Page 18 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Got it,” I say, weakly. When he walks away, I slump next to the toilet, sucking in a breath.

Grey thinks this piss poor performance was because I’m sick. It must be a blessing, because it means I have a second chance. That I might be able to turn this around before Petrov skates out onto the rink wearing my number and standing in front of my goal.

For the rest of the game, I drink water and think about how I’m going to convince Dr. Finn Asher to take me back.

Finn

I’m on the phone when the first knock sounds at the door.

“No, I’m telling you I don’t care about who else you have booked on that damn flight,” I pause, listening to the uptight man on the other end of the phone, fury rising inside me, turning to cool professionalism on the outside. “Listen, sir, I know you’re not the top of the line here. I am a Diamond Member with this airline for a reason, and it’s because I expect the best service—no, I am not finished speaking—and right now, that is not what you’re giving me. Either put me on the phone with your supervisor, or be expecting me to send a detailed letter about why I’m abandoning my loyalty with your airline and movingeveryone of my clients over to your competitor.”

There’s a pause, then the man mutters something about getting me a supervisor. I would grin, but I’m too annoyed.

The hold music is still playing when the doorbell starts to ring. I pull the mouthpiece away from my face, covering it with my hand, and call, “Penny! Is that Ellie at the door? Would you let her know I’m on the phone?”

When there’s no answer, I curse under my breath, remembering I sent Penny out to collect my dress from the only dry cleaner open in Burlington at this time. I pause, waiting to see if the noise will stop, but a flurry of knocking and doorbell ringing follows.

“Oh myfuckinggod!” I growl, standing from the chair in my room and stalking to the front door. “What could be sofuckingimport—”

I stop when I throw the door open and Sammy Braun is standing there, his broad frame filling the entire space. His cheeks are red, his hair mussed, and my stomach flips over at the realization that he’s standing here and now, in front of me.

At first, I’m taken by how handsome he looks, the early morning light washing in soft yellows and pinks over his hair and body. He’s wearing a pair of jeans, a gray hoodie, and a jacket thrown over that, and I know that if I stepped forward and hugged him, his clothes would be cool, but his skin would be warm.

I’m distracted by his dimples, by his stance, by the squeeze of his hands. I blink once, twice, trying to clear the sudden rosy fog from my head.

And when I do, I remember to summon my rage.

“Excuse me?” I say, tapping my phone and putting the call on speaker so the hold music rings out loudly. Looking him up and down, I flick my hair over my shoulder and cross my arms over my chest. “I already settled up with Grey. I have no—”

“I don’t deserve your help,” Sammy says, cutting me off and making my mouth drop open again. His eyes flick past me, and before I know what I’m doing, I step back so he can shift inside the door. It closes behind him. The hold music continues playing in my phone, which is limp in my hand.

“I don’t deserve it,” Sammy continues, “but I’m asking for it. Again. I know this is the second time I’m telling you yes, but this time I mean it. I’ll do whatever you ask. Anything.”

“What—” I start, clearing my throat and turning the volume down on my phone. “What changed your mind?”

“After the skydiving thing, I…I guess I tried to tell myself that I was fine being okay. But I’m sure you saw the game. I wasn’tokay. I was total shit. Garbage. And it sounds like Grey might want to replace me. Maybe I’m fine with just being another guy in the rink, but I can’t lose my spot. This team is everything to me. This sport is everything to me. I have to prove—”

He stops, and I realize I’m leaning forward, waiting for him to finish that statement. Wanting badly to know what’s on the end of it. What does he have to prove? And who does he have to prove it to?

“I’ve already booked my flight home,” I lie, glancing away from him. “And—”

“I’ll double your pay,” he says, voice rough. “Whatever Grey or the Vipers are giving you, I’ll pay the same.”

“It’s not about the money,” I scoff, having to stop myself from rolling my eyes at him. “I don’t want to waste my time—”

“What can I do, then? I’ll do anything.”

He takes another desperate step, this time crowding into my space, making it hard to breathe. He smells like cool air and eucalyptus, fresh and easy, and my skin prickles with awareness.

Even in a sweatshirt and jacket, I can see the bulk of his shoulders, his arms straining against the fabric. For the first time in my career, I imagine what an athlete’s arms might be like.

How easy he could lift me. How simple it would be for him to maneuver my body, press me against the wall—

Heat flushes into my face. What the hell am I doing? Thinking about a client this way. I haveneverallowed myself thosethoughts, no matter how strong or muscled or handsome they might be.

“What can I do, Finn?” he repeats, voice low. Rough. Shivers break out over my skin. “I don’t—I guess I can’t think of anything you don’t have. What would it take?” He chuckles, but it’s self-aggrandizing. “You want me to be your personal servant? Shine your shoes? Share you on my socials?”

I pause, letting my gaze skip away from his lips, that idea taking hold. My other clients value their privacy. Part of my appeal to them is that I won’t go around telling everyone that I helped to make them.

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