Marc and Duncan sprawled on the couch watching TV.

She dropped her purse and laptop case. “What on earth are you watching?”