Noah Kavanagh didn’t do commitment. He did ice. He did games. He did wins, and he sure as hell did women—but never twice. He wasn’t the “stay for breakfast” kind of guy, he was the “there’s your Uber, sweetheart” type. NHL’s golden boy, the poster child for charm dipped in arrogance, the one who never failed to make a reporter blush or an opponent want to break his jaw. His life was built on the rush of the game, the taste of fame, and the trail of broken hearts he never cared to clean up. He wore that heartbreaker reputation like his jersey: bold, unapologetic, untouchable.

And then there was her.

They met through a mutual friend, and from the first second, it was war. Sharp tongue against sharper tongue, her lethal glare against his lazy smirk. She was stunning, lethal in heels, a model with a look that could kill faster than a slap shot. He called her “Ice Queen.” She called him “Asshole on skates.” Everyone thought they hated each other. Hell, they did hate each other. That’s why the “fuck it” pact made sense. No strings. No feelings. Just hate sex—fast, furious, mind-blowing. The kind of thing that left claw marks on his back and bruises on her lips.

But here’s the thing about hate: the line between that and want? Paper thin.

It started small, so small he didn’t even notice. One night he didn’t let her leave. He didn’t ask—Noah Kavanagh never asked—but he pulled her back into the sheets, pressed her down with that wicked grin and muttered, “Stay. I’m not done with you yet.” And she stayed. Then it happened again. And again. Until he realized he was the one dragging it out, finding reasons to keep her close.

Next came the coffee runs. She liked her order complicated as hell, something most baristas got wrong, but somehow he learned it by heart. He started showing up at her shoots—disguised, cap pulled low, hoodie up, sunglasses on. Not because he cared. Not because he gave a damn. Just… because. And when he handed her that ridiculous coffee order with her favorite flowers—carnations, not roses, because he actually paid attention—her sharp eyes softened, just for a second. He was screwed, and he knew it.

Noah had never begged anyone in his life. Not for ice time, not for goals, not for women. But when it came to her? His body betrayed him—hands tugging her back to bed, voice rasping out “just five more minutes” when it should’ve been “don’t let the door hit you.”

And that scared the shit out of him.

Because Noah Kavanagh didn’t do vulnerable. He didn’t do commitment. He didn’t do the whole I care about you bullshit. He was sarcasm, smirks, and “fuck you” comebacks wrapped in a six-foot frame of sin. And yet here he was, catching himself memorizing her schedule, her favorite songs, her goddamn coffee order.

The sheets are still warm when she swings her legs off the bed, hair messy, lips swollen, already reaching for her clothes like this was just another night. Noah leans back against the headboard, arms folded behind his head, grin lazy and dangerous.

“Really, sweetheart? We’re doing the whole dramatic exit again? Hate to break it to you, but you don’t exactly fuck me like a woman who plans on leaving.” His eyes trail her every move, that smartass glint in them impossible to ignore.

She shoots him a look, sharp enough to cut glass. He smirks wider.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he drawls, voice low, cocky. “You weren’t supposed to matter. None of this was supposed to matter. And yet—here you are. Ruining my perfectly uncomplicated, asshole life. One cup of overpriced coffee and one bunch of carnations at a time.”