Page 7 of Goalie's Obsession

He looks…bad.

Like someone took the guy I’ve known for years and drained the life out of him. He’s paler than usual, thinner, with dark shadows under his eyes.

His expensive clothes don't hide much. This is not the same guy who pulled me aside when I was drafted into the minors, swore up and down that Iron Ridge would be the best damn thing that had ever happened to me.

I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “Jesus, man. You look like shit.”

Ethan smirks automatically, the muscle memory of our friendship kicking in.

"Thanks,Cup Champion.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Guess we can’t all have our faces on cereal boxes now, can we?”

I grin, the most obnoxious one I have. “Yeah, well, I’ve seen that box ofGolden Crunch, and I look fuckinggoodon it.”

Lucy groans. “Oh my god, not this again.”

Ethan chuckles, shaking his head. “Man, I forgot how unbearable you are after a win.”

“Just sayin'. Better than Big Mike’s billboard in LA.” I flash my teeth. “Poor bastard’s face looked like it was melting in the sun the moment they put it up.”

Emma snorts. Lucy glares at me, which is probably warranted.

And for a moment, it all feels…normal.

The three of us. The same easy rhythm like it's always been.

Then Lucy stretches, yawning dramatically before locking eyes with the cup in my hand. “Wait, hold up. I just realized something.”

"What?"

"You, Connor Walsh,actualStanley Cup champion, are standing inmybookstore, atmytable, drinking—" she squints at my cup "—what the hell is that?”

I smirk, holding up the bright pink takeout cup Emma handed me. "It’s aUnicorn Mocha Deluxe."

Emma snickers behind the counter.

Lucy squints harder. “It’s…pink.”

I take another slow sip, eyes locked on hers. “And?”

She leans back in mock horror. “Connor Walsh, you are a fraud.”

I shrug, dead serious. "Best damn drink I’ve ever had. And by the way, it's her book store, not yours."

"Not the point."

Ethan blinks as he looks down his nose at my coffee. "You seriously ordered that, man?"

"Nah," I shrug. "I came here a few weeks ago and Emma took one look at me and said, ‘I know exactly what this man needs.’”

I take a slow sip and exhale with a exaggerated slow satisfaction that has Lucy rolling her eyes.

“And what do you know? She was right.”

Lucy stares at me like I’ve committed an unspeakable crime against masculinity.

And that’s when Ireallysee her.

The messy top knot, the oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder, the way her fingers absently toy with the rim of her cup.

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