“I don’t waste my time embarrassing anyone when I’ve got a game about to start.”

“And why is that?”

“Because embarrassing others is a pastime and pastimes are for after the game. Like video games or going out to clubs.”

“Can you be more cat?”

“Not even if I tried.”

She took him down a small set of stairs to a door manned by a couple of very large security guards. “Hey, guys.”

“Hey, Cella,” one said while opening the door for her.

“He’s with me. This is ...” She stopped, looked at him. “What’s your name?”

“You’re just asking me that?”

“Yes.”

“MacDermot didn’t tell you?”

“She did but”—she shrugged—“it slipped my mind.”

Knowing that if he tried to make a run for it, she’d just hunt him down, Crush decided to just get this insanity over with. “Name’s Lou Crushek.”

“I thought Blayne called you Crush.”

“My friends call me Crush, and since you’re not—”

“Crush it is then.” She yanked him inside the big room with the giant windows overlooking the rink and dragged him until they reached the plush leather seats.

“You’ll watch the game from here.”

Crush took a quick look around. When the Sports Center first opened years ago, Crush had taken what Conway still called “a sports geek tour of the place.” So he knew this room, although he and the other tourists had only been allowed a very quick walkthrough. “But ... but this is the—”

“Owner’s box. Right. And you can sit here. Right by my daddy.”

Crush gawked down at the older tiger male sitting in one of the seats, an open Guinness in his hand. Crush gawked, but he couldn’t speak. No words would come out. So, like an idiot, he just stood there. Gawking.

“Daddy,” Malone said. “This is Lou Crushek, aka Crush. He’s my new boyfriend.” The man blinked in surprise and then grinned. “Crush, honey, this is my daddy, Nice Guy Malone.”

Crush shook his head at the hand held out to him. “I think I ... I need to ...”

Surprisingly soft hands brushed hair off his face. “Oh, baby, you’ve gone all white. Which is kind of amazing considering you’re a polar.”

“He better sit down.”

Father and daughter shoved Crush into a seat.

“What’s wrong with him?” Nice Guy asked.

“He’s a fan, Daddy. I think he’s overwhelmed at meeting you.”

“Good kid,” Nice Guy said before glancing at his daughter and asking, “And he’s single, right?”

“Daddy.”

“Just making sure. Look, you go before you hear about it from Novikov. I’lltake care of the kid.”

“Thanks, Daddy.” She winked at Crush. “And I’ll see you later, handsome.”

And that was about the time that Crush completely freaked out.

Cella was at the door pulling it open when a big hand slammed against it and shoved it back, yanking her forward a bit since she still had her hand on the knob.

“You can’t leave me.”

Startled by the desperation she heard in that voice, she turned around and looked up at the cop. “Of course, I can.”

“No. You can’t leave me.”

“Look at you, already attached. But I play with the Genghis Khan of time management. I have to go.” She pulled at the door again and again it was slammed.

“What are you doing?” she asked, getting exasperated.

“You can’t leave me.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true. I’ll just go with you.”

“I can’t take you to the locker room until after the game.”

“No, but I can go to the seat I paid for.”

“The seat in the nosebleed section? That’s where Blayne said you were headed. Why would you want to go there?”

“Because I can’t stay here,” he whispered.

“Why not?” she whispered back.

He leaned in closer, and still in a whisper, “Because that’s Nice Guy Malone.”

“I know,” she again whispered back. “I recognize him from all my birthday parties and when I find him inappropriately fondling my mother. Not seeing the problem. Just talk to him.”

“Talk? Talk to him? To Nice Guy Malone?”

Good God, the man was having a panic attack.

“What am I supposed to say to Nice Guy Malone? I mean he’s ... he’s Nice Guy Malone.”

And that’s when she understood. Kind of like if she’d had the chance to sit and chat with John L. Sullivan, one of the last known heavyweight bare-knuckle champions. She’d probably be having a full-on panic attack if she’d met him—partly because the man had died in 1918, but also because he was her hero.

And her father was the hero of this uptight cop that Blayne Thorpe suddenly felt so protective of, which did nothing but make him even cuter than he already was simply because he had excellent taste.

“You have to take me out of here,” the polar begged.

“No.”

“Why do you hate me?”

“I don’t hate you. I just want to make sure you don’t regret this night for the rest of your life by walking away. Besides, my dad’s a total talker. Mr. Storyteller. All Malone males are. So you won’t have to say a word.” She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “Now balls up and go talk to your lifelong hero.”