Page 9 of My Pucking Perfect Goalie

When we get to the top floor of the building—one of the many modernized classics in the downtown area—the redhead steps out of the elevator quickly, turning and forging ahead.

The view from the windows is pretty, with all of Burlington laid out before us. It’s not a large city, and this isn’t even the tallest building here. There’s an apartment buildinganda senior living center that are both taller. But this is the office space my lawyer is in, so it’s not surprising to me that the coach would take up their business here, too.

As I follow the redhead down the hall, I wonder if Dr. Finley Asher is planning to see any other clients while in Vermont. The thought of him working with me and my teammates at the same time makes my stomach twist.

“Here we are,” the woman says, coming to a stop in front of the door and smiling prettily at me.

“Thanks,” I breathe, then, “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?”

“Oh,” she says, blinking, as though it never occurred to her that I might want to know it. “Penelope O’Malley. But you can call me Penny.”

“Right, thanks. Sammy,” I say, holding out my hand. She blinks again, a small smile shaping over her face. Instead of taking my hand, she gestures to the door with her head.

“I know,” she says, which makes me blush. “Finn is waiting.”

With that, she turns and walks quickly to a little desk in the reception area, sitting quickly and opening a laptop. She’s already typing on it by the time I push the office door open.

“Hey—” I start, then stop when I see the woman in front of me getting out of her seat. Words leave my mind as I look at her, my body feeling like it’s been caught in a beam from an alien spaceship.

She’s tall, which is one of the first things I notice as she stands from her spot behind the desk. There’s something somatureabout her beauty—elegant cheekbones, shaped eyebrows, and a mouth that’s slightly turned down, slightly open even before she speaks. On the left, her hair is pushed behind her ear, showing off her neck and jaw, which is slightly square and well-defined.

“Sammy?”

I blink, actually finding it hard to swallow for a moment. What the hell is wrong with me? She’s going to think I’m a creep if I keep staring at her, so I nod, take a step forward, and thrust a hand in her direction.

“Right. Sammy. Braun,” I say, watching as she assesses me, then puts her own hand out for me to take. It’s small and warm and dry in mine, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of how badly my palms are sweating. Pulling my hand from hers and nodding, I take a seat in front of her desk.

“Dr. Finley Asher,” she says, her voice so calm and collected I wonder if she noticed the sweaty palms.

I resist the urge to wipe my hand on my jeans as she talks. Maybe I’m not the suavest man in the entire room—the guys have madesure to remind me of that at every turn—but I’m not usuallythisbad. Bumbling. Nervous. Sweaty.

But the mid-day sunlight from the windows is glinting off her dark hair and streaking over her desk, her eyes darting up to meet mine, a dark, cerulean blue. Her eyesactuallyhave a glint in them, and I realize I’m staring again.

“…get started,” she’s saying.

“Right.” I reposition myself in my chair. I need to focus—it’s a dick move not to hear what she’s saying. If my mother was here, she’d be disappointed in me for not listening to a woman when she speaks.

“Thank you for sending over the information you did,” she says, clasping her hands together and looking right at me. It feels like looking into the sun. “It gave my team and me the ability to start forming a plan for you. But I’m afraid we’re still far behind where I’d like to be at this stage—so there’s more information we need to sort out.”

“Whatever you need,” I say, reaching for a moreI’m a professional athlete and fully grown man, so I have my shit togethervoice.

“Great,” she says, the word snappy. One by one, she starts setting forms on the desk, gesturing for me to sign them. I do—if Grey trusts her, I trust her. Besides, I have the suspicion that I would seriously struggle tonotimmediately do whatever this woman told me to.

“Okay, Sammy,” she continues, putting the files away and re-fixing her gaze on me. “I’m going to cut right to the chase. We’re going to do all these tests on you and we’re going to find out all sorts of tiny little improvements we can make to optimize your life, and you’re going to do them, right?”

“Of course.” I nod, thinking of LeBron James and his oxygen chamber. I’ve never considered myself to be the kind of guy who could do stuff like that, but Coach seems to think it’s a good idea.

“Perfect, but here’s the thing that nobody wants to face up to…” When she says this, her face turns deadly serious, and she leans over the table, raising her eyebrows and tilting her head. “There is something in your life holding you back. Something you can’t admit to. Something you won’t own up to. And we can make all these tiny improvements—and theywillhelp—but nothing is going to help as much as you finally facing that thing you’ve been ignoring. Does that make sense?”

I feel the air crush out of my chest like I’ve been clamped on either side. My vision goes a little hazy. The way she’s looking at me—like she knows everything. And all at once, I don’t like it one bit.

When I stand up, the chair I’m sitting in falls over, clattering loudly. I can feel my chest rising and falling, and I clear my throat, trying to balance not being rude withneedingto get the hell out of here.

“Sorry, uh—” I reach down and pick up the chair. “This is, actually—I don’t think this is going to be right for me.”

With that, I get my hand on the door handle and pull it open, heart already relaxing at the idea of getting out of this office and away from Dr. Finley Asher.

Finn

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