Page 29 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

“So, how do I stop that?” I ask.

“You practice until your body knows what to do without asking your brain's permission.” He stands, offering me a hand up. “And you accept that sometimes, they're going to score. That's hockey. The trick is not letting those goals shake your confidence.”

I get to my feet, feeling somehow lighter. “Even you let goals in.”

Bennett grins. “Even me. Now, let's try something different. Instead of thinking about stopping the puck, I want you to focus on how your body feels. The ice under your skates, the weight of your pads. Everything else—the puck, me, the pressure—that's all background noise. Ready?”

I nod, settling back into my stance. This time, when he comes down the ice, I try to stay present in my body. Feel the edge of my skate bite into the ice as I move. The stretch of my muscles as I react.

When he shoots, my glove comes up automatically. The puck hits the leather with a satisfying thwack.

“I saw it!” Bennett calls out, skating to a stop. “That's what I'm talking about!”

Through the glass, I see Finn has stopped pacing. She's watching us, a small smile on her face. When our eyes meet, she gives me a quick nod.

“Again?” I ask Bennett, already resetting my position.

He grins, collecting another puck and passing it to Isaac, who is just joining us, glancing between Bennett and I with curiosity in his gaze.

“Now you're getting it, kid,” Bennett says. “Again.”

Finn

There is no place worse than a waiting room.

I fidget in my seat, trying to ignore the clawing frustration in my throat. I’ve already spent most of my time thinking about what a waste it is to wait—and wondering why places don’t bother to clean up their operations a little bit. Eliminate the need for in-between rooms and just let you get to your appointment.

Without my consent, my mind flashes back to a month ago, when Sammy came out of the locker room post-Bennett coaching.

“I love you, I love you, I love you—!” He’d shouted it, his voice ringing out through the arena, his arms coming around me and picking me up like I weighed nothing.

In that moment, I’d had to remind myself that I was a professional. And that professionals didnotlike being swept off their feet by towering hockey players.

“Put me down, Sammy,” I’d said, but the words lost their bite when a laugh snuck in.

When he finally did set me down—cheeks red, chest heaving—I didn’t miss the way his hands lingered on my arms for a moment. Or how his eyes skipped down to my lips.

I’d taken a step back and nodded, eyes flicking out toward the ice. “I take it your session with Bennett went well?”

“Yeah,” Sammy had said, his face melting even more, if it was possible. “I don’t know how to thank you enough, Finn.”

Now, back in the waiting room, someone appears, calling the name of the person next to me and ushering them back, away from the stiff polyester chairs and year-old magazines. I try not to look too annoyed. I try to be grateful that Penny was able to get me an appointment on such short notice in Vermont.

Focusing on the file in my hand, I try to distract myself. It’s spreadsheets, photos, reports on Sammy. Tracking his progress, detailing his journey. While he’s certainly improving—his numbers and the Viper’s winning streak shows that—he’s not improving at the trajectory my clients normally do.

Over the past two weeks, he’s taken on every one of my suggestions with gusto. Journaling, meditating, seeing therapists—every suggestion except finally going after Harper. Every time I set it up so he can talk to her privately, he slides out of the interaction, or someone else interrupts.

Thathas to be it. His romantic block has to be the thing holding him back on the ice. And I need to figure out a way to push him in the right direction, get him to ask Harper on a date. Maybe she’ll say yes, and they’ll become the cutest couple in hockey. Or maybe she’ll say no, and Sammy can move on, find another woman to set his sights on.

“Finley Asher?”

I startle, then quickly tuck my things away and follow the nurse back. She goes through the typical process—weighing me, taking my vitals—while chatting brightly and asking me about my day.

“Did you see the Vipers game last night?” she asks, eyes shining as she pumps the blood pressure cuff. “My friends and I started a Vipers Book Club where we read hockey romance and watch the games. Have you read Lola Burke? She’s my favorite. But anyway, the game was so good! Close until the end. Did you catch it?”

“Yes,” I say, forcing myself to smile through the tightening stress in my chest. When I think of Sammy out there on the ice, andthe way his eyes had connected with mine immediately after the final buzzer, that stress melts a bit.

“Right this way,” the nurse says, after ten more minutes of hockey talk and a blood draw. I’m deposited in a small room to change, and spared more waiting when the doctor slips in almost immediately.

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