Page 72 of The Pucking Player

San Jose and Anaheim flew by in a blur of team meetings, pre-game naps, and checking my phone way too often for someone who’s supposed to be focused on hockey. We swept all three games, which should’ve been enough to keep me riding high. Instead, all I could think about was getting back to New York. Back to our new normal—if you can call sneaking around behind Coach’s back normal.

It’s a delicate dance we’ve got going. Sophie slips into my place after her classes, carrying textbooks and that perfect smile. Sometimes, I watch her study, sprawled across my couch with anatomy flashcards, me bringing her snacks and drinks. Mostly pretzels, fruit and cappuccinos—she’s particularabout her diet. But most times, we don’t make it past the front door before her books hit the floor and we’re making out.

Mornings are my favorite. Watching her steal my Defenders hoodie, padding around my kitchen in bare feet while she makes coffee. Trading sleepy kisses before I head to practice and she rushes to class.

Last week, we did the casual dinner date for the cameras. Very public, very proper, very PR-approved, careful not to raise suspicions with Coach. Adam still glares at me in the locker room, but at least he’s stopped threatening to end my career every time Sophie’s name comes up.

It’s not perfect, but I’ll take what I can get.

For now.

The high from tonight’s win is still coursing through my veins as I head for the showers. We crushed the New Jersey Knights, five-two, and I scored three goals. The ice is probably still covered in the hundreds of hats fans threw down to celebrate. Never gets old, watching that rain of baseball caps and beanies flying from the stands after that third goal hits the back of the net.

Pre-game training and my usual meditation routine paid off; I was laser-focused from the first drop of the puck. Even managed not to get distracted thinking about Sophie during warm-ups, which was a feat considering how many screaming fans were pressed against the glass. The TikTok army was out in full force tonight, phones raised high to catch Adam’s famous stretching routine. The man can’t do a single lunge without it turning into social media gold; his latest “pre-game flow check” racked up fifteen million views in two days.

At least that takes some of the heat off me and Sophie.

“Hey Captain!” Nate calls out as I’m getting dressed. “Penalty Box? We’re celebrating that filthy backhand goal in the third.”

I grin, pulling on my suit jacket. The whole day had been textbook perfect, starting with morning skate, followed by muscle activation work with Dave, our trainer. Just enough to get everything firing right, while he updated me on his latest Tinder disaster. Pretty sure he tells us these horror stories to distract us from the pain when he’s working on our tight spots.

Then I demolished my usual pre-game feast of grilled chicken and quinoa while Nate made gagging sounds at my greens. Hey, these goals don’t score themselves. Though I’ll never admit our team nutritionist is right about the power of roasted brussels sprouts.

Next up: my hour of meditation—a ritual Mom drilled into all of us since we were kids. She’d tell us that our minds were the most powerful tools we had at our disposal, and I tend to agree. Sixty minutes of deep breathing and trying to focus on my energy centers. Though lately the emphasis has been on trying, because my mind keeps wandering to Sophie every time I close my eyes. Her smile. Her laugh. The way she bites her lip when she’s thinking.

Focus, O’Connor. Visualize the perfect slapshot. Not Sophie’s legs. Or her mouth. Or the way she...

Dammit.

My sacred pre-game nap followed, where I absolutely, positively didn’t dream about Sophie wearing nothing but my jersey.

Three hours later, I was lighting up the scoreboard. And now Sophie’s probably waiting up to hear how the game went.

I’m still waiting to follow through on my resolution to come clean with Coach. I keep hoping for the perfectmoment. Though at this point I have to admit that there will be no perfect moment. Or even agood moment, for that matter.

Gotta bite that bullet real soon.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. My favorite pre-med student has been texting me updates all day. A photo of her study notes that somehow looked sexy as hell and complaints about her anatomy professor that had me grinning during video review.

But when I pull out my phone, my stomach drops. It’s not Sophie.

It’s my mom.

Something’s wrong.

“Ma? What’s going on?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Her sob cuts through me like a skate blade to the heart. “Liam...someone broke in. The apartment... It’s...” She chokes back another sob. “Your sister’s spare cello...”

Ice floods my veins, and suddenly I’m that scared fourteen-year-old kid again, getting the call about Dad’s accident. “Are you okay? Is Erin there? Are you hurt?”

“I just got home from my shift,” she manages between shaky breaths. “Someone wrecked the place… Erin’s not home yet.”

“Get out of there right now,” I order, already sprinting toward my car like I’m racing for a breakaway goal. “Call Erin. Go to Mrs. O’Reilly’s next door. Don’t touch anything. I’m on my way.”

“But you have practice tomorrow.”

Really, Ma? The apartment’s been ransacked, and you’re worried about practice?

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