Page 107 of The Pucking Player

The crowd’s energy ratchets up another notch as the teams clear the ice. Signs wave everywhere.

“O’CONNOR FOR PRESIDENT”

“RUSSIAN MOB 0 - DEFENDERS 1”

“MARRY ME, LIAM”

I definitely don’t crumple my nacho wrapper at that last one.

“You know,” Jenna says carefully, “we could always change our tickets. Miami will still be there next year.”

“We’re going to Miami.” I straighten my shoulders, ignoring how my heart races every time Liam skates past. “With our friends for spring break. Like we planned. This is just...supporting the team. Supporting my brother.”

“Right.” Jessica offers me a nacho. “Because Adam is the one your eyes are on right now.”

Before I can protest and come up with a retort, the lights dim. Game time.

Just get through the next three hours, I tell myself.Then Miami. Beaches.No more heartbreak.

The announcer’s voice booms, “Your New York Defenders!”

The crowd explodes as the team takes the ice. Liam comes out last, the captain’s C gleaming on his chest, looking like every hockey fantasy I never knew I had.

I’m so screwed.

Just get through three periods, I keep repeating my mantra as the puck drops.

Liam wins the face-off, because of course he does. The puck flies to Adam, who threads a perfect pass back to him. The crowd’s on their feet as Liam dekes past one defender, then another.

“Holy shit,” Jenna breathes as he roofs the puck, top shelf. “Twenty seconds in.”

The arena erupts. I grip my armrest as Liam skates past our section, his eyes pinning me down, one hand touching his left wrist—right where he wrote his number that first day—before pointing skyward.

“Did he just—” Jessica starts.

“No.” I sink lower in my seat. “That’s just his new celly. ESPN’s been talking about it for weeks.”

“Uh-huh.” Jenna’s practically vibrating. “And the fact that he’s staring directly at you while doing it means nothing at all.”

“He’s not—” But he absolutely is, those blue eyes locked on mine even as his teammates mob him.

The game moves at a blistering pace after that. Liam’s everywhere—setting up plays, making hits, commanding the ice like he was born for it. The crowd chants his name after every shift.

“Your boy’s on fire tonight,” Jenna says as Liam weaves through three Vancouver Blazes for another perfect shot.

“He’s not my?—”

The words die in my throat as Liam scores again. And once more he taps his wrist, looking at me, then points skyward.

“That’s two,” Jessica says meaningfully. “One more for the hat trick. And the franchise record.”

I clutch my nachos tighter. “I couldn’t care less. I’m going to Miami tomorrow.”

But even as I say it, my traitor heart races. Because the look in Liam’s eyes when he scored that last goal? That wasn’t just hockey intensity.

That was a man with a purpose.

The second period is pure torture. Every time Liam touches the puck, the crowd surges to their feet. Every shot feels like it could be the one—the historic goal, the franchise record.

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