Oliver took a job with the city's top hockey team to find out who murdered his father.

He did not plan to sleep with Alexander Whitman.

Alexander is the famous hockey captain. He is huge, cold, and strictly closeted. Their secret one-night stand changes everything. Alexander's touch is hot, rough, and totally addictive.

But Alexander is hiding a dark secret. His real name is Alexander Montgomery. He is the billionaire heir to the exact family that killed Oliver's dad.

When Oliver finds out the ugly truth, he runs. But the Ice King will not let him go.

"I will give you my money, my fame, my whole life," Alexander whispers, pressing his hard chest against Oliver. "But I will never give you your freedom."

The locker room of the New York Glaciers smelled like wintergreen, expensive cologne, and male sweat.

To most fans, this was the smell of victory.

To Oliver Hartley, it just smelled like forty thousand dollars of student debt.

Oliver adjusted the strap of his heavy massage kit. He was twenty-three years old, with messy blonde curls that refused to stay flat and bright blue eyes that usually held a spark of mischief.

But today, those eyes were tired.

He had graduated top of his class in nursing, but nursing didn't pay enough to clear his loans fast. Being a massage assistant for a star hockey team did.

Plus, there was another reason he was here.

Dr. Hartley. His father. The man who died on this very ice five years ago.

Bzzzt.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Oliver checked it quickly. It was his sister Scarlett.

Don't do it, Oli, the text read. Stop digging. It's dangerous. Mom wouldn't want this.

Oliver frowned. He tapped the screen to call her back, hiding behind a row of metal lockers.

"Scarlett, I'm already inside," he whispered into the phone. "I found his old logbook. There are pages missing from the week he died. I need to know..."

"Hey! You! The blondie!"

A loud, arrogant voice cut through the air. Oliver jumped and quickly ended the call. He turned around to see James, the team's backup goalie. James was rich, spoiled, and had a face that looked like it was permanently sneering.

"Are you paid to chat with your girlfriend, or are you paid to work?" James snapped, tossing a sweaty towel onto the floor right in front of Oliver's shoes. "Pick it up."

Oliver took a deep breath. Think about the money. Think about the debt.

"I'm the massage therapist assistant, James, not the waiter," Oliver said, his voice calm but sharp. He had a tongue that could cut glass when he wanted to. "But if your back is as weak as your save percentage, I can see why you're cranky."

The locker room went silent. A few players chuckled.

James's face turned red. He stepped forward, looming over Oliver. "What did you say, you little..."

"Enough."

One word. Low, deep, and commanding. It stopped James in his tracks.

The team captain walked in.

Alexander Whitman, as the public knew him was a giant. He was six-foot-four of pure muscle, with jet-black hair and grey eyes that looked like storm clouds.

He was the "Ice King," the man who never lost.

He was also, Oliver noted privately, extremely hot.

Alexander didn't look at Oliver. He looked at James. "Coach is waiting. Get your gear."

James glared at Oliver but backed down. "Fine. But tell the new guy to get the oil ready. My hamstrings are tight."

James sat on the massage table, deliberately knocking over a bottle of water as he did. "Oops. Clean that up first."

Oliver grit his teeth. He grabbed a fresh bottle of massage oil from his cart. He walked toward the table, trying to step over the gym bags and discarded pads littering the floor.

James stretched out his leg, "accidentally" hooking his foot around Oliver's ankle.

It happened in slow motion.

Oliver stumbled. His foot caught. He pitched forward, flailing his arms for balance. The bottle of massage oil in his hand flew open.

"Whoa!"

Oliver didn't hit the floor. He hit a wall. A warm, hard, rock-solid wall of human muscle.

He landed hard against Alexander's chest. The impact knocked the wind out of him. The open bottle of oil went flying, splashing all over James's face and chest, but Oliver was safe.

Safe, but in a very compromising position.

Alexander had caught him. His large hands were gripping Oliver's waist to steady him. Oliver's hands were pressed flat against Alexander's bare abs.

The skin was hot. Incredibly hot. Oliver could feel the ridges of Alexander's eight-pack under his palms. The man smelled like ice and expensive soap.

"Watch it," Alexander rumbled. His voice vibrated through Oliver's chest.

