Page 66 of Goalie's Obsession

The trail winds upward, all dirt and rock and blazing sunshine. I jog ahead, adrenaline pumping. Connor stays close behind me at first, but by the halfway point, I’m pulling ahead.

By the summit, I’m full-oncrushinghim.

I hit the final incline and burst up the last stretch with a victorious whoop.

Connor staggers behind me seconds later, sweaty and panting.

“Unreal,” he groans. “Please tell me you’ve got rocket boosters in those leggings.”

I flop onto a sun-warmed rock, heart racing, legs buzzing. “Speed and endurance, Walsh. Two things you’re apparently lacking.”

He glares at me, chest heaving. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

I smirk, reaching for my phone. “Smile for the victory selfie.”

Behind us, the city sprawls out in a hazy, golden blur—skyscrapers, palm trees, and glittering rooftops stretching to the horizon. It's disgustingly beautiful. Like a postcard from a life I didn’t think I wanted.

But maybe, just maybe, I'm starting to.

Connor leans in, still breathless, hair wind-mussed, face glowing with sun and irritation. I snap the photo.

“Congratulations,” he mutters, voice low. “You’re officially the hottest girl to ever kick my ass.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I say, tucking my phone away as Sophia and Blake appear behind us, mid-argument over which of them ran slower.

“Well, turns out Blake has the endurance of a retired cat,” Sophia huffs, collapsing beside me on the rock.

“It's theoffseason.I was pacing myself,” Blake says, hands on his hips. “It’s called strategy.”

“You mean walking,” Connor snorts, grabbing a water bottle from the team cooler Coach had hauled up on his shoulders like a pack mule.

We’re all flushed and breathless and soaked in sunshine as the team settles in around the overlook. Natalie throws down a picnic blanket, and within seconds, there's a spread of snacks—fruit, energy bars, protein shakes, and enough Gatorade to hydrate the entire NHL.

“Please tell me someone brought actual food,” Ryder moans, rummaging through the cooler like a raccoon.

“There's trail mix,” Logan offers.

“Trail mix is just disappointment disguised as nutrition,” Ryder mutters, opening a pack of almonds.

Connor’s still catching his breath beside me, legs stretched out, arms braced behind him on the rock. His tank top is damp with sweat, clinging to the broad lines of his chest, his hair is a windswept mess.

And the worst part?

He knows exactly how good he looks.

I turn away before I start actively drooling on said chest like I've just passed out on him again.

“Here.” Natalie hands me a protein bar and flops down dramatically. “I hate cardio.”

“I could run itagain,” I brag, biting into the bar.

Connor leans close, voice a warm whisper. “You might have won, but I know for sure I’d be carrying you back if you did that.”

I slap his arm as Ryder launches into a story about his first time attempting to cook for the team, complete with dramatic reenactments of nearly setting Blake's kitchen on fire.

I can't help but laugh as he describes trying to put out flames with expensive bottles of wine.

"So there I am, dumping a $200 Cabernet on these burning steaks, and Blake walks in—" Ryder waves his arms wildly.

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