Page 15 of The Pucking Player

Jenna and I collapse onto our mats at the same time, grinning at each other as we catch our breath.

“That was brutal,” I laugh, reaching for my water bottle and taking a long swig. My legs feel like jelly. “Damn, this feels good.”

Jenna wipes her forehead with a towel, nodding. “Agreed. Nothing like kicking your own ass before breakfast.”

We gather our things and head out of the fitness room, stepping into the sharp January air. The sky is a vivid winterblue, so clear it feels almost unreal, and the cold bites at my cheeks as we walk. Despite the chill, I feel invigorated, the fresh air waking up every part of me.

The campus is unusually quiet this Sunday morning. Most students are either holed up in their dorms nursing hangovers or tucked away in the library cramming for exams. A few wander past us, clutching steaming cups of coffee, their scarves pulled high over their noses.

Jenna and I chat as we make our way back to the dorm, laughing about the instructor’s impossibly graceful form and planning what to make for brunch. But as we approach our door, I stop short, my heart skipping a beat.

On the welcome mat, right next to the SundayNew York Times, sits a vibrant bouquet of lilies and a box of chocolates.

Jenna lets out a low whistle, her grin spreading wide. “Well, well, well. Looks like someone’s got an admirer. One with excellent taste.”

My cheeks flush instantly, the warmth spreading from my neck all the way to my ears. My mind jumps to one person—the man I’ve been tryingnotto think about since Friday.

Liam.

An epic fail if there ever was one.

With trembling fingers, I reach for the small card nestled among the lilies. The handwriting is bold and masculine, and my breath catches as I read the message:

Thinking of you, angel. - Liam

Below his signature is the same phone number he scrawled on my wrist just a few days ago. As if I hadn’t already committed it to memory, repeating it to myself like a guilty little mantra.

“‘Just in case you want to thank me,’” Jenna reads overmy shoulder, laughing as she points at the smiley face he drew beneath the message.

But then her eyes widen in recognition. “Wait a minute, Liam? As inLiam O’Connor? The Defenders captain?”

I nod, biting my lip to stop the giddy smile threatening to take over my face.

“Holy shit,” Jenna breathes, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Spill the beans, girlfriend.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool even though my heart is racing. “There’s nothing to spill,” I deflect, tucking the card into my coat pocket. “It’s just a friendly gesture. I tagged along for the Defenders’ pediatric wing visit last week.”

Jenna raises an eyebrow, her expression skeptical. “Flowers and chocolates aren’t ‘just friendly,’ Soph. That’s the international symbol forI’m into you.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “It’s complicated. He’s… Well, he’s not exactly my type. You’ve seen the gossip pages—models, actresses, starlets. I don’t want any part of that.”

Jenna hums, thoughtful. “I get that,” she says. “But girl…aren’t you a little curious? Life’s too short to always play it safe.”

I roll my eyes. “You’re such a bad influence.”

“And you love me for it,” she quips, unlocking the door and ushering me inside. “Now, come on. Let’s get these in water, and then we’re doing a deep dive. I want to knoweverythingabout this guy.”

After we shower and change into sweats, the lilies sit in a vase on our windowsill, filling the room with their delicate fragrance. Jenna and I plop onto the sofa, the remains of our makeshift brunch—scrambled eggs, toast, and some very wilted spinach—still lingering in the air.

Jenna scrolls through her phone while I flip through theSundayTimes, trying to ignore the nervous flutter in my chest.

“Alright, let’s see what we’ve got,” Jenna announces, pulling up her search results. “Liam O’Connor… Hockey captain… Oh, wow.”

I glance over, curious despite myself.

Jenna smirks. “Let’s start with the good stuff. He’s twenty-nine, captain of the New York Defenders, and apparently one of the most dominant players in the league. His stats are insane.”

I nod. I already knew that much. My dad’s a hockey coach—it’s impossiblenotto know about Liam O’Connor.

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