Page 18 of The Pucking Player

Liam turns to them, his smile easy and unflappable. “That’s right,” he says smoothly. “Nice to meet you.”

The students swarm him, snapping selfies and chattering away as he obliges, signing autographs and joking like it’s second nature.

I stand off to the side, watching him. The easy magnetism, the natural charm—it’s impressive and overwhelming.

When the students finally move on, Liam turns back to me. “So,” he says, his grin back in full force, “how about next Thursday? Dinner and a movie?”

I shake my head, my arms folding across my chest.

“Okay, something fancier then,” he says, undeterred. “There’s a gallery opening in Chelsea. I have a feeling you’d love it.”

“It’s still a no, big guy,” I say, my voice firmer this time. “But thank you for the offer. Really. It’s flattering.”

He sighs, but the sparkle in his eyes doesn’t fade. “Alright, if you won’t go out with me, how about your phone number? That’s all I’m asking.”

I hesitate, caught between the undeniable pull I feel toward him and the voice in my head screaming that this is a terrible idea.

“Liam…” I start, but my words trail off as I meet his gaze.

“C’mon,” he says, his grin turning playful. “I’ll camp out here if I have to. I’ve got a sleeping bag in my car and everything.”

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Determined,” he corrects, his tone lighter now. “Your number, Sophie. I’m freezing my ass off here.”

I sigh, feeling my resolve crumbling like a house of cards in a hurricane. I try to grab hold of my better judgment, but it’s already halfway to Timbuktu, leaving me alone with my racing heart and the undeniable chemistry crackling between us.

“Fine,” I mutter, grabbing his phone. “But this doesn’t mean anything, okay? I’m just saving you from hypothermia.”

He grins like he’s just won the Stanley Cup. “I knew you’d be reasonable.”

As I hand his phone back, he winks. “And for the record, my next move would’ve been camping out at Coach’s house.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t suppress the smile tugging at the corners of my lips. “Yeah, that would’ve been a really dumb move.” I shake my head.

Climbing into my car and starting the engine, I glance back at him, still standing there in the cold, watching me with a look that could melt glaciers.

As I pull out of the parking lot, I can see him in my rearview mirror, his figure growing smaller and smaller until he’s just a speck in the distance. My heart is doing somersaults in my chest, and I can practically hear my rational mind calling me from a beach somewhere, sipping a margarita and laughing at my poor life choices.

7

SISTERLY HELP

SOPHIE

The low hum of the engine vibrates through the car as I turn onto the familiar street. It’s the kind of quiet Sunday afternoon where the world seems to pause, holding its breath in deference to the season’s beauty. Everything feels softer in the winter—the sounds, the light, even the thoughts that drift through my mind.

I ease my foot off the accelerator, slowing to take in the sight of my childhood home. The grand Victorian stands tall and proud. A soft blanket of snow clings to the roof and the wraparound porch like frosting on a cake. No matter how many times I see it, the house never fails to make me feel like a kid again.

The bare oak trees lining the street stretch their skeletal branches toward the sky, their long shadows dancing across the snow-covered ground. The crunch of my tires on the icy driveway echoes through the still air as I pull in, cutting the engine. For a moment, I sit there, the silence settling over me like a comforting weight.

When I step out of the car, the cold bites at my face, but the snow crunching under my boots fills me with an oddsense of satisfaction. My breath escapes in little puffs, visible for just a moment before disappearing into the crisp winter air. The familiar scent of pine and wood smoke greets me, and I let it fill my lungs, warming me from the inside out.

My eyes drift to the porch, the heart of so many memories. The swing in the corner sways gently as Jessica rocks on it, and I can almost hear the echoes of laughter and whispered secrets that once filled this space. Lazy summer afternoons with a book in my lap. Confessional heart-to-hearts with my sister. Watching Mom and Dad toast each other during their weekly happy hour, an unshakable tradition no matter the weather.

“Finally!” Jessica’s voice rings out, pulling me from my thoughts. She’s bundled up in a thick coat and scarf, a knitted hat perched atop her head. A mug of something steaming is cradled in each hand, her cheeks are rosy from the cold, but her smile is pure sunshine. “There you are,” she calls, holding out one of the mugs as I make my way up the steps. “I thought you might need something to warm you up. Mom and Dad were about to send out a search party.”

“Lifesaver,” I say, my gloved hands curling gratefully around the mulled wine. The spicy aroma of cinnamon and cloves rises with the steam, wrapping me in instant comfort. “It’s freezing out here.”

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