Page 25 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“Do you like her?” I ask, setting my tablet down and leaning toward him. “Have you asked her on a date?”

“Uh…” He clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, making a point of not looking at me. “Everyone likes her. And no.”

“What do you mean, ‘everyone likes her?’”

“Well, she’s gorgeous and brilliant, and always around, and the other guys—”

“She’sgorgeousandbrilliant?” I ask, eyebrows shooting up. Sammy seems to realize what he’s done and clams up, like he’s on trial and at risk of confessing to his crime. “So, why haven’t you asked her out, if she’s gorgeous and brilliant?”

Gorgeous. And brilliant.

“I—well, because she—”

“I can see what’s happening here,” I say, my voice coming out with a sure confidence that sounds like me, but doesn’t match the churning in my stomach. I’m too excited, reaching for my tablet, pulling up this girl’s profile. I need to see her, to know who we’re talking about.

“You can?”

“This is it!” My brain is whirring, putting the pieces together. “This must be the emotional blockage.”

“Oh,” Sammy laughs, shaking his head and raising a hand to me. “No, no, she just—”

“You like her, but you haven’t done anything about it.” I tap on my screen. When it fills with a photo of Harper’s face—all flushed cheeks, a tight white shirt and a clean smile—I turn it around to him so he can see it and point adamantly with my smart pen. “Thisis the blockage. We need to clear it.”

“Clear it?’

“Yes.” I’m not sure, but it’s worth a try. For some reason, every word feels like the sweet, bitter pain of digging at a loose tooth. “You need to ask her out.”

“She’s just going to say no.”

“You can’t know that—what if she likes you, too?”

Sammy is quiet for a long moment, and I turn the screen around, already pulling up several articles on developing confidence and enacting it in romantic settings. I’m going to study up on this and figure out how to help get him the girl.

“I don’t know,” he says a moment later, drawing me out of my reading.

“What?”

“You asked what if she likes me, too? And I guess—I don’t know. I never let myself think that far.”

“Well,” I say, slipping my feet out of my boots and tucking them under myself. I take a sip of my drink, settle into my seat, and level my gaze at him. “We are going to figure it out together.”

Sammy

“That’s it!” Grey calls, his voice ringing through the rink. “That’swhat I wanted to see!”

Brett hollers when Morrison steals the puck and the two of them bring it down the ice. Brett has that look in his eye—the one that says he’s going to go all Devon and try something fancy.

“Come on, Braun!” Brett taunts, his voice just barely louder than his skates hitting the ice. “Let’s see what that other coach has been teaching you.”

Brett knows Finn isn’t an actual hockey coach, but taunting is part of his playing style. It’s a huge reason other players target him so much.

He’s been making comments all morning, trying to get under my skin. Prepping me for our next game. I keep my focus on the puck, his stick movement, how his weight shifts as he makes his way toward me.

A second later, he fires. Quick and precise, aimed for the top corner of the net.

I catch it in my glove, feeling the impact of the puck rock through my hand and reverberate all the way down to my elbow. It’s one of the most satisfying feelings in the world.

“There you go!” Grey calls, weirdly happy.

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