Hockey's Heat
Author
C.l.o.x.a.
Reads
203K
Chapters
65
Sports reporter Savannah Carter is assigned an all-access feature on the Denver Storm—only to realize the cocky stranger she took home is Wes Dalton, the team’s star forward. Forced into close quarters for interviews and locker-room access, Savannah fights to stay professional as Wes keeps pushing boundaries. Then a guarded defenseman, Nolan Reed, hints at a buried story no one wants told—and Savannah has to decide what she’ll risk for the truth.
The Assignment from Hell
SAVANNAH
I stared at the email, rereading the assignment for the third time as a headache threatened to split my skull.
Savannah Carter for An in-depth feature on the city’s beloved hockey team, the Denver Storm. Player interviews, behind-the-scenes access, and an analysis of the sport’s cultural significance.
I hated sports. Not in a dramatic, fist-shaking, lifelong vendetta kind of way—more in the casual disinterest of someone who had never understood the appeal of chasing a puck across a frozen slab of ice or memorizing an endless stream of statistics about players I had never met and would never care about.
I was a writer, damn it, not a sports journalist. And yet, somehow, I’d landed an assignment that would haunt me for the next three months: an in-depth, behind-the-scenes look at professional hockey from the perspective of an outsider.
Hockey. Of all things.
My editor had pitched it as a fresh angle, something different from the usual hard-hitting sports analysis. “Readers will love it, Sav,” he had said, clapping me on the back like he hadn’t just condemned me to sports purgatory. “You’ll be embedded with the team, talking to the players, getting a real feel for the game. Think of it as an adventure.”
An adventure. Right. More like a slow, painful death by slap shot.
I groaned, slumping back against my desk chair and rubbing my temples in frustration. I knew nothing about hockey beyond the fact that it involved ice, sticks, and an alarming number of missing teeth.
Yet, somehow, I was expected to write a full-length feature on the team that had the entire city wrapped around its finger. No pressure, right?
After an hour of fruitless research—most of which consisted of trying to decipher what the hell “icing” meant and getting distracted by YouTube compilations of brutal on-ice fights—I slammed my laptop shut with more force than necessary.
I needed a drink.
By the time I left the office, my nerves were frayed. I had two weeks to conduct initial interviews before officially embedding with the team, and two weeks to figure out how the hell I was supposed to fake being knowledgeable about hockey.
***
I rarely let loose. My life was a carefully curated balance of deadlines, late-night writing sessions, and an unhealthy amount of caffeine.
But tonight, I wanted to forget about hockey, forget about my assignment, forget about everything except the pleasant burn of whiskey down my throat.
The bar I stumbled into wasn’t my usual kind of place. It was dimly lit, pulsing with bass-heavy music, and packed with people who were already deep into their Friday night revelry. The air was thick with the scent of spilled beer, cheap cologne, and something faintly smoky.
I slid onto a barstool, resting my elbows on the worn wooden counter, and ordered a whiskey neat because if I was going to make questionable choices, I might as well commit.
I was halfway through my second drink, the burn settling into my veins like a slow hum, when I noticed him. Tall. Broad-shouldered. The kind of man who looked like he belonged on the cover of a high-end sports magazine or one of those firefighter calendars that sold out every year.
His dark hair was just a little too messy, like he’d run his hands through it absentmindedly one too many times. His jawline was sharp enough to cut glass, accentuated by the faintest hint of scruff.
And when he smirked at me from across the bar, something low in my stomach tightened. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the stress of the assignment. Maybe it was the way he carried himself—all confidence, effortless masculinity, and just enough arrogance to make my pulse tick up a notch.
Whatever it was, when he slid into the seat beside me and asked, “Rough night?” I found myself answering honestly.
“You have no idea.”
I turned my head, meeting the sharp blue gaze of the man who looked like trouble wrapped in six feet of pure temptation, with a smirk that promised bad decisions and the kind of distraction I desperately craved.
He bought me another drink. We talked—though I barely remembered what about. Something about travel, about Montreal winters, about how I was new to the city.
His voice was rich and smooth, his words slipping over me like honey. It was easy, effortless, a back-and-forth laced with teasing and flirtation, and for the first time that day, I didn’t feel like I was suffocating under the weight of my assignment.
And then his fingers brushed my wrist, light but deliberate, a silent question in his touch. My skin burned where he touched me, a thrill shooting up my arm like an electric current.
I answered without thinking, leaning in just slightly, barely perceptible, but enough for him to notice.
His smirk widened. His voice dropped lower, smooth as sin. “Maybe tonight, you stop thinking for once.”
The suggestiveness in his tone sent a shiver down my spine. I should say no. I never did this—picking up a stranger in a bar, indulging in reckless, impulsive choices.
But tonight, with the alcohol buzzing through my veins and the weight of my assignment pressing down on me, I wanted to feel something other than stressed out and lost.
So when he leaned in closer, his breath warm against my ear as he murmured, “What do you say, sweetheart?”—I didn’t hesitate.
