This is her shot. 

Brit has the chance to make history by being the first female goalie to play for an NHL team, the San Francisco Gold. So, when she is introduced to Stefan, the Gold's captain, she is determinedly not interested. 

Stefan is sexy, charming, and has a publicly documented list of conquests a mile long. Brit is unwilling to risk mixing business with pleasure, even when that business is wrapped up in a six-foot-plus, gorgeously muscled package. 

When management pushes Brit and Stefan together in an effort to gain good press for the beleaguered team, Brit finds that her carefully calculated disinterest doesn’t mask her body's desires. The more she falls for Stefan, the more she risks her career. 

Will she be able to have it all—a starting position and the heart of the captain? Or will she lose everything?

“I think you’re playing with me,” he said.
“I’m not.”
Another step toward her. Inches separated their chests, the clean scent of her inundated his senses.
“Then what?”
Brit must have recognized something in his tone — probably how the far fuck gone he was — because now she stepped away from him.
He didn’t care. He closed the distance, reveled in her sharp inhalation.
One more step backward. Stefan let her go, knew she had nowhere to go. The wall was just inches behind her.
“Tell me.”
The order did something to Brit, shored up her spine, made sparks fill her eyes. Her chin lifted. “Don’t pull that captain bullshit with me. This doesn’t involve the team.”
“Like hell it doesn’t,” he snapped. “It involves me and Bernard. The Gold is firmly entrenched in this.”
“Fuck off.”
“Fuck this.” He stepped close, backed her against the wall until his chest was against hers, until the softness of her breasts pressed against him. He lowered his head until he could feel her breath against his lips. “Tell me.”
Stefan searched her eyes. No fear there. Only heat… and regret.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“Tell me.” His hands dropped to her shoulders.
The anger boiled over. He released her and turned away, slamming his fist against the wall.
Sheetrock gave way with a small puff of white powder but he barely felt the sting of the impact.
“Why is every single goddamned woman out to fuck with my head?” he asked, slamming his fist into the wall a second time.
Twin fist-sized holes stared back at him, accusing.
Stefan hadn’t punched an inanimate object — Ducks’ forwards aside — since his teenager days and no other action could have made him feel more like an idiot.
Rationality intruded like a bucket of ice-cold water. He was out of control.
Shame swept through him as he pushed away from the wall and brushed off his hands.
“Whatever.” His voice shook, but instead of anger, it was with disgust. “Keep your fucking secrets.”
He pushed out the door and Stefan went straight down the hall to his locker. It took thirty seconds to change and hit the stationary bike. Stairs would have been better but he didn’t want to risk running into Brit.
It was an unfounded worry because she kept her distance. But it was only after the game that evening — a game he’d fucking dominated in — that he realized everyone else had kept their distance too.
For once that didn’t feel like a bad thing.
Numbness had permeated everything. It was a relief to finally not feel anything.

Aside from writing romance, Elise’s passions are chocolate, Star Wars, and hockey (the order depending on the day and how well her team — the Sharks! — are playing). She and her husband also play as much hockey as they can squeeze into their schedules, so much so that their typical date night is spent on the ice. Elise is the mom to two exuberant boys and is thoroughly addicted to Dancing With the Stars. Connect with her on facebook (, twitter (@faberelise), instagram (@elisefaber) or

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