Page 70 of Goalie's Obsession

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I just—”

“Want it to be perfect. Yes, yes. You’ve only said it fourteen times in the last hour.” He gives me a look that would make Coach Brody proud. “But honey, this setup?”

He gestures around the space—the intimate candlelit table, the jazz duo tuning up in the corner, the view that stretches all the way to the ocean.

“This isbeyondperfect. This is romance.Capital R.”

I exhale, finally letting myself take it in. The curved string lights and the wine glasses catching the sunset on the table. The handwritten menu withLucy’s $50k Datescrawled in elegant script right at the top.

And then there’s the bottle of Cabernet—herCabernet. The one Ethan used to stash on the top shelf at home where she’d sneak sips of when we were teenagers hanging out in his basement.

Jesus.Ethan.

If he could see me now…

He told me to stay away. He was clear about that, and for a moment, I told myself I would. That she deserved something safe. Someone simple.

But here I am.

Setting up the kind of date most people only see in movies.

And I'm doing it all for her.

Tino reappears at my elbow, straightening my collar with brisk efficiency. “Tell me again. Are you trying to seduce her… or marry her?”

The answer slips out before I even think. “Both.”

Tino's manicured brows lift—but instead of laughing, he gives me a soft, knowing smile.

“Well then.Thatexplains the intensity. Though I must say, for someone who apparently stops pucks for a living, you look absolutely terrified of one tiny blonde.”

“She’s not just—” I drag a hand through my hair, probably ruining whatever the hell he styled into it. “This can’t be just another fancy dinner. She grew up with all this. I need it to mean something.”

“You think I don’t see that?” he says, gently nudging the last candle into place. “Trust me, sugar. When a man puts this much thought into a night—when it’s not about the table or the view or the wine, buther—she’ll feel it. She’llknow.”

I nod, swallowing the knot in my throat.

Tino heads back toward the stairwell, calling over his shoulder. “Alright, Mr. Goalie. Show her what fifty grand gets you.”

I take one last glance at the setup.

Everything’s in place. Tino's got the wine uncorked, the playlist is queued—starting with the Taylor Swift cover Lucy hummed once in the car when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I wipe my palms on my slacks, check my watch, and mutter under my breath.

“You spent fifty grand on a date, Lucy Lou… I’m gonna make sure it’s worth every damn penny.”

Then, as if she could hear me, the door to the rooftop swings open with a soft creak.

Framed in the glow of the string lights, silhouetted against the skyline like some impossible dream I forgot I ever had, Lucy appears before my eyes.

She hesitates at the top step, eyes wide, lips parted like she’s just been hit with the full force of what I’ve done up here.

I swallow as my heart slams once, twice, three fucking times against my chest.

She’s wearing this deep navy dress—short, flirty, cinched at the waist—that makes her legs look impossibly long and her curves look like a goddamn gift just for me.

Her hair’s pinned up, but messily, with soft curls spilling down around her shoulders.

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