Oliver looked up. Those grey eyes were staring down at him, unreadable and intense. They were so close Oliver could count the eyelashes.

"Sorry," Oliver breathed. He tried to push himself up, but his foot slipped on the wet floor.

He slid down.

His hand scrambled for a hold. He grabbed Alexander's thigh. Then, gravity took over, and his hand slipped higher.

Right between Alexander's legs.

Oliver froze.

His palm was cupping the front of Alexander's sweatpants. The grey fabric was soft, but what was underneath was not soft at all.

It was hard. thick. And as Oliver's hand lingered there for a split second too long, paralyzed by shock, he felt it twitch.

It grew.

Alexander Whitman, the straightest, coldest, most disciplined man in the league, was getting hard. Instantly.

The air in the locker room seemed to vanish. Oliver could hear his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. He looked up, wide-eyed.

Alexander's face wasn't angry. It was flushed.

His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the grey. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.

He wasn't pushing Oliver away. His hands on Oliver's waist tightened, his fingers digging into Oliver's hips, pulling him closer for just a heartbeat before he seemed to realize what he was doing.

"Get off," Alexander choked out. His voice was rough, strained.

James, wiping oil from his eyes, started screaming. "You idiot! You blinded me! Look what he did!"

But Oliver didn't hear James. All he could feel was the heat radiating from Alexander's groin against his hand, and the shocking realization that the "Ice King" burned a lot hotter than anyone knew.

Oliver scrambled back, his face burning. "I... I slipped. I'm sorry."

Alexander turned away quickly, grabbing a towel to cover his front. He didn't look back. But Oliver saw the way his chest was heaving, as if he had just played three periods of overtime.

Oliver bit his lip, his heart racing. He was in trouble. Big trouble.

But for some reason, he wanted to do it again.

The chaos in the locker room was immediate.

"My eyes! It burns!" James was howling like a toddler, rubbing at his face which was slick with lavender-scented massage oil. "I'm going to sue you! I'm going to get you fired!"

The Coach, a stout man with a red face named Miller, stormed into the room. "What the hell is going on here?"

"He attacked me!" James pointed a greasy finger at Oliver. "He threw oil in my face because I told him to do his job!"

Oliver stood there, clutching the empty bottle. He felt small. "It was an accident, Coach. I tripped. James... his foot was in the way."

"His foot?" James scoffed.

"You clumsy idiot. Look at my jersey! This is custom!" He marched up to Oliver and shoved him hard in the shoulder.

"You're going to pay for this. And then you're going to get on your knees and apologize properly."

James reached out again, his hand grabbing Oliver's shirt collar, pulling him close. The look in James's eyes was nasty.

Oliver braced himself. He grew up fighting for everything he had, but he couldn't fight a millionaire's son and keep his job.

Suddenly, a large hand clamped down on James's wrist.

"Let him go."

Alexander stood there. He was fully dressed now, wearing his team track pants and a hoodie, but he still looked menacing. He loomed over James, his grey eyes cold as steel.

"He ruined my jersey, Alex!" James whined, but he let go of Oliver.

"It's oil. It washes out," Alexander said flatly. He stepped in front of Oliver, effectively hiding him from James's view. His broad back was like a shield.

"And if you touch a staff member again, I'll have you benched for the season. Try me, James."

The threat hung in the air. Everyone knew Alexander Whitman was legends, but nobody knew the full extent of his power as one of the richest family in the States - Montgomery.

But they knew he ran this team.

James paled. "Fine. But he still owes me."

"I'll cover it," Alexander said. "I'll do that stupid energy drink commercial you wanted. The one I turned down. You can have the spot. Call it even."

James's eyes lit up. The endorsement deal was worth thousands. "Seriously? For... for him?" He looked at Oliver with disgust, but the money won. "Fine. Whatever."

James stormed off to the showers.

The Coach sighed, shaking his head. "Hartley, be more careful. Alex, thanks for handling it."

When the room cleared out, Oliver looked up at Alexander.

"You didn't have to do that," Oliver said quietly. "That commercial... that's a lot of money."

