Page 108 of The Pucking Player

The one I’m simultaneously dreading and desperate to see.

“You’re actually shredding those napkins,” Jenna points out, snatching the pile of paper victims from my hands. “And I’m pretty sure you haven’t blinked in like, five minutes.”

“I’m just...invested. In the team.”

“Right. Theteam.” She smirks as Liam battles for the puck along the boards. “Nothing to do with how those eyes are locked on you.”

“Oh my God, stop.”

“What? Just making factual observations about—” She cuts off with a gasp as a Blaze defenseman slams Liam into the boards. Hard.

I’m on my feet before I can stop myself.

The crowd holds its breath as Liam stays down for a moment. Then he pushes up, shaking it off, and everyone exhales. Everyone except me, because he’s looking right at me again, that damn half-smile playing on his lips.

Show off.

“You know,” Jessica muses, “for someone who’s supposedly over him, you’ve got some interesting reflexes there, baby sis.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” She grins as the buzzer signals the end of the second. “Though you might want to save that energy. Something tells me the third period’s going to be interesting.”

I slump back in my seat, trying to calm my racing heart. Two periods down. Twenty minutes to go.

Then Miami. Where the only ice will be in my piña colada, and the only scoring will be not hockey-related.

But right now, all I can focus on is Liam. Three minutes left, and he’s lining up for the face-off, tightly coiled energy radiating off him. He wins it clean—because why would he not—and suddenly the puck’s on his stick, the crowd’s on their feet, and my heart’s lodged somewhere in my throat.

The puck hits the back of the net with thirty seconds left.

Madison Square Garden erupts.

Hats rain down from every direction as Liam not only clinches the win but breaks the franchise record. His teammates pour off the bench, mobbing him at center ice while the final seconds tick away. The Blaze players skate off, defeated, as the goal horn blares one final time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice booms, “your New York Defenders have just made history!”

I’m trying very hard to stay seated while my stupid heartdoes stupid cartwheels in my stupid chest. The team’s still celebrating, hugging and shouting, when Liam suddenly breaks away from the group.

“What’s he doing?” Jenna grabs my arm as Liam skates to center ice, where someone’s handing him a microphone.

The crowd quiets, probably expecting the usual “couldn’t have done it without the team” speech. The kind of generic post-game spiel every player gives.

But Liam O’Connor has never done anything the ordinary way.

“A few months ago,” his firm voice fills the arena, “I fell for a girl over an oat milk cappuccino.”

My stomach drops through the floor.

“Extra hot, light foam.” He’s grinning now, the same grin that got me into this mess in the first place. “The kind of complicated order that makes newbie baristas cry.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper as my face appears on the big screen and twenty thousand heads turn in our section.

“The thing about complicated coffee orders,” Liam continues, his voice echoing through the stunned arena, “is that sometimes they lead to complicated situations. Like falling head over heels for your coach’s daughter.”

Twenty thousand people are dead silent. Even the Blazes have stopped their bench discussion to watch this unfold.

“Sophie Novak made me work for that first date. She made me earn every smile. And then” his voice catches slightly, “I had to push her away to keep her safe. Had to let her hate me because the alternative was letting her get hurt.”

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