Page 43 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

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“I’m just saying…” Fallon’s friendly hand is against my bicep. “All you need to do is stretch your lower back like every twenty minutes, and that pain will go away.”

We’re standing in a little area they’ve informed me is where the arena staff have told them to wait for their guys. Sometimes they come right out, sometimes it takes longer if they’re waiting for them to come back from press conferences.

This must be our lucky night, because several of them have already appeared. But not Sammy.

“Oh, that’s interesting, Fallon,” I say, trying to be polite. “But—”

It’s no use telling her I already have a physical therapist I see regularly. I’ve seen enough battered athlete bodies to know it’s better to start taking care of mine as soon as possible.

But she just continues on. As she talks about the spine and how to care for it, my attention shifts over her shoulder, where a familiar man appears.

Sammy ducks into the hallway, his hair still damp. A single tendril falls loosely onto his forehead, and my fingers twitch to push it back into place. He’s wearing a loose pair of navy-bluesweats and a gray hoodie, and I can almost imagine what the fabric would feel like, pressed against his warm skin.

Fallon pauses, then looks over her shoulder, too.

“Oh,” she says, face brightening “there’s Sam—”

She stops when Harper appears, as though from thin air, walking quickly toward him. She’s wearing a smart navy-blue pantsuit, and I realize—with a pang of something bitter—that they’re inadvertently matching. Her hair is long and curled, bouncing over her shoulders, and looks just as perfect as when I caught sight of her before the game.

Something warm and aware moves through me the moment I see his eyes shift toward her, and I recognize it a moment later as jealousy.

Which is ridiculous.

Sammy is smiling at her, looking down at her, his voice dropping so it’s just the two of them in the conversation. She’s standing close to him, her chest less than a foot away from his. Intimate.

“Wow,” Fallon says, crossing her arms. When I spare a second to glance over at her, she looks impressed, pivoting so she’s standing at me and watching, like we’re two moms at the park willing our kids to make friends.

“I didn’t know Sammy actually had a chance there,” she says. “Brett told me he’s been pining after her for years! Seems like she might be interested.”

“Yeah,” I say, then realize I might be watching a little too intently when Fallon gives me a strange look. I can’t help it—this is his opportunity. Opening up right in front of him.

Harper leans in, puts her hand on his chest. I swallow, unable to look away.

Then, Sammy does the unthinkable—he laughs, leans backward, and looks at me.

“Oh, no,” Fallon whispers, when Harper lets her hand drop, then looks in my direction as well. When our eyes catch, there’s a horrifying moment in which I think she might recognize me, but she doesn’t. Fallon must add to my camouflage, because Harper just says something quickly to Sammy, then turns and walks in the other direction.

“I’m going to…go talk to Ellie,” Fallon says, her voice turning to a whisper as Sammy gets close. I must look furious, because she sends him what looks like a pitying glance before ducking away.

“Sammy,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm when he gets near enough. “What was that?”

“What?” he asks, giving me a lopsided grin that makes me have to force down the spark of joy that catches in my chest. “Theamazing block in the first period or thereallyamazing block in the third?”

“That,” I say, gesturing over his shoulder to where he and Harper were just talking. I won’t let him distract me by talking about his performance. “Don’t be purposefully dense, you know exactly what I’m talking about! You just had a perfect chance with her and you—what? Walked away?”

The voices at the other end of the hallway get a little louder, and Sammy presses his lips together, suddenly looking drained.

“Come on,” he says, catching me by my sleeve. His eyes dart to the end of the hallway, where the rest of the players and family members are talking and laughing. An adorable little girl weaves in and out of people’s legs.

“I already called a car,” he says.

“You—what?”

But the words are left behind us, as he’s already tugging me in the opposite direction. He’s clearly not totally sure where we’re going, but nobody questions the big guy making his way through the arena, so ten minutes later we’re spit out onto the sidewalk courtesy of a random side door, and we spend the next five looking for the car he called.

“Good thing you made it,” the driver calls, as we approach. “I was just about to—hey! You’re Sammy Braun! Holy shit!”

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