Page 47 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“You know what?” Chris says, speaking over the noise, “I think they can. And here’s why—this isn't the same team relying on individual heroics anymore. Ratcliff has matured into a legitimate leader, the defense is more coordinated than ever, and in Braun, they've found a goalie who seems like he can stand tall in those crucial moments! I don’t want to be too simplistic, but I think a strong line and a strong goalie are the key ingredients to produce the cup.”

“Boldprediction, Chris. Who’s to say Braun doesn’t slip back into his old performance levels?”

“I wouldn’t call it a prediction, but you know what? I'll go even bolder: If Braun maintains this trajectory, we're looking at a serious Vezina Trophy contender. The transformation reminds me of Bennett's breakout season—same age, similar statistical jump.”

“That's quite a comparison, but—what the hell—I’ll join in. Braun is starting to remind me of some other players, too. Namely the Viper’s big hole this season, Devon Chambers. I haven’t seen someone take a risk like that since Chambers was forced to cover for Ratcliff just two seasons ago.”

“Sure, Dave. I see that. I mean, you just have to look at the tape. Look at this!” A clip appears on the TV of the most recent Vipers’ game, a puck flying toward the goal. “The positioning, the reflexes, but most importantly, that confidence. He's playing like someone who knows they belong among the elite. And in this league, that mental edge makes all the difference.”

“Let’s hope, for the Vipers’ sake, that that mental edge doesn’t turn into a mental ledge.”

“Very clever.”

“After the break, tune back in for a look into this season’s college hockey…”

Finn

All night at the hotel, I dream of Sammy Braun in my bed.

Undressing me. Undressinghimself. Putting his lips everywhere. On hisfuckingknees—God, that was the worst part. That he was on his knees, his eyes shining up at me, that hunger so apparent in the way he put his lips on me. Devoured me.

Who knew Sammy Braun—so unconfident when talking to a beautiful woman—could pull off an orgasm like that? If Harper knew what she was missing, she wouldn’t even think about playing hard to get. I’ve never been with a man who did oral likethat. A man possessed, like he was going to die if he didn’t taste me while I came on his tongue.

Those thoughts plague me all night as I drift in and out of sleep, soaked, pissed off, and somehow still horny after one of the best orgasms of my life. Every time I wake up from a sex dream, I think about the very real possibility that I could have seen him naked—had his cock inside me—and the want doubles up again so violently that I have to take deep breaths to push through it.

When I finally swing my legs over the side of the bed in the morning, I decide I’m not going to let myself wallow in it. I’ll talk to my therapist, decide on a plan of attack, repent to all the girl-boss gods for giving into my primal urges like that, then move on like nothing ever happened.

My legs go weak in the shower when I remember how he hooked his fingers inside me.

I get dressed in my best, most flattering suit, mind running a million miles per minute. Maybe this is exactly what I needed. All those thoughts of him, constantly in my mind, since the moment I got to Burlington—maybe what I really needed was for something to kick them out of my head. To get the itch out of my system.

“I’m sorry.”

I wince when I picture the regret on his face, how, in that moment, I’d suddenly felt like any woman. Sammy Braun felt like fucking, and I was there, and he was sorry that it had happened. The thought rips through my current lust like a gust of freezing, icy wind.

“It won’t happen again.”

He’s right—it shouldn’t have happened at all. And it’s definitely not going to happen again. I’m a professional. Sammy is my client. I made all of that perfectly clear when we were discussing the matter of fake dating.

The door to his room opens the moment I step out into the hallway, and I tense, actually thinking about diving into the cover of my own room before I look up and come face-to-face with a short woman pushing a cart, her hair pulled back in a bun.

“Good morning,” she says cheerily, and when I glance past her, I see that his room is already gutted and cleaned, the sheets from last night balled up and stuffed in this woman’s hamper.

“Good morning,” I say, forcing myself to give her a smile. Then I turn on my heel and head to the lobby, dialing Penny’s number.

***

“Hi,” Sammy says the moment he’s close enough. Like he wants to make sure he speaks first so he doesn’t have to come up with a response. The greeting comes out loud and forced, and I maintain a calm, pleasant expression, not allowing myself to react to the awkward atmosphere.

Of course it’s awkward. The last time I saw him, he was still on his knees in his hotel room, watching me as I quickly ducked out of the room.

Around us, kids are shouting with excitement, squealing and jumping around. Rides roar in the distance, coasters twisting and plummeting over our shoulders, food vendors churning out the sweet and salty scents of a million fried concoctions.

“Your outfit,” he says, looking me up and down when he gets closer. “I like it.”

Without meaning to, I laugh, glancing down at myself. Using almost no strategy at all, Sammy has already diffused the bomb of tension sitting between us, making me laugh within the first ten seconds of us meeting again.

“I’m just wearing jeans and a sweatshirt,” I say, but a smile melts over his face, his eyes skipping up and down my body in a way that makes me warm and shivering all at once.

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