Page 85 of The Pucking Player

The silly banter helps, even if it can’t quite thaw the ice in my chest that Liam left behind.

“Speaking of Dad’s security measures,” a deep voice cuts in, “I told you O’Connor was trouble.”

Just as I thought I’d escaped the “I told you so” parade.

We look up to find Adam filling the doorway, all six-foot-three of big brother rage. His dark hair is still damp from practice, curling slightly at the edges—and probably already featured in at least twelve TikToks from thirsty fans. I swear, the man can’t touch his toes without it becoming viral content. But right now, his unfairly photogenic face is set in murder mode, jaw clenched so tight I’m worried he might crack a tooth.

“Not helping, buttface,” Jessica hisses under her breath.

Adam runs a hand through his hair, his signature move when he’s agitated, and coincidentally the same that’s earned him millions of views under #hockeyboyhair. “I’m just saying, if he wasn’t such a?—”

“If you finish that sentence,” Jessica cuts in with a hiss, leaning closer, “I’m telling everyone about the t?—”

Adam shoots me a look that could turn Medusa to stone while Jessica gives that little smirk of hers. He glances between us, confusion morphing into dawning horror as he catches my apologetic shrug. The moment it clicks— that his secret artistic adventure is no longer just between us—his face goes through the five stages of grief in about two seconds flat.

Oh yes, big brother. Your baby sister might have accidentally spilled about that hockey stick with “fortis fortuna adiuvat”tattooed on your butt. The same brother who practically needed smelling salts when I got my ears double-pierced is rocking a motivation poster on his ass. His eyes go wide with betrayal as realization hits, and I mouth “sorry” while Jessica’s grin grows positively feral. The look he gives me promises revenge, but the panic in his eyes when Jessica wiggles her eyebrows suggests he knows he’s totally screwed.

I mean, what would Daddy Dearest say if he knew his star winger was walking around with Latin inspirationalquotes on his backside? Something tells me “fortune favors the bold” wasn’t quite what he had in mind for the family motto.

“What was that?” Mom’s lawyer voice slides in—the one that made her a legend in corporate law before she scaled back to support Dad’s hockey career.

“Just telling Adam how his new pre-game stretching routine is trending on TikTok again,” Jessica covers smoothly, channeling the same quick thinking that made Mom such a force in the courtroom. “It’s better PR than anything else we might have manufactured.”

Mom’s eyes narrow slightly—she didn’t survive twenty years of balancing a law career with being a coach’s wife by missing details—but she graciously lets it slide. The Margaret Chen who used to go for the jugular in court has learned when to pick her battles at home. “Well, if you’re all done plotting whatever it is you’re plotting, dinner’s almost ready. Adam, please go in and help your father set the table.”

“Mom,” Adam protests, “I’m not twelve anymore.”

“No, you’re a grown man who eats my food every Sunday.” Mom leans back, raising her glass with the kind of elegant authority that reminds me of all she gave up and all she became anyway. “You guys need to work for it while we girls finish our drinks here. Fair is fair.”

I chuckle, the ache in my chest easing, if only a little. Even if one of my siblings is plotting homicide, the other’s plotting blackmail, and Mom’s probably already drafted a motion to have Liam legally banned from the state of New York.

“Okay, Mom, in a minute,” he delays, turning back to me. “I warned you about O’Connor, baby sis.”

“Adam.” Mom’s voice carries that tone that used to send us scurrying as kids.

He looks at her, then softens slightly, leaning down to press a kiss to my temple. “If this makes it better, you should’ve seen practice yesterday. Dad had him doing suicide sprints between every drill for two hours straight. Just as O’Connor thought he was done, Dad would just blow that whistle again.”

He takes my wine glass and steals a sip, then gives it back.

“By the second hour his legs were shaking so bad he could barely stay upright,” he continues, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Then Dad made him do stick handling drills until his shoulders nearly gave out. Made him take slap shots while critiquing every tiny flaw in his form.”

“Jesus, Adam,” Jessica mutters. “You sound way too happy about this.”

He shrugs. “Yep. It’s way better for team morale than me slamming into him in the changing room on the daily. It gives me satisfaction to watch him suffer and keeps team coherence. I especially enjoy watching the extra conditioning after every practice. And there’s a silver lining for him too. He’s gonna be in top form.” Adam grins deviously. “The day before yesterday he had to do wall-sits between drills. Today it was body weight Bulgarian split squats until muscle failure.” He chuckles. “Which is a lot of reps with hockey player thigh muscles, let me tell ya.”

I wince. Suicide sprints are brutal enough for five minutes, let alone hours.

“Isn’t that a bit much with playoffs coming up?” Mom asks carefully.

“I trust that Dad knows exactly what he’s doing. Pushing him just hard enough to make him hurt, but not enough toimpact his game performance. Though I have to say,” Adam grins, “seeing our mighty captain puke in the trash can after that last round of sprints was epic.”

We stay silent, looking at Adam in shock.

“I’ll go set that table and then distract Dad with chess.” He clears his throat once he notices our terrified faces. “Maybe by the time you are finished with your drinks, he’ll have worked through some of his ‘trade Liam to Siberia’ plans.”

“Siberia?” Jessica raises an eyebrow, smirking. “We’re expanding our geographical range, I see.”

“Hey, a guy can dream.” Adam straightens up, his expression lightening. “Don’t worry, sis. O’Connor’s learning what happens when you mess with a Novak. “

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