Alexander turned to look at him. The heat from their earlier collision was gone, replaced by an icy mask. "I just want the team focused on winning. Drama distractions annoy me."

"Still," Oliver smiled, a genuine, lopsided grin. "Thanks. You're not as cold as you look, Captain."

Alexander's eyes flickered to Oliver's lips, then quickly away. He took a step back, putting distance between them. "Don't read into it. And Oliver?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch where you put your hands next time."

With that, Alexander walked away.

A few minutes later, the team manager Bill walked by Oliver. He saw Oliver watching Alexander leave.

"Don't get any ideas, kid," Bill warned, chewing on a toothpick. "I saw how you looked at him."

Oliver blinked. "I was just saying thanks."

"I know your type," Bill chuckled darkly. "You think because he saved you, he's interested? Alexander Whitman is straight as an arrow. He dates supermodels. He doesn't do... guys. So keep it professional, or you're out."

Oliver nodded, keeping his face blank. "Understood."

But as he packed up his kit, Oliver thought about the hardness he had felt against his palm. 'Straight as an arrow? I don't think arrows twitch like that.'

That night, Oliver lay in his small, cramped apartment. The rent was overdue. The student loan emails were piling up.

He needed an escape.

He pulled out his phone and opened Tinder. He didn't use his real face, just a photo of his torso in a tight t-shirt. His profile name was simply "Oli."

Swipe left. Swipe left. Swipe left.

Then, he paused.

A profile popped up. User: X. 28 years old.

There was no face. Just a photo of a man's chest and abs, taken in a mirror. The body was incredible, broad shoulders, defined obliques, and veins running down muscular arms. He was wearing dark sunglasses in the second photo, sitting by a pool at night.

The bio read. Stress relief. No talking. High end only.

Oliver bit his lip. It screamed "rich guy looking for a secret." Exactly what Oliver needed to forget his day.

He swiped right.

It's a Match!

A message appeared instantly.

X: Are you free now?

Oli: Rough day. I could use a distraction.

X: Come to the St. Regis Hotel. Penthouse Pool. I'll leave a key card at the front desk under 'Guest'. Room 4001.

The St. Regis. The most expensive hotel in the city.

Oliver's heart raced. This was crazy. But the adrenaline was better than the crushing weight of his debt and his dead father's mystery.

"Screw it," Oliver whispered.

He grabbed his jacket and left.

Thirty minutes later, Oliver stepped out of the elevator onto the penthouse floor. The pool area was enclosed in glass, overlooking the city skyline. It was dark, lit only by the blue glow of the underwater lights.

The air was humid and smelled of chlorine and jasmine.

"Hello?" Oliver called out softly.

There was a splash at the far end of the pool. A man surfaced, his back to Oliver. His shoulders were massive, glistening with water. He pushed his wet black hair back with both hands.

He turned around slowly.

He was wearing tight black swim trunks and dark sunglasses, even though it was night. But Oliver didn't need to see the eyes to know that jawline. To know those abs he had touched just hours ago.

It was Alexander.

Oliver stood frozen by the pool edge. Alexander pulled the sunglasses off, squinting into the shadows where Oliver stood.

"You're 'Oli'?" Alexander asked. His voice was husky, just like in the locker room.

Oliver stepped into the light.

Alexander's eyes went wide. He stood up in the shallow end, the water dripping down his chest, leading Oliver's gaze straight to the waistband of his trunks.

"You, Oliver?" Alexander breathed.

"Yes," Oliver whispered, his pulse hammering in his throat.

"The manager said you were straight," Oliver said, taking a bold step toward the water's edge.

Alexander waded closer, the water swirling around his waist. He looked up at Oliver, his grey eyes burning with a desire he had hidden from the world for twenty-eight years.

"The manager," Alexander growled, "doesn't know what I think about when I'm alone in the shower."

He reached a wet hand out, grabbing Oliver's ankle. But this time, the grip wasn't to hurt. It was to pull.

"Come in," Alexander commanded.

Oliver jumped.

The water was warm, like a bath, but Oliver shivered as soon as it soaked through his jeans.

Alexander didn't let go of his ankle. His grip was iron-tight, pulling Oliver deeper until the water lapped at his waist. They stood chest-to-chest in the shallow end of the St. Regis penthouse pool, the city lights of New York glittering below them like a carpet of diamonds.

