The Hockey Captain’s Obsession

Oliver took a job with the city's top hockey team to find out who murdered his father.

He did not plan to sleep with Alexander Whitman.

Alexander is the famous hockey captain. He is huge, cold, and strictly closeted. Their secret one-night stand changes everything. Alexander's touch is hot, rough, and totally addictive.

But Alexander is hiding a dark secret. His real name is Alexander Montgomery. He is the billionaire heir to the exact family that killed Oliver's dad.

When Oliver finds out the ugly truth, he runs. But the Ice King will not let him go.

"I will give you my money, my fame, my whole life," Alexander whispers, pressing his hard chest against Oliver. "But I will never give you your freedom."

The locker room of the New York Glaciers smelled like wintergreen, expensive cologne, and male sweat.

To most fans, this was the smell of victory.

To Oliver Hartley, it just smelled like forty thousand dollars of student debt.

Oliver adjusted the strap of his heavy massage kit. He was twenty-three years old, with messy blonde curls that refused to stay flat and bright blue eyes that usually held a spark of mischief.

But today, those eyes were tired.

He had graduated top of his class in nursing, but nursing didn't pay enough to clear his loans fast. Being a massage assistant for a star hockey team did.

Plus, there was another reason he was here.

Dr. Hartley. His father. The man who died on this very ice five years ago.

Bzzzt.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Oliver checked it quickly. It was his sister Scarlett.

Don't do it, Oli, the text read. Stop digging. It's dangerous. Mom wouldn't want this.

Oliver frowned. He tapped the screen to call her back, hiding behind a row of metal lockers.

"Scarlett, I'm already inside," he whispered into the phone. "I found his old logbook. There are pages missing from the week he died. I need to know..."

"Hey! You! The blondie!"

A loud, arrogant voice cut through the air. Oliver jumped and quickly ended the call. He turned around to see James, the team's backup goalie. James was rich, spoiled, and had a face that looked like it was permanently sneering.

"Are you paid to chat with your girlfriend, or are you paid to work?" James snapped, tossing a sweaty towel onto the floor right in front of Oliver's shoes. "Pick it up."

Oliver took a deep breath. Think about the money. Think about the debt.

"I'm the massage therapist assistant, James, not the waiter," Oliver said, his voice calm but sharp. He had a tongue that could cut glass when he wanted to. "But if your back is as weak as your save percentage, I can see why you're cranky."

The locker room went silent. A few players chuckled.

James's face turned red. He stepped forward, looming over Oliver. "What did you say, you little..."

"Enough."

One word. Low, deep, and commanding. It stopped James in his