Page 4 of They All Puck Me

Liam takes one last powerful shot as time winds down—a cannonball that whizzes past Chicago's goalie and hits home just as the buzzer sounds.

“Howl Center explodes!” My final update reads: “Liam Makar secures victory in thrilling finish!”

As the players celebrate on the ice, high-fiving and hugging each other, I sit back and exhale deeply. This was more than just a game—it was a battle, hard-fought and well-earned.

I bolt towards the press room. My heart pounds with adrenaline, the Wolves' victory still fresh in my mind. The corridor is a labyrinth of cables and equipment, but I navigate it with practiced ease.

The room is already packed, a cacophony of voices competing for dominance. I squeeze through the throng of reporters, my eyes scanning for a spot with a decent view. Just as I find one, I catch sight of Liam Makar entering the room. He’s flushed from the game, dark hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

I lock eyes with him across the crowded room. For a moment, everything else fades—the noise, the other reporters, the post-game chaos. It's just us, connected by an intense look that makes my stomach flutter. I quickly squash the feeling, reminding myself why I'm here: my career.

Liam’s gaze doesn’t waver. He’s confident, commanding even. The kind of look that could make you forget your own name if you let it. But I’m not here to swoon over hockey players.

I'm here to get intel to produce a bad ass article that just might but me on the map. No distractions.

2

LIAM

The press conference wraps up, and I spot her near the podium, scribbling furiously in a notebook. Her auburn hair is a mess, and those freckles are like a constellation across her nose. For some reason, my heart does a weird skip. I’m not used to that.

I hesitate for a split second—unusual for me—then stride over. "You got everything you need?" My voice comes out gruffer than intended.

She looks up, startled, then composes herself quickly. "Uh, yeah. Just wrapping up some notes."

I reach out, offering my hand for a handshake. "Liam Makar, team captain. What's your name?"

"Olivia, Oliva Lutz." She responds.

Her hand is small, soft against my calloused grip. I hold on a moment too long, awkwardly releasing it. She doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe she’s just polite.

"Uh, good game tonight, huh?" I say, feeling lame immediately after. Small talk isn’t my thing.

"Yeah, it was crazy," she says, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Your defense was on point."

"That’s what I do," I reply with a shrug. "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"

She chuckles, a sound that’s oddly satisfying. "You’re not exactly a mystery on the ice."

"And off the ice?"

She arches an eyebrow. "I’m a reporter; mysteries are kind of my thing."

The room empties out, and I can’t shake the feeling that letting her walk away would be a mistake. "Hey," I say, stepping closer. "You want a tour of the facility?"

She blinks, surprise flickering in those green eyes. "Really?"

I nod, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, why not? Follow me."

We move through the corridors, the hum of post-game activity fading behind us. The scent of sweat and ice lingers in the air. I’m hyperaware of her beside me, the soft swish of her steps almost distracting.

"This here’s the weight room," I say, pushing open a door. Rows of equipment gleam under fluorescent lights. "Where we turn into machines."

She peers inside, jotting something down. "How often do you guys train here?"

"Every day," I reply. "No days off if you want to win."

She grins. "That sounds... exhausting."

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