"You're fully dressed," Alexander murmured. His voice was rough, a low rumble that vibrated against Oliver's ribs. "This is a private pool, Oliver. We don't do clothes here."

Oliver looked up. Up close, without the hockey gear or the "Captain" persona, Alexander was devastating. Water droplets clung to his long, dark lashes. His chest heaved with every breath, the muscles defined by shadows and the blue underwater lights.

"I didn't think I'd be swimming with the Ice King," Oliver whispered, a playful smirk touching his lips despite his racing heart. "Does this count as overtime?"

Alexander didn't laugh. His grey eyes were dark, dilated, scanning Oliver's face with a hunger that was almost frightening.

He looked like a starving man presented with a feast he knew he shouldn't touch.

"You shouldn't be here," Alexander said, his voice straining. "If anyone sees us... if the team finds out..."

"No one is here, Alex," Oliver interrupted softly. He reached out, placing his hands on Alexander's wet shoulders. The skin was hot, scorching even through the cool water. "Just us. No captain. No assistant. Just... friction."

He pressed his thumbs into the tense muscles of Alexander's neck. It was a professional move, a massage technique, but the intent was anything but professional.

Alexander groaned, his head falling back slightly. "You're dangerous, Hartley."

"I'm just a guy who needs to pay rent," Oliver teased, moving his hands down Alexander's chest, tracing the line of hair that disappeared into the waistband of his swim trunks. "And you look like a guy who needs to break something."

Alexander's breath hitched. He grabbed Oliver's wrists, stopping him. "I'm straight. Everyone knows I'm straight."

"Is that what you tell yourself in the shower?" Oliver challenged, stepping closer until their hips bumped underwater. "Because earlier today, in the locker room... your body disagreed. Loudly."

Alexander squeezed his eyes shut. The conflict on his face was painful to watch. He was fighting twenty-eight years of repression, of being the perfect Montgomery heir, the perfect athlete.

Oliver decided to end the fight for him.

"Let go, Alexander," Oliver whispered against his wet skin. "Just for tonight. No names. No labels. Just feeling."

He leaned up and brushed his lips against Alexander's jaw. It was a feather-light touch, a question.

Alexander snapped.

With a growl that sounded more animal than human, Alexander released Oliver's wrists and grabbed the back of his neck. He crashed his mouth down onto Oliver's.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was a collision. It was desperate, messy, and consuming. Alexander kissed like he played hockey, aggressive, dominant, and terrified of losing.

Oliver gasped, opening his mouth, welcoming the invasion. Alexander's tongue swept inside, tasting of chlorine and mint. His stubble grazed Oliver's cheek, burning him in the best way.

"fuck," Alexander cursed against Oliver's mouth, breaking the kiss for a split second to breathe. "You taste like trouble."

"Then get in trouble," Oliver panted.

Alexander didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed the front of Oliver's soaking wet t-shirt and ripped it. The fabric tore with a loud rip, exposing Oliver's pale, slender chest to the cool air and the hot water.

Alexander's hands were everywhere, mapping Oliver's ribs, squeezing his waist, sliding down to cup his ass through his heavy, wet jeans. He lifted Oliver effortlessly, pinning him against the smooth tiles of the pool wall.

Oliver wrapped his legs around Alexander's waist, the friction of denim against skin creating a delicious drag. He could feel Alexander's hardness pressing against him, demanding attention.

"Take them off," Alexander ordered, his voice thick with lust. "Now."

Oliver fumbled with his belt, his fingers shaking. He kicked off his jeans, letting them sink to the bottom of the pool. Now, there was nothing between them but thin layers of fabric and boiling heat.

Alexander buried his face in Oliver's neck, biting down on the sensitive cord of muscle there. Oliver threw his head back, a moan escaping his throat that echoed in the empty penthouse.

"Alex... please..."

"Please what?" Alexander growled, his hand sliding between them, gripping Oliver's length through his briefs. "Please stop? Or please ruin you?"

"Ruin me," Oliver begged. "Make me forget my name."

Alexander looked up, his grey eyes blazing. "Done."