Page 76 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

“Look at this guy,” Ryan says, smirking. “If hockey doesn’t pan out, we could definitely get you a modeling gig.”

Flashing him a glare, my fingers work at adjusting the jacket’s starched sleeves. “Save it, Connors. It’s enough that I had to wear this monkey suit. Don’t make me regret showing up.”

“He’s right you know?” Liam chuckles. "Making some money off your looks might be a good thing. It’s wasted on the ice."

“Yeah, I’ll do that. Right after I break every mirror I own,” I growl, shaking my head. "Or maybe you’re more suited to that, Mr. Three-Mirror Selfie Per Hour.”

We all laugh, an easy rhythm falling between us, the familiar kind of banter that carries through locker rooms, training sessions, and recently—late-night takeout orders.

Liam tilts his head. "Hey, not my fault. Mirrors just happen to enjoy my company."

“Nonsense.” The scoff escapes my lips smoothly.

Ryan, leaning against the side of his car, shakes his head with mock sorrow. “Someone get the man a cape. Brooding this hard should come with a warning label.”

“Yeah, yeah.” I adjust my collar, while trying my best impression of a deadpan look. “You two think you’re funny. Say one thing out of order and I’ll take you both down like we’re on the ice. And don’t think this suit will hold me back.”

Ryan and Liam laugh, completely unfazed. We move toward the doors, banter echoing against the marble floors of the massive hall. Between the glinting chandeliers and the snowflake-shaped decorations hanging from the ceiling, it’s hard to know where to look without being blinded by holiday cheer.

“So,” Ryan says, nudging me with an elbow, “any reason you’re actually wearing a tux, or did you just have an epiphany to actually start dressing well for these things?”

My head swivels around, eyes searching for one person in particular. “Why do you think something changed?”

Ryan scoffs, tugging his jacket into place. “Look at you, you always used to think tuxes were somehow 'too formal' for a night like this.”

“Ryan, you’ve got a lifetime pass to banter as the unofficial fashion police,” I let out a chuckle, “but remember, tonight’s about looking respectable.”

“So, you’re saying you just changed your mind?”

“Let’s just say, I’ve got my reasons.”The only reason is my new motivation to look good enough for an event my housemate worked so hard on.

Liam’s grin widens. “I’ll bet you do. Don’t look so tense, man. You’re among friends.”

Friends. They’ve been glued to my side for years, on and off the ice. No wonder Holly calls them my “hockey brothers.” But right now, there’s only one person my mind’s dying to see, and the moment we step inside, my eyes begin the search.

The place is filled with Christmas decorations strung up with more sparkle than a jewelry store, gold and silver lights glittering against walls that usually host far less glamorous faces than the ones flooding in now. But for me, all that glitz fades.

She’s here somewhere—I can almost feel it before actually seeing her. And then, there she is.

The sight nearly stops me in my tracks.

Holy moly.Holly in that dress ... well, there aren’t words that do it justice. If words were even close, they’d still be woefully inadequate. The dress glitters in the soft light, a deep green that is sure to make her eyes look even brighter, the fabric hugging every curve, her hair a perfect cascade over one shoulder. She’s a vision, one that’s going to live rent-free in my head for a long time to come.

It should be illegal, looking that good. Ithasto be.

My feet move without my brain’s permission, pulling me toward her like some lovesick fool—and I nearly get there, too, when Coach Andrew steps up, followed by a few other teammates, all laughing and raising glasses. They greet me with slaps on the back and hearty “Great party!” shouts that leave little room for escape.

Ryan and Liam answer each person in turn, their cheer contagious, while my own responses are gruff mumbles, eyesdarting back to Holly, only to find that she’s now surrounded by more people—including Jonathan Reid.

Jonathan Reid, the Blizzards team manager, clearly lacks an idea of “personal space” because he’s standing too close to Holly while telling her something.

An uncomfortable twist of jealousy flares up, spiking unwelcome tension that pricks in the back of my neck. Jonathan’s got thislean-inthing going on, whispering in her ear as if they’re on the brink of sharing some inside joke that only they’d get.For God’s sake, the place isn’t even that loud—why does he need to whisper in her ear?

Beside me, Liam catches my change in expression. “Everything alright?”

“Fine,” I mutter, jaw tightening. “Nothing’s wrong.”

It takes effort, but I rip my gaze away, forcing a neutral expression. Ryan catches me glancing over and smirks. "You don’t look like it.”

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