Page 88 of The Pucking Player

“Sixth grade. Sarah Mitchell.”

“She said she liked my poem!”

Not my fault her boyfriend took offense to my cafeteria poetry reading.

“Senior year. The entire lacrosse team.”

“They started it!”

Still, no one knows where that blue Jello came from, and I’m taking that secret to my grave.

“Face it, Li. You’ve got a history of letting your heart override your brain.” He sighs again. “Let me set this up right. No showing up at his place throwing punches. We need him thinking he’s got you running scared.”

“I can do that.”

“Sure, you can, tough guy.” But there’s affection in his voice. “Give me till Friday. And Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“Keep your head down till then. Stay away from the girl you’ve been romancing unless you want her to get pulled into it as well. Though I saw in the press that there is another one in play now. Stay away from her too.”

I think of what Sophie must have thought—and felt—when she saw the photos of me with Olivia, part of Dimitri’s plan to make Volkov think I’m done with Sophie.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice rough. “No funny business with any girl.”

After hanging up with Mike, I hit Dmitri’s number. He picks up on the first ring.

“I spoke to my friend on the force,” I tell him. “He’s got a plan.”

“Your friend knows what he’s dealing with?” Dmitri’s accent is thick with concern.

“Let’s talk after practice. We need to focus.”

“That so?” He chuckles darkly. “Noticed you’re trending on social media again, by the way. With the singer.”

“All part of our plan.” My chest tightens thinking about Sophie seeing those photos. “Meet me in the weight room after skate?”

“Da. And Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“Whatever your friend’s plan is...I hope it’s worth what you’re doing to that girl.”

Me too, Dima. Me too.

I end the call and stare at my reflection in the bedroom window. Time to get my game face on. The one that says I’m still that guy—the player, the heartbreaker, the bad boy of hockey who doesn’t give a shit about anyone but himself.

Convincing enough to fool the Russian mob.

Too bad it’s also convincing enough to break Sophie’s heart.

I grab my jacket and head for the Defenders’ complex. Hurricane Jessica awaits me—her early morning text practically radiated fury through my phone screen. Something tells me she’s been up since four, channeling her rage into an ungodly number of deadlifts while plotting my demise. Nothing fuels a PR pro like pure, unbridled wrath toward your baby sister’s maybe-boyfriend.

Can’t say I blame her. If someone pulled this shit with my sister Erin, they’d need dental records to identify the body. Though at least I wouldn’t wake them up at ass o’clock in the morning to tell them so.

Pretty sure Jessica’s already broken three personal records this morning, all while imagining my face on the weight plates.

When I reach her office, Jessica’s radiating enough fury to power a small city. She’s pacing like a caged tiger in four-inch heels, which is both terrifying and impressive. Who knew someone could look ready to commit murder while wearing Alexander McQueen?

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