Page 12 of Goalie's Obsession

And me?

I spend more time arguing with Connor Walsh than I do flirting with anyone else. Which is probably a good thing. Probably.

“Anyway,” I say quickly, straightening a stack of auction brochures that outline which players will be available for a 'dream date' later tonight. “I’ll stick to being the hot, emotionally unavailable girlboss, thanks.”

Sophia cackles. “Just say you haven’t gotten laid since Vegas and you're starting to get desperate.”

I freeze, slowly looking up at her. “If I throw this vase at you, do I still get my staff discount at the cafeteria?”

Natalie gasps. “Vegas?!”

“Iswear to God, if either of you—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Sophia smirks. “Stop the act. Your face screams guilty hookups and unresolved tension every time Connor is near.”

I press a hand to my chest. “Rude. Slanderous. And not even a little accurate.”

Okay, sotechnicallyI’m not lying.

Vegas was a mess of hands and heat and one very public mistake away from becoming an actual scandal—but it wasn’t the last time I got laid.

That honor belongs to a painfully forgettable New York finance bro with more opinions on crypto than on foreplay.

Still, the fact that my best friends are roasting me for it?

Yeah. Hits a little too close to the truth.

Natalie giggles and nudges me with her elbow. “You okay though? I know all the gala pressure, plus the Ethan stuff... it’s a lot.”

I nod. “Yeah. It’s just been a weird week. I’m fine.”

It’s not a lie.

Iamproud of this event. Iamholding things together. And Idolove the Icehawks—especially the way they’ve taken over this small town like a sports soap opera in real life.

But there’s still that quiet ache. That invisible string tugging at me while everyone else is pairing up, figuring it out, finding their people. And I’m... here. Wearing black boots, a fitted blazer, and a too-tight ponytail that’s trying to suffocate my soul.

I'll just keep telling myself that work is my priority. My safe place. My distraction.

Even if he keeps showing up in the middle of it.

Before I can spiral any further, the sound of boots echoing across the marble floor cuts through the air like a starting whistle.

Natalie turns first. “Uh-oh. The storm has arrived.”

I brace myself and look toward the entrance just in time to see a wall of tall, broad, annoyingly attractive men walking through the doors like they own the place.

And right in the middle, smirking like he invented ice skates, is Connor Walsh.

He’s in his practice gear—black compression shirt clinging to every unfairly defined muscle, joggers slung low on his hips, and a towel draped around his neck.

His eyes find mine instantly.

He lifts a hand in a lazy wave and blows a whistle through pursed lips. “Nice lighting, Lucy Lou. You angled those uplights just to highlight my best side, didn't you?”

I swear my eye twitches.

It’s like someone hit fast-forward on a testosterone-drenched reality show. The Icehawks stroll around the ballroom still riding high from their workout—sweaty, loud, cracking jokes and stealing canapés off the catering trays like grown men who’ve never been fed before.

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