Page 32 of Goalie's Obsession

There’s an espresso shot in my hand, warm and smooth, but it tastes like ash today.

Flat-screens line one wall, rotating between slow-motion highlight reels and behind-the-scenes Cup celebration footage. In one corner, Logan’s playing FIFA. Ryder is bitching about how our offseason tour schedule better not mess with his 'plans'.

It’s chaos—but the kind we thrive in.

Hockey is back. After four long weeks of celebrating, we're gathered back at Icehawk HQ, thrown together in the Player's Lounge to plan an offseason like no other.

Coach Brody is at the front, reading from a clipboard like this is fucking high school, while half the rookies scroll their phones or make bets about who’ll puke first in conditioning camp next week.

I should be paying attention. Iwantto pay attention.

But my phone’s buzzing in my palm again, and I can’t stop flipping it over in the hope that—

"Fuck," I mutter to myself.

Still nothing from Lucy.

One unread ESPN alert. A Bleacher Report headline. A notification from our own media team tagging me in a “Top 10 Most Romantic Moments in Hockey” reel like this is some kind of sick joke.

And shit, there'sanotherGIF—this one of me spinning Lucy in that goddamn dress, smiling like I just scored the winning goal.

And still, amongst all of this… She hasn’t answered a single text.

I've barely seen her at the rink, haven’t bumped into her in the parking lot, haven’t heard her laugh except in my own goddamn head.

She’sghostingme.

Like I imagined it all. Like the kiss, the soft weight of her hand at my chest, the way she whispered my name right before everything exploded, was some charity-induced dream.

I've walked past that damn book shop so many times the security guard across the street probably thinks I'm casing the joint. And every single time, that leather armchair by the window—herchair—sits there empty like it's taunting me.

“Yo.”

Blake elbows me in the ribs as he drops into the chair beside mine, steam rising from his oversized cappuccino.

“So… did you send Lucy the bill yet?” His grin is all teeth. “I mean, she technically owns you now.”

Ryder turns from across the lounge, one brow raised in mock concern. “We should start a GoFundMe.Help Connor Walsh Find His Dignity.”

“Fuck you guys. I’m leaving.”

I stand halfway, mostly out of instinct.

“Oh, you can leave, buddy,” Ryder calls after me, grinning like an idiot. “But you can’t run fromlove.”

“Sit your asses down,” Coach Brody barks from the front of the room, cutting through the noise and turning it to instant silence. "And Ryder? Wipe that fucking grin off your face."

Coach Brody doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. He stands there in his fitted team jacket, arms crossed, whistle dangling from one finger like a warning.

“Y’all done gossiping like bored housewives, or do I need to separate you like toddlers?” His eyes drag across the team with warning written in them. "Day One of the new season starts today. So sit down, and shut the hell up."

He clears his throat.

“Offseason tour kicks off next week. This season we're heading to LA. A mix of media, fan events, and training. Don’t be late, don’t embarrass us, and for the love of hockey, keep your pants on.”

Ryder leans toward me, whispering behind his hand. “So… no sex tape?”

Lucky for Ryder, Coach Brody doesn’t even look up. “Now, a warning. Iwill bemaking you do spin drills until your toes fall off. And when you think you’re done? I’ll reset the clock, add weighted vests, and blast Celine Dion on repeat until one of you cries.”

---