Page 103 of The Pucking Player

I stay silent, because we both know the answer.

“I love you.” His voice wraps around me like a warm blanket. “I’ve loved you since that first day I saw you, watching you rescue that poor barista from your complicated cappuccino order. Everything else—the Bratva, the press, all of it—was just noise. You’re what matters.”

My breath catches, and my laugh comes out jagged. “You pursued me for weeks, made me fall for you, then dropped me like yesterday’s news. And now you show up with a love declarationand those eyes and—” I cut myself off, hands curling into fists. “You don’t get to do this.”

“Angel—”

“Don’t call me that.” I try to close the door on him, but his palm slams against it. “I’m going to Miami. I’m going to lie on the beach, drink cocktails, and hook up with a cute guy who’ll know how to worship me.”

His eyes flash dangerously. “Sophie?—”

“You lost the right to have an opinion about my life when you chose to push me away instead of trust me.”

In one fluid motion, he crowds me against the doorframe, his body caging mine. His palm cups my jaw, thumb tracing my bottom lip in a way that makes heat pool low in my belly.

“You’re mine,” he breathes, and the raw need in his voice steals my air.

Before I can protest, his lips crash into mine. The kiss is pure fire—desperate and demanding and so achingly familiar that my knees give out. His arm snakes around my waist, holding me up as his tongue sweeps into my mouth. He tastes like mint and memories and everything I’ve been trying to forget.

My hands betray me, sliding up his chest to tangle in his hair. A groan rumbles through him as I tug, and suddenly he’s pressing closer, his thigh sliding between mine. Every point of contact blazes like a brand.

“Mine,” he rumbles against my lips, and God help me, my body screamsyes. His teeth graze my bottom lip, then he trails hot, open-mouthed kisses down my neck. “No one elsecan worship you this way. No one else can make you feel this way.”

My head falls back, giving him better access as my brain short-circuits. His hand spans my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast, and I whimper.

“Come back to me, angel,” he murmurs into my skin. “You are the girl for me.”

The words act like a splash of cold water.

I plant my hands on his chest and shove with all the force I have in me. “No.”

His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with desire. “Sophie?—”

“Don’t.” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold in the pieces he’s cracking. “You don’t get to kiss me like that anymore. “

“Come watch me play tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t send flowers or show up at my door.” My voice breaks on the words, but I force them out. “We’re done.”

When I close the door, my legs give out, and I slide down to the floor. His taste is still on my lips, his scent clinging to my skin. The door vibrates as he rests against it from the other side. For a moment, we breathe together, separated by two inches of wood and an ocean of hurt.

“I meant what I said, angel,” his voice comes through, low and rough. “I love you.”

I press my palm against the door, hating how my hand trembles. Hating how much I want to throw it open and let him catch me again.

“Goodbye, Liam.”

His silence stretches long, and I think he’s gone. Then, so quiet I barely hear it, “I’ll fight for you. Even if you don’t want me to.”

Footsteps fade down the hallway. Only when they disappear completely do I let out the sob I’ve been holding back.

35

GAME PLAN

LIAM

The puck hits the net with a satisfying thwack, joining the pile of others I’ve been firing since five a.m. Because apparently, that’s what I do now—show up at the rink at ungodly hours when I should be resting for tonight’s historic game.

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