Curious—he was half bear after all—Bo peeked around a corner. That’s when he saw her and recognized her as the wolfdog who’d run away. She was sitting at a table covered with papers, notepads, and a laptop. She wore little white earplugs attached to a cheap MP3 player, and she was still singing. Still badly. He remembered her hitting a note that made his eyes water a little, but he liked how she sang with such abandon. Such honest enjoyment. He found himself attracted to the same thing he’d been attracted to all those years ago—besides those ridiculously long legs. Her energy. There was just something about it that pulled him in. He couldn’t explain it and didn’t feel the need to. Instead, he’d gone back to the dining room, sat down at the table, and said to Van Holtz, “We have a deal.” It was, other than the obligatory “Hello. Nice to meet you,” all that Bo had said for the entire meal. Of course Bernie’s wails of despair were a little disturbing, but Bo knew the hyena would get over it.

Besides, he’d only signed with the Carnivores for a year. A year to find “Legs”—his nickname for her since none of the Philly Furors would tell him what the wolfdog’s real name was or where to find her—and then . . . well, he really didn’t know. Sex, of course, was a definite “must have.” Again it was those legs. He had to see what those legs looked like on his shoulders. Whether anything else happened from there, he didn’t know. But life was always full of surprises. It was a surprise just seeing her in the VIP seats, looking decidedly un-VIP-like in stained cargo pants, work boots, and an abused sweatshirt that said B&G PLUMBING.

Bo scratched the back of his neck again, not bothering to take his glove off this time. His mane was irritating him. He’d stopped trying to cut more of it off because it kept growing back in less than twenty-four hours. Yet it was so thick and heavy that it made him want to shave his head. He had no idea how lion males lived like this.

Readjusting his helmet, Bo finally realized he had the attention of the team’s goalie and captain, Van Holtz.

“What?” Bo asked, when the wolf kept staring at him.

“Do you know Blayne?”

“Who?”

“The female you were just staring at?”

Oh. Her name was Blayne. That was a nice name. It fit her. “I know lots of people,” Bo told the nosey prick.

“That did not answer my question.” Van Holtz sure did like those complete, grammatically correct sentences. It was like talking to Bo’s tenth-grade English teacher Miss Marsh.

“That’s true. It didn’t answer your question.”

A shoulder slam from his right side had Bo sparing a glance at the grizzly next to him. Van Holtz’s best buddy Lachlan MacRyrie wasn’t a half-bad defenseman and usually kept out of Bo’s way. He appreciated that in a player. But MacRyrie was big on protecting the runt, even if it meant going up against Bo.

“Answer the man,” the grizzly told him.

“I don’t feel likeit.”

The two males stared at each other, MacRyrie trying his grizzly intimidation move on Bo. It probably worked on most bears, but the grizzly forgot the mane. The Mongolian Lion’s mane pretty much ensured that no matter how logical it may be for Bo Novikov to walk away from any fight he wasn’t positive he could win, like most rational predators, Bo wouldn’t walk away. Not now, not ever.

So when the two “dropped gloves”—hockey code for fistfight—and hit the ice in the middle of the game, fists flying and claws imbedding into important facial tissue . . . Bo, as always, blamed the mane.

Blayne cringed, wondering what had happened that had Lock MacRyrie—the nicest of all bears—to get into a fistfight with his own teammate.

“Lock’s fighting,” Blayne told Gwen.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gwen said, waving off the fight that had the entire Carnivore team off the bench trying to stop it. “Whatever. Let’s get back to this. Why do you think he’s here?”

“I don’t know.” Blayne pointed at the ice. “Lock might get hurt, ya know.”

“He can take care of himself. He could be back because of you, sweetie.”

“What are you? High?”

“Did you see the way he looked at you?”

“I did. I’ll have nightmares about that look until I’m old and gray . . . if he lets me live that long or decides to add me to the body count under his basement floor.”

“There’s no evidence he’s ever critically injured anyone—outside the rink.”

“I find so little comfort from that.”

“I think you should go for it,” Gwen pushed.

“And I think you should own up to the fact that you still hate Tracey. And the only reason you’re pushing that psychopath over to me is because of her.”

“What’s the big deal if you go out with him just to spite her? You know, if it makes me happy.”

Blayne’s eyes crossed. The cats, they really never forgot a grudge, did they? “Surprisingly, Gwendolyn, I have more important things to do with my time, like put bamboo shoots under my nails or drill holes in all my teeth. And how can you ignore this?”

Snarling a little, Gwen faced forward and briefly watched the melee in front of her. “Yeah, yeah. Fascinating.” She turned in her seat again and demanded, “But seriously, you should totally go out with him.”

CHAPTER 2

Not in the mood to stand in line to use the bathroom and needing a few minutes on her own before she headed into that locker room, Blayne made her way down a few floors to one of the main training levels and the wonderful and rarely used bathroom near the locker rooms that the derby team used. Blayne was happy because the Carnivores had won against another top-tier team. They were finally hitting their stride and making their way to the playoffs for the first time in years, and Blayne was ecstatic for all the guys.