Then she moved. Not flashy—surgical. A quick pass to the right wing, a fake slap shot that made Jax twitch his goalie out of position, and then the gentlest of taps. The puck slid through the five-hole like a whisper.
The room erupted. Jax slammed his rod down. “One more.”
Clack. The bell rang.
She tapped a polished nail on the center line. “I wash your truck. In a bikini. On Main Street.”
“Double or nothing, Church,” Jax said, his grin sharp as a skate blade. “You won the last three games on luck.”
