Page 62 of The Pucking Player

Oh boy. What have I gotten myself into?

A fake date with Liam O’Connor, that’s what. Dinner, dancing, and trying desperately not to think about how good he looks in a suit or how his hands felt buried in my pussy.

Yep, just another ordinary day.

Someone please pass me a hockey stick. I think I’m gonna need to whack some sense into myself.

23

ALL IN (FINALLY)

LIAM

Casa Luna used to be my dad’s favorite pizza joint. Now it’s all exposed brick walls, Edison bulbs, and locally sourced ingredients with unpronounceable names. But damn if it doesn’t look good with Sophie in it.

She’s wearing this strappy black silk top that shows just enough skin to make my mouth water, paired with high-waisted leather pants that accentuate a tiny waist and the flare of her hips. Her dark hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, and when she leans forward to study the menu, I catch a whiff of something floral that makes my head spin.

“The burrata looks amazing,” she says, biting her lower lip in concentration.

That lip bite is going to be the death of me.

“Everything here is,” I tell her, trying to focus on the menu instead of how badly I want to haveherfor dinner. “But the octopus is their specialty. Chef marinates it in a secret Sicilian concoction.”

Sophie raises an eyebrow. “Quite an upgrade from the dollar slices they probably served here back in the day.”

I chuckle. If my old man saw these prices, he’d have a heart attack.

“So,” Sophie says, leaning forward slightly. The movement makes her top shift, revealing a flash of collarbone that captures my complete attention. “Tell me about growing up in Williamsburg.”

I clear my throat, forcing my eyes back to her face. “Well, for starters, this place used to have the greasiest, most amazing garlic knots you’ve ever tasted.”

She laughs, and the sound does strange things to my insides.

“Somehow I can’t picture you as a garlic knot kind of guy,” she teases.

“Oh yeah? What kind of guy do you picture me as?”

The words come out as a rumble. Sophie’s cheeks flush pink, and she takes a quick sip of her water. Then she deliberately sets down her glass and leans forward, giving me a view that makes my brain short-circuit.

“Oh, you know,” she says, her voice honey-sweet but with a wicked edge. “The kind who probably had all the girls in Brooklyn chasing after him. Captain of the hockey team, I bet. Charming the moms, breaking the daughters’ hearts.”

She punctuates this with a twinkle in her eyes that tugs at my self-control.

“Growing up in Brooklyn wasn’t quitethatglamorous,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “We moved to Williamsburg when it was still rough around the edges,” I tell her, watching as she squirms in her seat. “Then I got into hockey.” I chuckle, remembering. “Equipment’s not cheap, and I was growing like a weed. Seemed like every few months I needed new skates or pads.”

“How did you manage?”

“Somehow, we did. My mom said she saw something special in the way I was on the ice. And that Kieran would reuse all of my gear anyway, so it was half-price when you looked at it that way.”

Sophie’s watching me intently now. “Turns out she was right.”

“Yeah, well,” I shrug but can’t hide my smile, “she always is. She’s got this sixth sense about things. Even now, she can tell when something’s bothering me just by the way I say hello on the phone.”

“That’s beautiful,” Sophie says softly. Then she grins. “My mom is very tuned in too. But she’s more likely to sense when I’m wearing last season’s shoes or when I skipped a Pilates class.”

I laugh. “Different worlds, huh?”

“Very,” she agrees. “I like hearing about yours, though.”

---