Page 43 of Goalie's Obsession

Three dots flicker. Stop. Flicker again.

And then… nothing.

“C’mon, Luce,” I mutter, flopping back on the bed like a lovestruck teenager. “Give me something.”

My eyes drift to the far corner of the apartment, where her hoodie is still draped over the back of my couch. Icehawks green and gray. Oversized. I've picked it up more times than I can count, but it still smells like vanilla and the faintest trace of her shampoo.

She left it here after a team game night three months ago. Claimed she didn’t care if she got it back and I never returned it in the hope that she might come around and collect it one day.

She didn’t. She’s stubborn like that.

I cross the room and grab it, thumb brushing over the soft cotton.

Guess I’ll bring it to LA. You know—return it. Maybe knock on her hotel room door late at night, offer it back as an excuse just to see her in one of those flimsy tank tops she sleeps in. Maybe get another glimpse of those perfect fucking nipples, the ones I had in my mouth for all of twelve seconds before we were interrupted.

My jaw tightens.

I tuck the hoodie carefully on top of my clothes, then zip the bag closed.

Beneath it, buried deep in the side pocket, is a bag of those sour peach rings she always pretends she doesn’t like—then devours by the handful when she thinks no one’s watching.

I’ll offer them up as a peace treaty.

Or a bribe.

Or just a reason to linger in her room long enough to finish what we started.

I bought three bags earlier this week the moment I found out Lucy was going on tour with the team.

I roll off the bed with a sigh, drag a hand through my hair, and toss the orange suit aside. I swap it out for a simple black button-up, my best pair of jeans, and the jacket I wore the night of the auction. Her eyes lingered on it. I noticed.

Because I noticeeverythingwhen it comes to Lucy.

So that's what I'm damn well going with.

I swear under my breath and toss my silent phone onto the dresser, then take one last look at the open suitcase.

Clothes. Toiletries. One carefully packed pair of shoes. Emergency stick of deodorant. Three protein bars. A pack of gum. One backup charger. And three bags of candy I’m not supposed to know she likes.

The apartment is quiet but then the sound of a fist slams into my front door like it’s trying to break through steel.

"What the hell?" I say to myself.

I’m halfway to the door when anotherthudechoes through the apartment, followed by the unmistakable sound of a shoulder shoving against the wood.

I swing it open and Ethan stumbles inside.

He reeks of whiskey and day old cologne. His shirt’s half untucked, the top buttons open, like he got in a fight with a mirror on the way here and the mirror won.

Even after he catches his balance, he’s still swaying slightly on the spot. Like even gravity’s done putting up with him and his current state.

“Stay the hell away from her,” he slurs, lifting a heavy arm to point a finger right in my face.

I dodge the finger and shut the door behind him. “Jesus. What happened to knocking like a normal person?”

“I’m serious.” He jabs the finger at my chest. “Lucy. Stay the fuck away from my sister.”

I step back, hands raised slightly. “Okay. Let’s try that again, only this time without slurring.”

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