Page 20 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

With that, he closes the door, and I’m left there standing, heart skipping, staring at an empty entry way.

Sammy

Finn is waiting for me in the parking lot when I pull in. The sun has just started coming up over the horizon, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink. When I step out of the car, I slide on my shades.

“A train,” I say, reading the sign in the parking lot, which advertises tracks to the top, with breath-taking views. My stomach is already starting to tighten when I see a kid no older than ten skip happily past me, and I feel ridiculous.

Finn stands next to the sign in a fitted blazer and pencil skirt, looking every bit the professional coach she is. Something about her always makes me feel huge and clumsy in comparison.

And something about her here, with the backdrop of the Vermont sunrise, is spectacular. The way the light catches her hair, the rising sun just behind her chest, silhouetting her body. She looks ethereal.

“Yes,” she says, fixing those intense blue eyes on me. “A train that has tracks on the side of a mountain. Very high up.”

“You think I'm afraid of heights?”

“It sure seemed like it.”

I glance up at the mountain looming above us, trying to keep my breathing steady as my chest tightens. The tracks disappear into the distance, winding their way up the steep slope. My stomach tightens.

“Maybe,” I admit, looking back at her. No point in lying—she clearly sees right through me anyway. And I told her I was going to take this seriously. “But that's it? A train ride?”

Based on the skydiving, I thought I might be fighting a bear, or bungee jumping.

Because I’m terrified of heights, and because I spent half the night re-Googling Finn and the other half trying to figure out what she might be planning today. I know that some of her previous clients have done bungee jumping. I also know that bungee jumping is way more dangerous than other thrill-seeking activities.

Maybe I should be grateful for the train.

“Let's board, then we can chat more,” she says, all business. We walk together toward the station, where tourists mill around clutching coffee cups and chattering excitedly. My palms are already starting to sweat.

Finn stops at the cafe counter, and before she can reach for her phone, I step in front of her and tap my card on the reader. She turns, looking ready to argue, but I speak before she can.

“Least I can do,” I say, watching a light pink blush spread over her cheeks. “Consider it a down payment.”

Something flickers across her face—the shadow of a smile?—before she turns quickly back to the counter. It gives me a weird little thrill, catching her off-guard like that.

The attendants guide us into a train car to our seats up front. Plush, comfortable—clearly first class. Finn strides through the aisle like she belongs here, and I get the feeling she hasn’t flown coach in quite a long time. I know Grey made it clear that the Vipers would pay for any expenses associated with her coaching.

“Welcome aboard,” an attendant says, his eyes lingering a bit too long on Finn as he looks her up and down. He has shoulder-length honey-blond hair, and I almost scoff. He’s not her type.

When she smiles at him, my jaw clenches automatically. It’s ridiculous—she's my coach. A business partner. Not anythingelse. But then she leans into his attention, and something hot and uncomfortable twists in my stomach.

“Well, thank you,” she practically purrs, and I have to look away, focus on taking deep breaths. Slowly, I unfurl each of my fingers, from my palms, forcing myself to relax.

We sink down into the seats, and Finn lets out a little sound that sticks in my brain. I shift, adjusting my position in the chair.

What the hell is wrong with me today?

Of course, I’m not immune to noticing beautiful women, but it never fills my brain like this. I wonder if it’s stress.

When the attendant sets down mimosas, I reach for mine, sighing in relief. A little alcohol might help to smooth out the edges, make me feel less insane when I look at her.

But Finn suddenly springs into action, grabbing mine away, her fingers wrapping elegantly under the swell of the glass as she sets it next to hers. I stare at the liquid as it sloshes, mind still processing that she’s taken it from me.

“I'm sorry,” she says to the server, who also looks confused. Finn leans forward, tucking her hair behind her ear in a way that makes the attendant's eyes go follow the motion. “He doesn't drink. Any chance you can get us some freshly squeezed orange juice?”

“I don't drink?” I ask once he's gone, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Not anymore,” she says matter-of-factly, crossing her legs and taking a delicate sip of her own mimosa. Her smile is amused, mischievous. “I've done all the research on this—there is no amount of alcohol that's safe for an athlete. It degrades your body. It's one step forward, two steps back.”

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