Page 56 of Goalie's Obsession

"Hold still," Natalie orders, dragging a liquid liner across my lash line like she’s defusing a bomb. "Unless you’re going for ‘chic panda’ tonight."

Sophia rifles through a garment bag on the king-sized bed—the same bed Connor and I are supposed to share tonight. My stomach flips at the thought.

"These are your options." Sophia lays out three dresses. "The red says 'notice me,' the blue says 'I'm sophisticated,' and the black says 'I might eat you alive.'"

I reach for the black one without hesitation. "I'll take 'eat you alive', hands down."

Twenty minutes later, I'm transformed for the Icehawk's first team dinner of the offseason tour.

The black dress I've chosen hugs every curve like it was painted on, with a slit that climbs dangerously high up my thigh. My dark hair tumbles past my shoulders in effortless waves that would make my usual messy bun weep with jealousy.

When I tilt my head, the intoxicating blend of jasmine and vanilla from Natalie's fancy styling products wraps around me like an invisible cloud, making me feel like I just rolled through a sun-warmed meadow of wildflowers.

"Connor's going to swallow his tongue," Natalie whispers, adjusting the thin strap on my shoulder.

"That's the plan," I mutter, though I'm not entirely sure what my plan actually is anymore.

When I step out of the bedroom, Connor is adjusting his watch by the door. He looks up, and his expression freezes. His eyes darken as they travel from my face down to my stilettos and back up again, lingering on the places where the fabric clings tightest.

"Stop staring, Walsh." I grab my clutch from the side table, pretending my heart isn't racing.

"Not my fault you look like that," he says, voice thick and low. “Jesus, Lucy.”

I grab my clutch like it might save me and head for the door. “Let’s go before someone bursts into flames.”

The Uber ride to the restaurant is torture.

The backseat forces us together, his muscled thigh pressed against mine. When we hit a pothole, his hand lands on my lower back to steady me, fingers splaying wide, heat seeping through the thin fabric.

The restaurant is exactly the kind of place I've spent years avoiding—all crystal chandeliers and white tablecloths. The hostess leads us to a private room where a hockey stick ice sculpture gleams beside a tower of champagne glasses.

"Huh. What a surprise..." I whisper as Connor pulls my chair out. "They've gone all out"

His fingertips brush my waist as I sit, so briefly I could almost believe I imagined it.

"Only the best for the Stanley Cup champions," he murmurs close to my ear.

The team’s already gathered around a long table near the windows, the city skyline glittering behind them like a backdrop made of diamonds. Blake’s halfway through a speech when we join—raising a glass of something amber and expensive.

“To surviving our first day in LA without dying at the hands of Coach Brody’s latest fitness regime,” he says.

“Speak for yourself,” Logan mutters. “My quads are still crying.”

The room vibrates with deep, exhausted laughter from the guys.

Connor groans under his breath as he sits beside me. “I haven’t been this sore since training camp my rookie year.”

“Poor baby,” I whisper, resting my hand on his thigh under the table. “Should I call the massage therapist?”

He exhales like he’s trying not to combust. “If you start talking about deep tissue in that voice, I swear to God—”

“Behave,” I say sweetly.

Dinner is a blur of truffle everything and a dessert that tastes like edible gold. Connor and I play the part perfectly—our bodies angled toward each other, fingers brushing when we reach for the same water glass, his hand grazing the bare skin of my shoulder more than once.

Each touch lights me up like I’ve swallowed a match. It's dangerous, and completely impossible to ignore as the dinner flashes before my eyes.

By the time dessert plates are cleared and the wine glasses start running low, Blake leans back in his chair with a lazy grin.

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