Page 5 of Icebound

I grin like a first-round draft pick. “Yeah? You noticed my eyes?”

“They’re very bright,” she says with no shame. I can’t tell if that’s a compliment. “Now, go. What color are they?”

“I didn’t get a good look because it’s dark, but I think they’re blue. Maybe green? They remind me of this mood ring my sister gave me. You’ve got the type of eyes a man needs to stare at a little longer to figure out the color, and I don’t mind staring.”

She rolls those stormy eyes of hers. “That’s such an ass-man response.”

I lean forward, getting a whiff of cinnamon and something delicate. It covers up my smell, so I breathe deeper. “Alright, what kind of woman are you?”

“An incredible one,” she deadpans.

I try not to grin, but her answer’s too good to resist. “There’s no doubt, but are you an ass-woman or an eye-woman? Or, hell, maybe a shoulder-woman? And don’t act like women don’t notice those things because I know they do.”

She slows to a stop light. “I’m a personality-woman.”

“Well played.” My smile widens. “What’s your name, personality-woman?”

She sighs like I asked her to drive me across the country. “Fine, don’t check the app. It’s Nina. Well, technically, it’s Philomena, thanks to my grandmother’s dying wish, but I go by Nina because there’s no way I’m going by Phil.”

“Nina…” I swirl the name like it’s a forty-year-old aged whiskey. “Nina, I like it. It fits you.”

“Good. I was really on the edge of my seat, wondering if a stranger would like my name.”

The corner of my mouth lifts higher. Her personality’s got a bite, and it has me wanting more of a taste. “Is this your main job, or do you do something else?”

“You first, ass-man.”

“I’m a plumber,” I lie. No one asks more questions about plumbers, and I talk about my hockey career enough in media interviews since it’s my contract year. The constant questions about my potential retirement are grueling.

She makes some noise in her throat, switching lanes under the flickering streetlights. “Right. If you’re a plumber, then I’m a neurosurgical resident.”

My brows fly to my hairline. I can’t tell if she’s lying, but my sister says I’m so trustworthy that I border on gullible. I’m less naive now since it’s not a good trait for someone in the spotlight, but I like to believe the best in people, even if it bites me in the ass.

When I started my rookie year, the veterans on the team convinced me everyone went commando for home games because it was good luck. I spent that first year in the League rubbing my bare ballsack against a jockstrap. My skin’s still a darker shade from all the chafing.

I narrow my eyes. “Oh, yeah? Prove it. Tell me a fact about the brain.”

“Women’s brains are seven-point-nine-two percent larger than men’s brains.”

There’s no chance in hell I’m arguing that, and the fact is specific enough that I believe her. “Alright, that’s impressive. How old are you? You must’ve been in school for a while.”

It’s awkward, but I always have to ask because I can never tell a woman’s age, and I refuse to date someone under thirty. People in their twenties are still searching for themselves, and I need a woman who’s already found herself. I don’t play games unless I’m on the ice. Not anymore.

“I’m in my residency, so I guess that makes me thirty.”

My shoulders loosen. She looks younger, but I’m not going to call her on it when I know nothing about the medical field. I called a stethoscope a telescope until I was twelve.

She flicks on her turn signal. “So, a plumber and a neurosurgeon get into a car. Sounds like the start of a terrible joke. What do you think the punchline is?”

“I’m pretty sure the neurosurgeon gives the plumber her number.”

She laughs. The raspy sound fills the entire car. I smirk. Damn, do I smirk big. “I’m pretty sure that’s not the—”

A gunshot cuts her off.

She screams, swerving the Audi.

My head slams into the window, and pain bursts through my temple.