Page 36 of They All Puck Me

I grab my phone from the counter and scroll through my messages. Nothing from Liam. Not that I expected anything; he's got his team to focus on. Still, a small part of me hoped...

"Get it together," I whisper, setting the phone down with more force than necessary.

Two cups of coffee and a cheese danish later I'm at my desk. I stare at my half-written article, the cursor blinking accusingly. I try to write objectively about Liam's leadership skills, but every sentence feels tainted by my intimate knowledge of him. My fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating. I delete and rewrite paragraphs multiple times, frustrated by my inability to separate my personal and professional lives.

"Liam Makar leads the Wolves with an intensity that..." No, that's too personal. Delete.

"Under Makar's leadership, the team has seen a significant improvement in their defensive strategies..." Boring. Delete.

I sigh and lean back in my chair, rubbing my temples. The memory of last night refuses to fade. His touch, his kiss—it's all too fresh.

My phone buzzes on the desk. I pick it up, hoping for a distraction. It's a text from Sophie.

Sophie:How's the article going?

I roll my eyes. Trust her to check in at the worst possible moment.

Me:Terribly. Can't write a damn thing without thinking about him.

Sophie:Which "him"? You've got quite a few on your plate lately ;)

I groan and type back quickly.

Me:Not helping!

Sophie:Seriously though, you need to clear your head. Go for a run or something.

Me:Maybe later. I don't want my cheese danish to be consumed for nothing. Need to get this done first.

I put my phone down and stare at the screen again. My mind wanders back to the café with Liam, his eyes locked onto mine as we talked about his responsibilities as captain.

"Focus, Olivia," I mutter to myself.

I type again: "Makar's ability to read the game and make split-second decisions has been pivotal for the Wolves this season."

Better. Not great, but better.

I sit in the stands watching the Wolves' practice unfold below. The tension on the ice is palpable. Liam, usually so precise and commanding, seems off his game. He misses passes he'd normally nail with ease, his frustration evident in every terse movement.

"Come on, Liam," I whisper under my breath, willing him to focus.

Noah keeps glancing at Liam, concern etched across his face. His own drills are executed flawlessly, but it's clear his mind is elsewhere as well. He skates over to Liam during a break, their conversation animated but hushed.

"What’s going on with you today?" Noah's voice carries just enough for me to catch the tail end.

"Nothing," Liam snaps back, a rare edge to his tone. "Just... tired."

I feel a pang of guilt twist in my stomach. My presence here, the interactions I’ve had with them—it’s starting to affect the team dynamic. I’ve become more than just a reporter; I’m a distraction.

Ethan's frustration is even more apparent. His aggressive playing style borders on reckless today. He slams into the boards after missing a shot, cursing under his breath. When he catches sight of me watching from the stands, his expression darkens further.

Coach Bergman blows his whistle, signaling the end of practice. The players gather at the bench, and I can see the tension rippling through them like an electric current.

I linger by the exit of the rink, watching the players disperse. I didn't stick around to listen to the sermon Bergman was about to preach. But judging from the extra octave his voice jumped, I would imagine it wasn't good. The weight of last night's decisions feels like an anchor in my chest. As the sound of skates scraping on ice fades, I overhear Coach Bergman talking with his assistant near the locker room entrance.

"The first line's chemistry is crucial for winning the cup," Bergman says, his voice low but firm. "Any disruption could cost us everything."

His assistant nods. "Makar, Kane, and Reynolds need to be in sync. I don;t know what has their panties in a wad, but we can't afford any distractions."

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