“And She-wolves.”

“—but you don’t respect derby?”

He laughed and bam! Her anger was back.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“It’s like comparing Queen Boadicea to Pam Anderson.”

“Don’t make up words and think you can distract me.”

“I didn’t make up—”

“Look, the bottom line is, I need your help. I need an edge. We’ve made it into the National Championships next month, but we’ll be going up against the Texas Longfangs. And the rumor is, part of their training is slaughtering cattle with their bare hands—while human. You’ve gotta help me.”

“I don’t know anything about derby. In fact, I don’t even respect derby as a sport. So how can I help you?”

“Name the last guy who cross-checked you into the stands?”

Bo couldn’t help but smirk. “Nice Guy Malone.”

“Exactly.” She gave a little laugh. “See? I need you to show me how to be less good, moral, loving Blayne and more evil, sadistic, asshole Marauder.”

Deciding not to see that statement as an insult, he instead argued, “But I don’t really have time to help you.” He pointed at his watch. “I have a schedule.”

“You can’t fit me in for like . . . an hour, a couple of times a week?”

“No. No, I can’t.”

“You’re serious?”

“Yeah.” He tapped his watch again. “Schedule.”

“Right. A schedule, which can be changed to do the right thing. Yes?”

“No. No, no, no. You can’t go around changing schedules. What’s the point of a schedule if you’re changing it all the time?”

“But schedules should be flexible.”

“No. Not flexible.” What was this craziness she was spouting? “Schedules can’t be flexible. Flexible leads to disorder. Disorder leads to sloppiness. Sloppiness leads to failure. And failure is another word for losing.”

Blayne glided a few feet back from him. “You’re really not joking . . . are you?”

“I’m not really a jokey kind of guy, but when it comes to schedules and time—I don’t joke.”

“Oooo-kay. Um . . .” She pulled off her helmet and scratched her head. “How do you . . .”

“How do I what?”

“Well, I always hear about you at the latest shifter-only club openings—”

“I don’t go to clubs.”

“—or taking out another supermodel—”

“Supermodels have issues with time I’m not comfortable with.”

“Or traveling the world to exotic locations?”

“Only when there’s a game there. Like the Tahiti World Playoffs. But God it was hot outside the rink. Somiserably, miserably hot.”

“But I don’t understand. I mean . . . how do you . . . when do you . . . ?” Her eyes grew wide and she briefly covered her mouth with her hand. “Are you a virgin?” she whispered.

“What? No!”

“But when do you find time with that rigid schedule of yours? I mean prisoners at Rikers have more freedom!”

“I get along just fine. I’ve had girlfriends.”

“Did they last?”

Bo shrugged. “They were mostly feline so . . . no.”

“Yeah. Most felines I know aren’t gettin’ up at the break of dawn—on purpose.”

“I’m aware of that, you know, now.”

“I have to tell you something,” she said, putting her helmet back on. “I am fascinated by you. And I now realize that not only do I need you, but you need me.”

“Are we discussing sex again?”

“No.” She glided closer. “Let’s clear the air about that right now. I no longer have boyfriends.”

“Oh.” Bo raised a brow. “So you’re with one of the Babes now?”

“No. You Visigoth.”

“You know Visigoth, but you don’t know Boadicea?”

“Again, no making up words. Anyway, I no longer have boyfriends.”

“Why?”

“My last one was, tragically, a bit of a sociopath. When we went away on a weekend trip to Atlantic City and he said it was on his mother, I thought she had knowingly paid for it. Not that he had stripped her savings account bare.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Nothing really ruins a romantic weekend away with the boyfriend like cops arresting you both. So no more boyfriends.”

“So you’re celibate?”

“Yeah, I tried that, too, and that didn’t really work. So now I have gentlemen callers. And with the gentlemen callers, I have arrangements.”

“What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a gentleman caller?”

“There’s a difference.”

“What difference?”

“A difference. Don’t judge.”

“I’m not judging. I’m just at a loss for logic.”

Blayne pointed her finger at him. “Do you want my help or not?”

“Wait a minute. You need my help.”

“As I said, we need to help each other.”

“Not really.”

“No, really. You need a social life.”

“No. I don’t.”

“You do. You’re almost thirty. A couple more years you’ll be a broken down old sports guy, alone, bitter, unloved; some hooker or Vegas showgirl will marry you just for your money and eventually kill you in your sleep. Is that what you want?”