Page 21 of The Pucking Player

As we pass dishes around, clinking silverware against porcelain, Jessica clears her throat. “So, about this PED scandal...”

Just the mention of the team makes my mind wander to Liam.

His ice-blue eyes…Those strong hands...

No, Sophie. Focus.

“I’ve noticed something odd,” Jessica continues, her PR mode activated. “There’s been a surge in betting activity on the Defenders’ games. And get this—people are betting against us.”

Daddy’s fork pauses halfway to his mouth. “Against us?Even after we’ve shown the negative drug tests of all the players?”

Jessica nods, her expression grim. “Someone’s trying to capitalize on our damaged reputation. It’s like they’re counting on us to fail.”

“Well, they’ve got another thing coming,” Adam growls, stabbing a piece of chicken with unnecessary force. I swear, sometimes he’s more guard dog than brother.

“Absolutely,” Daddy agrees. “I have to say, I’ve been impressed with how the team’s handling this mess. Especially Liam.” My heart does a little flip at the mention of his name. “He’s really stepped up as captain, keeping everyone united. And of course, everyone’s been cooperative with the drug tests.”

Jessica and I exchange a look across the table. If Daddy only knew about Liam’s...extracurricular diversions, like pursuing his daughter with the determination of a heat-seeking missile. My cheeks flush at the memory of his lips on mine, and I take a large gulp of water.

“The important thing now,” Adam chimes in, “is fixing the team’s image. We need to show the world that the Defenders are stronger than ever.”

I nod, trying to look engaged while my traitorous mind replays the feeling of Liam’s arms wrapped around my waist.

God, what is wrong with me?

One kiss, and I’m turning into a lovesick teenager.

Mom, ever the peacekeeper, changes the subject. “Did you all hear about the weather forecast? They’re saying we might get hit with quite a blizzard soon. It’s coming in from the Midwest.”

“Oh yeah,” Jessica says, scrolling through her phone. “It’slooking like a real one. They’re talking possible whiteout conditions, maybe even power outages.”

“Well, isn’t that just the cherry on top of our PR sundae,” Adam mutters.

As the conversation drifts to storm preparations, I find myself zoning out again. All I can think about is Liam—his smile, his laugh, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world. It’s intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

I’m so lost in my Liam-induced haze that I almost miss Mom asking me to pass the salt. As I reach for it, I wonder what it would be like to have dinner with him. At a restaurant, or even here at my parent’s house. To see him in a warm family setting instead of under the harsh lights of the ice rink?

The thought causes goosebumps to pop over my arms, equal parts excitement and fear.

Because falling for Liam O’Connor?

That might just be the most dangerous game of all.

8

PLAYING WITH FIRE

LIAM

I’m pretty sure there are less intimidating firing squads than the trio facing me right now. Coach’s office feels like a shrine to hockey—a living museum of dominance. Gleaming trophies line the shelves, each one polished to a blinding shine, and framed jerseys hang like sacred relics on the walls. But the air in the room feels heavy, charged with unspoken tension. And judging by the look on Coach’s face, it’s about to get even heavier.

He’s behind his massive oak desk, looking like he’s one bad headline away from breathing fire. To his left, our team owner Marcus Rothschild, is the picture of old money in his tailored suit. His silver hair is slicked back, and he’s got that look rich guys get when their toys aren’t performing as they want them to.

And then there’s Jessica, Sophie’s sister and our PR wizard, perched on the edge of her seat like she’s ready to jump into action at any moment. She’s a knockout in a crisp white blouse and a pencil skirt that hugs her curves just so. Her dark hair cascades over her shoulders in perfect waves, and her green eyes are sharp and focused, taking in everydetail of the room. Jessica’s got this air about her—confident, driven, like she could charm the pants off a statue and then convince it to buy season tickets. She might be Coach’s daughter, but it’s clear she’s earned her place.

It’s not hard to see that the Novak genes run deep. Jessica and Sophie look so alike they could pass as twins if not for the age gap. They’ve got the same high cheekbones, the same full lips that seem to be a family trademark, and the same intelligence burning behind their eyes. But where Sophie has this sweet, almost bashful quality—like she’s still figuring out how to wield all that brilliance—Jessica’s the complete opposite. She’s a panther, sleek and calculated, ready to pounce the second she sees an opening.

Coach couldn’t have been clearer: both his daughters are strictly off limits. I still remember the day he stormed into the locker room after Jessica got hired—face redder than our home jerseys—barking out threats like a drill sergeant. He promised that anyone who so much aslookedat Jessica would find themselves traded to Siberia faster than they could say “two-minute minor.”

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