Page 16 of My Athlete Neighbor

Allison buried her face in her hands, but she was smiling. Maybe complicated wasn't such a bad thing after all.

Later while she was at work, her phone buzzed with a text from Kane:Coach is going to kill me for texting now, but worth it. I made reservations for dinner at O’Conner’s tonight. Wear something nice. No gym clothes allowed (unfortunately).

Another buzz:Though those shorts should be illegal anyway.

And another:Dmitri says we have no romance, making out in equipment room like teenagers. He's offering to teach me a proper courtship ice ballet. Send help.

She felt herself grinning like an idiot. Her workout might have been a bust this morning, but somehow she didn't think she'd have any trouble getting her heart rate up today.

One more text from Kane:Forgot to mention - Coach scheduled a press conference after practice. Any chance you could bring my lucky charm? (That's you, not the puck. Though maybe bring that too.)

And there it was—reality crashing back in. The puck. The team. The media. All the complications they'd been trying to ignore in the equipment room.

Chapter Seven

Allison slipped into the back of the media room, immediately overwhelmed by the wall of reporters, cameras, and equipment. The air felt thick with anticipation—and the distinct scent of hockey gear permeated every corner of the area. She tucked herself behind a tall cameraman, grateful for the cover.

The team filed in, led by Coach Vicky in her signature blazer, a deep forest green that made her auburn hair shine under the harsh lights. Kane followed, looking sharp in a charcoal suit that made his blue eyes even more striking. The rest of the team crowded in behind them, Dmitri practically bouncing with energy while Oliver already had his phone out, no doubt live-streaming to his followers.

"We'll start with questions about Friday's away game," Coach Vicky announced, her voice carrying that hint of Canadian lilt that became more pronounced during press conferences.

A forest of hands shot up. Coach pointed to a reporter in the front row.

"Kane, the team seems energized. What’s changed?”

Kane leaned forward to his microphone, and Allison's stomach fluttered at the familiar crooked smile. "The guys have been working hard. Our defensive strategies are clicking, and everyone's buying into the system Coach has put in place."

"But what about the lucky puck?" Another reporter called out. "Sources say Michael Warrant's Olympic game-winner has been the reason. Any truth to that?"

Allison's chest tightened. Kane's smile faltered slightly, but before he could answer, Dmitri grabbed his microphone.

"Is magic,” he declared with theatrical flair. "Victory comes from believing."

Several reporters laughed. Oliver rolled his eyes but was clearly recording the moment for his channel.

"We're focused on our gameplay," Kane redirected, though Allison noticed his ears had gone slightly pink. "Superstitions are part of hockey, but—"

"Will the puck be at Friday's game?" someone interrupted.

Coach Vicky leaned forward. "The team's success comes from months of hard work, strategic adjustments, and player development. Now, about our special teams' performance..."

But the questions kept circling back to the puck, to her grandfather's legacy, to luck and superstition and winning streaks. Allison's skin crawled with each mention. When she saw a photographer scanning the crowd, she ducked out, her heart pounding as she escaped into the hallway.

She hadn't meant to pace outside the arena's employee exit, but somehow forty-five minutes passed before the door opened and Kane emerged, his tie loosened and hair slightly mussed as if he'd been running his hands through it.

"Hey.” He leaned in to give her a quick kiss. "I’m sorry to keep you waiting."

"That’s okay." She hugged herself against the chilly evening air. "Quite a circus in there."

Kane grimaced. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. The media, they get fixated on storylines and—" He broke off, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Let’s just go to dinner."

The car ride to O'Connor's was quiet, awkward tension thrumming between them. The pub was exactly what Allison would have expected Kane to choose—upscale enough for a proper date but with the comfortable warmth of a traditionalIrish pub. Dark wood panels lined the walls, and intimate booths were tucked into cozy alcoves. A hostess led them to a corner table partially screened by an ornate room divider.

"Wine list?" she offered.

"Please," Allison said, just as Kane said, "Beer's fine."

They shared a self-conscious laugh. The hostess diplomatically left both menus.

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