Page 3 of The Pucking Player

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. I’m here for the kids. Not to mentally undress Coach’s daughter over a cup of overpriced coffee.

But then we’re all standing, ready to leave, and Sophie brushes past me.

It’s nothing. Barely a touch. Just the lightest graze of her hand against my arm.

But it sends a jolt through me, sharp and electric, leaving my skin tingling and my focus shattered. And in that moment, I realize something critical.

Today is going to be an exercise in self-control.

And I’m not entirely confident I’m going to pass.

Sophie walks ahead with Jessica and Emilia, her boots clicking softly against the tile floor, and I let my eyes drift—just for a second. The sway of her hips beneath her coat is hypnotic, and my brain goes straight to places it shouldn’t.

“Careful,” Nate mutters beside me, his tone low and laced with amusement.

“Shut up,” I grumble under my breath, glaring at him as we follow the women out into the cold.

The icy wind hits me as soon as we step outside, but it does nothing to cool me down. Sophie Novak is a problem, a walking, talkingdistraction.

And I’m in so much trouble.

I try to get my head on straight as we head toward the hospital. But it’s not just the way she moves or how she handled that rookie barista with such effortless grace. It’sthe way she carries herself, like she’s perfectly at ease with who she is. No pretense. No angle.

She’s not like the usual puck bunnies or the Instagram models sliding into my DMs. She’s something else entirely.

And that’s exactly the problem.

Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Sophie Novak isn’t justanygirl.

She’s off-limits.

And I don’t care one bit.

2

HOW TO IMPRESS A GIRL

LIAM

Thankfully, the walk to the hospital is short, though the biting wind makes it feel longer. The warmth of the building is a relief, and we leave our coats at reception. I try to focus on why we’re here—the kids, the PR, being a role model—not on the way Sophie’s silk blouse hints at curves I shouldnotbe thinking about.

As we step off the elevator onto the second floor, a small voice pipes up near us.

“Are you really Liam O’Connor?”

I turn to see a kid, maybe eight years old. His Defenders jersey is at least two sizes too big, hanging loose on his thin frame. It hits me harder than I expect, a punch to the gut. The image of him overlaps with a memory of my little brother. Kieran was the same age and looked just as fragile the day I had to tell him Dad wasn’t coming home from the hospital the same.

I drop to one knee instinctively, putting myself at his level. “Sure am, buddy. What’s your name?”

“I’m Jack,” the kid says, his eyes wide with something so pure, it makes my chest ache. That blind, unshakable beliefthat people will be exactly who you need them to be. I learned young how easily that belief can shatter.

“Nice to meet you, Jack. That’s a pretty awesome jersey you’ve got there.”

He beams, but then his face falls, his small shoulders slumping. “Mom says I can’t play hockey. Because of the cancer.”

My heart stutters, my throat tightening as his words sink in. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sophie watching us, but for once, I’m not thinking about her or how to play this moment for anyone else’s benefit.

I lean in slightly, dropping my voice like I’m letting Jack in on a secret. “You know what? Sometimes the best thing about hockey isn’t playing. It’s being part of something bigger than yourself. Being part of a team.”

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