Fire And Ice. AM Hartnett

go too crazy,’ she called, and bounced a little on her toes as he jogged down the walkway. Broad back, narrow hips and trunk-like thighs. So much muscle moving under those layers. She prayed she would suddenly be gifted with X-ray vision.

      His entrance might have been a little overwhelming, but his exit was perfect.

       Chapter Two

      ‘Did you see Volkov after the game? It’s a wonder he had any teeth left after MacKenzie nailed him like that.’

      ‘Yeah, but he got his revenge, even if it did cost him a penalty. MacKenzie will probably wet his pants the next time the Bandits play the Royals. I wouldn’t want to be on the ice with Volkov when he’s in a good mood, let alone after I split open his face.’

      Julia didn’t look up as Professors Decker and Carmichael made their camp at the table by the window in the faculty lounge. She kept her eyes on her laptop screen, but every word they spoke went through her like electricity.

      Though she was supposed to be editing the forthcoming issue of the history society newsletter, she abandoned her task immediately and opened her web browser. Fingers flew over the keyboard until she had navigated to a local sports page.

      Julia had never taken an interest in sports before. Once gym class became more than just dodgeball and relay races, she’d lost all interest and barely scraped by for the remainder of her physical education. Pilates and spin class didn’t count. Neither did that pole-dancing class she and Kris had taken last year, even if it made her ass and thighs feel like they had been ripped off Beyoncé and strapped to her body.

      She hovered her cursor over the recap of last night’s game between the Bandits and the Royals and asked herself for the umpteenth time: do you really want to be this person?

      Since her lessons with Mick had begun, the time online she earmarked for checking celebrity gossip had been replaced by research into the career of Mikhail ‘The Dragon’ Volkov.

      Or, as Kris put it, stalking Mikhail ‘The Dragon’ Volkov online.

      Though Julia hated to admit it, every time she turned on her computer she found herself wandering to his Twitter stream, which was a strange combination of Russian and English conversations broken by the occasional retweet from his favourite musicians or athletes. She didn’t have the guts to follow him, nor did she muster the courage to send him a request on Facebook. She did, however, follow the Bandits’ Twitter stream and had seen the update ‘Volkov to the box for hooking’.

      She had no idea what most of it meant, but she still got a little thrill when she saw those tweets popping up in her stream.

      She’d learned that her student was from a small town in Russia and was 25 years old. This family dairy she had pictured as being a small family business was actually an industrial-scale operation in Western Russia. He had played through university in Moscow before joining the Bandits last season, and he’d quickly become a favourite of the fans.

      Mick was a raging hothead on the ice. He held grudges. He could be seen stalking an enemy on the ice, gliding on the periphery as he worked out his plot. He was a hell of a player, and when he went in for the kill he didn’t miss. That was why someone had given him the moniker ‘The Dragon’.

      Resigning herself to today’s bout of online surveillance, Julia opened the recap of last night’s game.

      As soon as the featured image popped up, Julia’s stomach lurched.

      Taken as Mick stepped off the ice, the picture showed a hulking, furious beast with a busted eyebrow, blood smearing half his face and splotches all over his jersey.

      She might not have known much about hockey, but staring at that picture she knew that Professor Carmichael was right: Mick had revenge in his eyes and whoever had bloodied him was a dead man skating.

      Still, even with the blood and sweat, Mick was a magnificent sight to behold. Pictures like these – and she’d become an expert at tracking them down across the vast expanse of the Internet – had fuelled more than a few masturbatory sessions in the wee morning hours.

      Earlier in the week she’d come across a candid shot of him on a teammate’s Twitter stream: in the locker room and stripped to the waist, most of him obscured by the torrent of ice water being dumped over his head but flashing just enough skin to make Julia wish her vibrator had a turbo setting.

      Not that she had needed it. She had almost bitten a hole in her pillow to prevent herself giving Kris an unpleasant and awkward wake-up call as she held the oscillating tip to her clit.

      With this gory picture of him post-brawl, the image her filthy mind conjured for the aftermath was of Mick reclining in a steaming bath, head tilted back and fingers curling against the edge of the tub as she tended to his wounded brow, minus all her clothes.

      She closed her browser before the scene in her mind could escalate to the inevitable outcome in which they were both in the tub, water sloshing on to the tiles, his hands on her hips and hers gripping the edge of the bath as he drove into her from behind.

      Groaning, she tipped her head back and stared at a water spot on the ceiling tiles.

      Do maintain a professional rapport with your hot Russian student.

      Do not entertain fantasies about doing it doggy-style in a candle-lit bathroom.

      Do look into the cost efficiency of a rechargeable vibrator or risk blowing this month’s grocery budget on batteries.

      The table juddered, and before she could raise her head Kris’s face appeared over hers.