Page 21 of Goalie's Obsession

The beard was always ridiculous. Hot, sure… but messy. Wild. Like him.

But this?

This was dangerous.

Now I can see the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light grazes his cheekbones, how smooth and stupidly perfect his skin looks. And all I can think about is sliding my hands down his face. Maybe lower. Seeing how soft that skin would feel between my thighs.

I press my knees together under the table.

Nope. Absolutely not.

Of all nights, when I need to be sharp, focused, in control of every damn detail… of course that's when Connor chooses to look at his absolute best.

I glance toward the stage, pretending to study the run sheet again, when a familiar voice booms behind me.

“Hell of a job, Daniels.”

I turn as Big Mike—the Icehawks’ CEO and the closest thing the league has to a lovable grizzly bear in a suit—claps me on the shoulder hard enough to jostle my glass.

“Thank you,” I say, heart skipping a beat. “Seriously. That means a lot.”

His gaze sweeps the room, a rare smile tugging at his lips. “Board’s impressed. Sponsors are happy. And you didn’t even go over budget. Damn miracle.”

I grin. “That’s because I negotiated the linen sponsor to include chair sashes for free.”

He lets out a short, impressed laugh. “Smart. Remind me to never go head-to-head with you at contract renewals.”

Then he’s off again, shaking hands, doing his rounds—and I’m left blinking, a little stunned. Because praise from a guy like Big Mike?

That’s not fluff. That’s respect.

My parents have never looked at me like that. With genuine pride, no strings attached. And that's exactly why I pour everything into my work.

Here, success is measured in results, not stupid family expectations.

I glance toward the front of the room, where Sophia’s already curled into Blake’s side, whispering something that makes him laugh so hard he nearly spills his champagne.

Natalie’s up near the coaching staff, tucked in beside Hunter. His hand is already resting low on her waist, like he's one moment away from grabbing her ass and taking her out of here.

And me?

Alone.

Of course.

Until a body drops into the empty seat beside me and I catch a whiff of something expensive and familiar.

Unfortunately for me, it's just my brother.

“Gotta pay it to ya, sis, you made this place look like a goddamn Oscars afterparty,” he says, plucking a champagne flute from a passing tray. He looks like he's had a few already. "It's almost like you've been doing this all your life."

“Because Ihavebeen doing this all my life,” I mutter.

He lifts a brow and tilts the flute to me. “Touché.”

I glance at him sideways. His black suit’s sharp tonight, the collar crisp, the cufflinks subtle but definitely not cheap. He looks more like the brother I remember—poised, present, polished. A far cry from the man who stumbled into the bookstore last week like a ghost, or the one who couldn’t meet our mother’s eyes over dinner.

Tonight he’s relaxed. Glowing, even.

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