Page 101 of Goalie's Obsession

My fingers tighten around the Gatorade bottle as I take a slow sip, every instinct telling me this isn’t just a pit stop.

This iscamping out.

Then, out cold on the couch, hoodie pulled up over half his face, blanket twisted around his legs, snoring softly like he doesn’t have a care in the damn world is Ethan.

I stop, stare at him for a beat.

Then I mutter, “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

He doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.

I scan the room, looking for something to throw at him. My eyes land on the perfect projectile - Lucy's stuffed penguin she won at the arcade during team-bonding last month.

With the kind of precision that's won me more than a few shutouts, I launch the penguin directly at Ethan's face.

Thwack.

"What the—" Ethan jerks upright, the penguin bouncing off his nose and landing in his lap. He blinks at it, then at me, like he can't decide which of us is more offensive to his hungover existence.

"Rise and shine, asshole," I say loudly. “You didn’t think tomaybelet me know you were staying at my place? Or was that just going to be a fun little surprise when I got home?”

Ethan stirs, blinking awake with a groggy grunt as he collapses back down on the couch. He scrubs a hand down his face, squinting at me like I’m a bad dream that just walked in uninvited.

“Shit,” he croaks. “Didn’t think you’d be back this early.”

Every ounce of patience drains out of me. “That’s what happens when you don’taskwhen I’m coming back. You could have told me you used the key I gave you, dipshit."

I cross my arms, staring at him. But it’s not the words that bother me—it’s the look in his eyes. Hollow. Tired. Like the guy I used to know is hanging on by a thread.

I drop into the armchair across from Ethan, the leather creaking beneath me as I settle in like I’m about to conduct an interrogation. Because I am.

He sits up slowly, scrubbing both hands down his face before pushing the hood off his head. His eyes are bloodshot, the bags beneath them deep enough to store a week’s worth of regret. He looks like hell. But I don’t give a shit how rough he looks.

I care about Lucy.

I care that she walked into that gala last night smiling, glowing—only to walk out with her world crumbling again because ofhim.

“So,” I say, voice calm. Too calm. “You wanna tell me why I had to hear about your little extracurriculars from a pissed of Coach Brody this morning?”

Ethan blinks, his head tilting like he doesn’t quite follow.

“The Gala. Last night,” I clarify. “Apparently, your name’s getting tossed around like it’s part of the pre-season media package. And not in a good way.”

He chuckles, low and dismissive. “People talk shit all the time, man. You know how sports leagues are—”

“No,” I snap, sitting forward, elbows on my knees. “Don’t do that. Don’t laugh this off like it’s some drunk rumor. This isn’tshit talk, Ethan. This isreal. This is agents whispering about your debts. Bookies near stadiums. People saying you’ve been seen placing bets.”

He lifts a shoulder in a shrug, gaze sliding sideways. “It’s notthatbad—”

I fuckingexplode.

“JesusChrist, Ethan!”

He flinches as I shoot to my feet, hands in my hair like I need to physically keep my skull from splitting in half. My heart’s pounding. My jaw’s clenched so tight it hurts.

“You don’t get toshrug this off. Not this time.” My voice is too loud, echoing off the walls of my apartment. “Lucy is barely holding it together because she’s trying to clean upyourmess, and you’re sitting here like it’s just another bad weekend in Vegas?”

He swallows hard. His shoulders hunch.

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