Page 112 of Goalie's Obsession

“Exactly,” I say. “A legends charity game. One night. Packed house here at The Nest."

I glance at Ethan. “We pay off his debt, give himandmy girl a clean slate, all while raising awareness about gambling addiction in pro sports. Prove that Lucy and I hadnothingto do with any of it. And the rest?”

I look at Blake.

“We tie it into your youth hockey program. Mental health initiatives for kids in sport. We use this screw-up to actually do something thatmatters.”

Blake whistles. “You might actually be onto something.”

Ryder’s already typing into his phone. “I’m gonna design the most hideous jerseys this town has ever seen.”

Blake rises to his feet. “I’ll text Eli. Get Ridgeview on board for a launch event. Maybe the old bastard will even pull his skates on for the night.”

Logan pulls out his phone. “Yeah. Actually, I’ve got an old buddy who still skates with the Firehawks. Bet he’ll show up for a good cause.”

I glance back at Ethan, who’s still standing there, stunned.

And for once, speechless.

Slowly, the locker room clears out, phones buzzing with texts and plans already in motion. But Ethan stays behind, hovering near my stall until we're alone.

“This doesn’t erase what happened,” I say. "You know that, right?"

Ethan nods. "I know."

“But it’s how we start making it right. Because we're family.”

"Connor." His voice cracks. Not the smooth-talking venture capitalist anymore. Just my best friend who lost his way. "I don't—I don't know how to say thank you."

I zip up my bag, taking my time. "Don't."

"But this is—"

"No." I turn to face him. "You want to thank me? Then just help me win your sister back."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lucy

Aftertwolonelydaystrying my best to avoid this place, I push open the side door to Icehawk Arena, and immediately squint into the half-lit concourse.

The overhead lights are dimmed like the place is on energy-saving mode, and there’s a soft hum in the air, like the bones of the arena are stretching after a long nap.

There's no roaring crowd. No stick clatter echoing off the glass.

Just the low creak of vents and the distant beep of something wheeling past somewhere out of sight.

The text from Coach Brody had come in just as I was shoving my keys into my coat pocket, already halfway out the door with my hair still damp from a quick, poorly executed post-shower blow-dry.

It was such a simple message, an odd one to receive at this time of day from my boss:Meet me at the arena. Now, please. – Coach Brody

No explanation. No emoji. Just vague enough to be irritating, just Coach enough to force me to go.

It’s still off-season. And despite my schedule starting to look bigger now the new season is almost here, I know for a fact that there’s no game scheduled tonight.

And yet, tucked just inside the east corridor, there’s a green and gray helium balloon bobbing against a chair leg like it missed the memo. Further down, a stack of cardboard boxes is parked against the merchandise store window—sealed, labeled, and definitely not from the usual stadium vendors.

I pause, frowning at a crooked handwritten sign taped to a folding table:DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 6:00 PM.

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