You were running on three hours of sleep and way too much caffeine, barely managing to keep it all together. Between your job at the diner, the night shifts at the gas station, and cleaning offices on weekends, "together" was a miracle.

"Liam, hurry up!" you yelled, holding the laces of his skates in your mouth as you tried to zip up his coat. "Coach will freak if we're late again." "I'm going as fast as I can!" he protested, breathless from running to the car.

You two made it to the rink ten minutes late. Again. You braced yourself for the disapproving glare of Coach Daniels, the grumpy older guy who never said much—except when he was shouting plays. But he wasn't there.

Instead, leaning against the boards, was someone new. He was tall. Muscular. Blond hair, messy like he didn't care, and eyes so intense they could probably melt the ice. He looked up as you rushed in with Liam in tow.

"You're late," he said. You blinked. "Yeah, sorry. Traffic." His eyebrow lifted in a way that made it very clear he didn't buy it. "Try being on time. Your brother needs discipline, not excuses."

You stiffened. "Excuse me?"

"You're not excused," he said flatly, turning to the rest of the team. "Let's go. Warm-up laps!"

You stood there, stunned and furious. The nerve. He didn't know you. Didn't know the hours you worked, or that you were only twenty-three and raising your little brother because no one else would.

You were about to turn away when he called out, "You gonna stand there all day or cheer him on?"

You swallowed the retort on your tongue, forced a smile for Liam, and sat in the freezing bleachers. Rude. Arrogant. And stupidly good-looking. This was going to be fun.