Page 42 of Goalie's Obsession

He blinks like I slapped him. “What?”

“I leave with the team in two days. LA, then a media run. I’m going.”

He shakes his head. “No. You’re not doing this.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’tyou, Lucy. This isn’t who you are. This job at the Icehawks? This pipedream? You’re not some—some puck bunny chasing a headline.”

My stomach turns. “Excuse me?”

“You’re doing this forhim.”

“Yes, Ethan. Iam.” My voice drops to something dangerous. “And you know what? I’m doing this for me, too. And maybe by the time I get back, you’ll be ready to stop acting like I’m your problem and finally talk to me."

I turn on my heels and make for the door, stopping only to lay the final blow on my sorry-looking brother.

"Either that, or you'll be gone. Whichever you choose, Ethan, I'm fine with it.”

Chapter Nine

Connor

Theclockreads11:42p.m., which would be a problem if I had any plans to sleep tonight.

We leave for the airport at dawn, the start of a whirlwind offseason tour packed with media, fans, cameras, and endless attempts to pretend like I give a shit about anything other than Lucy Daniels.

Which is exactly why my bedroom looks like a war zone.

There’s an overnight bag splayed open on my bed, half-packed and already bulging like I’m about to board a three-month cruise instead of a ten-day-long media blitz.

Hoodies, tee shirts, and about six too many pairs of black jeans are scattered across the duvet. I’ve packed, unpacked, and repacked four times already—because apparently, I’m the kind of man who suddenly cares about vibe matching his damn outfits.

Jesus. What the hell is wrong with me?

I open the closet and glare at the hanging rows of clothes. I used to be a “whatever’s clean” kind of guy. Ripped hoodie? Fine. Shirt with a stain from a protein shake I dropped during my Covid-lockdown home workouts in 2020? Even better.

Now? I’ve stood here for twenty minutes debating which t-shirt is most likely to make Lucy stare at my arms again.

I grab a charcoal tee and hold it up to the light.Meh. Too safe.

Then, my eyes land on it. Theonepiece of clothing I promised myself I’d burn after last year’s Halloween party.

The neon-orange suit.

I wore it after losing a bet Blake with during last year’s fantasy football finals—he picked my lineup for the last game and sabotaged me withkickers.

But I'm a man of my word, and I fucking wore it anyway.

It glows in the dark, has sequins on the lapels, and a patch on the inside that says“Blake is Your Daddy”. Yes, really.

I hold it up to the mirror, lift my phone, and snap a selfie with the most deadpan expression I can muster.

Then I fire off a text and send it to Lucy.

Me:Thinking THIS for the date you won. Don’t you think it’s time you got what you paid for, Lucy Lou?

I stare at the screen. Waiting.

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