Page 55 of Glitz & Goals

It’s hard for me to picture that. I mean, I know that my dad is objectively attractive, since my friends always tell me so. Even Jaime and Mia have swooned over his old NHL photos. But he’s so stoic. And Mom’s so sweet. Did they really start as fuckbuddies?

“We had a few sexy video calls ourselves in our day,” she adds.

I hold up a hand. “TMI.”

Mom laughs again. “Anyway, neither of us went into it thinking that we’d end up dating, much less happily married. Now, I’m his little tater tot.”

“Which is why he brings you jumbo bags of tater tots from Costco.”

“It was his nickname for me, back when we started seeing each other.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Those two are so cute; it’s hard to picture them fighting their mutual attraction.

“Let me ask you something,” Mom says. “This guy you’re seeing… Is he respectful? Does he show that he cares for you even when it doesn’t immediately benefit him?”

I nod.

“And he’s made it clear that he’s not seeing anyone else?”

I nod again.

Mom sits back in her chair. “Good. As long as you’re both respectful of each other, love finds a way, Viv. And love doesn’t always look like we imagined. I wouldn’t change my experience for anything. Maybe this relationship will work out, and maybe it won’t, but if it’s going well, who cares how it started?”

I pick at my food. “What if Dad doesn’t approve?”

This has been my biggest worry, but Mom waves my words away as if they’re inconsequential. “As long as you’re happy, he’ll get over it. Your whole life has been unconventional. Why would your love suddenly be traditional? All we’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

I’m not sure it’s that simple, given that Grady is Dad’s boss. But as we move on to other topics, a new worry takes shape in the back of my mind.

What if Dad isn’t the limiting factor here? What if I’m only using him as an excuse to keep from fully acknowledging my growing feelings for Grady?

What if I’m the only one holding us back?

Chapter Seventeen

Grady

The puck drops, and the arena erupts, but my focus isn’t on the ice. It’s on the box above it, where the friends and family sit. My eyes zero in on Viv, her blond hair catching the glow of the arena lights, her energy spilling out as she chats with Knova Hale. She’s animated, laughing, the kind of laugh that makes you want to lean in closer, like she’s telling the best secret in the world.

“Grady!” Ranger’s voice slices through the noise. “Line change?”

“Right.” I wave the second line over the boards, trying to wrench my focus back to the game. Beck’s already flying down the left wing, with a veteran winger trailing behind, but even as I shout directions, my gaze flicks back up.

It’s ridiculous. I know it is. I’m supposed to be locked in, but there she is, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s throwing me off my game. She’s not even watching me—she’s here for her dad, for her brother, for the moment.

The play shifts, and the guys drive the puck deep into their zone. The crowd is wild, the energy electric. But all I can think about is how Viv manages to make everything else feel like background noise.

Midway through the second period, the game’s tied, and the Redhawks are grinding us down. I should be focused, but my head’s a mess. Every shift feels disjointed like we’re playing their game instead of ours.

“Beck, win this faceoff!” I yell, gripping the edge of the boards. He nods and lines up, but my gaze strays—again—up to the friends and family box. Viv’s standing now, clapping and grinning, leaning toward Knova to share some inside joke.She’s got this spark, this infectious energy that pulls at me like a riptide. It’s maddening.

“Grady!” Ranger growls beside me. “You seeing this forecheck?”

I force myself to look back. “Yeah, yeah. Line change. Abbott, get your ass in position!” My voice is sharp, but Viktor doesn’t flinch. He races to the boards, battling for the puck. It’s a decent effort, but my frustration boils over when the Redhawks gain control anyway.

“Move your feet!” I snap, slamming my palm on the boards.

The whistle blows, a merciful pause in the chaos, but my pulse doesn’t slow. The Redhawks score late in the third, tying the game, and the tension on the bench spikes. The players lean forward, chests heaving, eyes locked on the ice as if sheer determination will push the puck back into their favor. I pace behind them, barking orders. “Stay sharp! Every shift counts now. No mistakes.”

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