Page 102 of The Pucking Player

[Dad]: Language, both of you. But yes, incredibly brave. Incredibly stupid, but brave.

[Jessica]: Did you see the part about his son helping them?

[Mom]: I suppose hockey brings out the best in people

[Adam]: Or the worst. Depends which Volkov we’re talking about

[Jessica]: Sophie? You there?

I stare at the messages, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. What do you say when you find out the guy who broke your heart has taken down the NYC Russian Bratva?

“They’re saying Volkov threatened his family,” Jennareads off her screen, voice rising with each word. “Broke into his mom’s apartment.”

A clip starts playing—Liam arriving at practice this morning. He looks exhausted, shoulders heavy, but there’s something lighter about him.

The room spins a little. On screen, they’re showing security footage of what looks like a SWAT team storming a fancy club.

“O’Connor wore a wire into Volkov’s establishment,” the commentator explains, voice practically vibrating with excitement, “risking his own safety to protect the integrity of the sport...”

Three sharp knocks at the door interrupt our daze.

“That must be our takeout.” I jump up and run to the entrance.

But when I open it, my heart stops. Liam fills the doorframe, all six-foot-four of pure perfection. His dress shirt stretches across those ridiculous shoulders, dark hair perfectly messed up like he’s been running his hands through it, jaw shadowed with stubble. But it’s his eyes that get me—that intense blue that somehow manages to be both ice and fire.

“Did our food arrive?” Jenna appears in the doorway to my room, holding mismatched bikinis. “Oh,” she stammers as she spots Liam. “I’ll just give you guys a minute.”

Liam watches Jenna quickly scamper into her room and close the door behind her, then turns to me, locking his eyes on mine. “Angel.”

His voice is rough velvet. Damn him for still having this effect on me.

I grip the door, ready to slam it. “I’m busy.”

“Five minutes.” He braces his hand on the doorframe. “That’s all I’m asking.”

“I’m packing.”

His eyes flick to the pile of swimsuits scattered on the floor of my room behind me, something dangerous flashing from their depths. “Going somewhere?”

“Miami. Spring break with my friends.” I lift my chin. “Now if you’ll excuse me?—”

“You’re running away.” It’s not a question.

“Running toward something, actually. Sun, sand, cute guys who won’t ghost me after they’ve fucked me a few times?—”

“I had to protect you.” He moves closer, and I hate how my body automatically leans in. “They broke into my mom’s place, Sophie. Left warnings. If anything happened to you?—”

“I understand. Taking down the Russian Bratva? Very impressive. The Olivia Carrington shots were a nice touch too.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Do you know how hard it was staying away from you? Knowing I hurt you?”

“That was your choice,” I say, but my voice wavers.

“I could keep you safe, or I could keep you.” He moves forward again. “I’d do it again.”

“This wasn’t your choice to make.”

“No?” His thumb traces my jaw, and my traitorous heart skips. “Tell me you wouldn’t have tried to help. Tell me you wouldn’t have put yourself in danger.”

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