The father, a jackal, gave her a disapproving bark.

Blayne turned back around. Once again, she’d have to keep reminding herself that only the derby league had a twenty-one and older rule for their bouts. All the other sports, no matter the level of bloodletting, were family friendly. Because your five-year-old pup should always know how to eviscerate a cheetah that had the misfortune of holding your ball or taking your puck.

“Popcorn?” Gwen asked.

Not looking at her friend, Blayne dug into the bag and took a handful. “I hate you,” she reminded Gwen.

“I know, sweetie. I know.”

Bo sat down on the bench, the second string hitting the ice. He tugged off a glove and reached under his helmet to scratch his sweat-soaked hair. After he finished, he pulled his glove back on and studied the ongoing game.

She was here. In this stadium. Sitting in ridiculously expensive seats with that same girl she’d been friends with in high school. She hadn’t changed much since the first time he’d seen her—running away from him. Screaming. Her reaction had been a bit of a blow to his extremely sensitive ego, but he didn’t let it get to him because he’d been too busy studying those powerful legs under that Catholic school girl uniform as they’d bolted off. Purr.

Yet even now she looked at him the same way, didn’t she? Like she’d stumbled between a grizzly sow and her cubs. Funny, most females didn’t look at him like that. Then again most predator females were direct and rarely scared off from what they wanted. He always knew that some of them had more interest in his money or the hope they could breed the next big hockey star. Some hoped he was as charming and witty as the rumor mill—shifter sports didn’t have any media covering their every move—had made him out to be over the years. Uh . . . he wasn’t. Charming and witty that is. He was definitely direct, curt, and as one ex-girlfriend told him, “I used to think you were shy, which is cute. But you’re not shy. You’re just an introvert who doesn’t really like other human beings!” And his answer hadn’t made her any less unhappy. “Yeah, but I told you that up front.” He had, too. Bo was all about being direct. He liked direct. Direct cut to the heart of the matter in seconds rather than hours of asking, “Are you all right?” Only to get back the answer, “I’m fine.” More than one female had left his ass because he’d taken their “I’m fine” exactly for what it was, only to find out later that it was code for, “I’m unhappy and it’s all your fault but you should know that without me telling you!”

So, after several years of that constant bullshit, he’d been on his own. He liked it that way and had had every intention of keeping that his status quo until the day he died. Then he’d done that thing he did every couple of years when he got an itch that could only be scratched in one way. He’d called his agent,Bernie Lawman, of the Lawman Clan—say what you will about hyenas eating their young, they made phenomenal agents—and said what he always said to the man during these calls over the years, “I’m bored.” In less than three days, Bernie came back to Bo with offers from nearly every major hockey team in the American league, Russian league, and Asian league. The only team that pointedly refused to make an offer was the Alaskan Bears and that was because they didn’t have to offer anyone anything. The entire team was made up of bears with two foxes as their centers. Just surviving a game against them was considered a win. But for Bo that was a little too easy. An entire team of bears was not exactly a challenge unless he was playing against them. And Bo needed challenges because when he got bored, he moved on.

Every offer involved a several-million-dollar signing bonus and perks that full-human sports stars could only dream of. His own seal farm was still his favorite, and he’d debated long and hard on that one. The deals were all fabulous, and he’d narrowed it down to the Hawaiian team—complete with his own untouched territory in the Antarctic during his off season, so he wouldn’t have to sit around melting in the Hawaiian weather—and the Utah team—seal farm! While he debated, his agent had called.

“Didn’t you say you wanted to go to New York to stop at that used bookstore?”

“Yeah. Figured I’d go next week sometime. Why?”

“Wanna go for free?”

Sure. Why not? Plus Bernie got to go and see his New York family on someone else’s dime. That someone else turning out to be Ulrich Van Holtz. Round-trip flights on a private jet—although nothing beat the entertainment value of watching the horror of a full-human flight staff when they saw Bo heading their way with a suitcase—and one dinner meeting with Van Holtz at one of his family-owned and -managed restaurants.

Bo had played against the Carnivores before. They were . . . okay. They definitely weren’t the worst, but they weren’t exactly taking anyone by storm. Van Holtz, who had a financial stake in the team, was also the goalie. And the offer was, again, okay, but when Van Holtz excused himself to check on the meal, Bernie had crossed his eyes and ordered more bread from a passing waitress. The fact he wasn’t even discussing what they’d already heard with Bo meant Bernie wasn’t taking the offer even a little seriously. To be honest, neither was Bo. But the surf and turf—moose and walrus blubber in a delightful peppercorn sauce—was killer and Ulrich Van Holtz more interesting than Bo would have thought.

As the dinner wound down, Bo excused himself for the bathroom and cut through the restaurant. The place was big and extremely busy. When he found a waiting line at one bathroom, he went off in search of another. He found it, used it, and was heading back up the stairs when he heard someone singing . . . badly.