Page 90 of Goalie's Obsession

The kind of familiar that makes my spine straighten on instinct, that whispers reminders in the back of my head about how to smile for photos and how to spin a headline in the families favor and how to hold a champagne glass just so your wrist looks elegant and not at all tense.

I smooth a hand down the side of the dress. “It’s the kind of thing she’d wear to a gala. I hate it."

“Babe… Are you okay?” Sophia asks gently.

I nod, but my stomach twists. I think about Ethan. About everything that glittered and cracked in our lives. The money, the pressure, the relentless expectation—it breaks people.

Quietly at first, and then all at once, like an explosion of hopes and dreams crafted in a carefully curated childhood imagination.

The moment lingers as I study myself in the mirror—shoulders squared, chin lifted, every inch of me styled to perfection.

For a second, I feel the ghost of who I used to be… and who I swore I’d never become. But then Natalie trips over a heel box with a yelp, Sophia starts DJing with her phone, and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up.

The next hour is a whirlwind of zippers and squeals, champagne refills and over-the-top commentary. I let myself get swept up in it. Dress after dress, twirl after twirl—I start to feel like maybe this doesn’t have to be about my past.

Maybe it can just be fun.

And that feeling when you actuallydofind the perfect dress?

Gold.

The zipper to one of the last dresses glides into place with a satisfyingclick, and for the first time all afternoon, the room falls completely silent.

Natalie and Sophia just stare.

I take one slow step toward the mirror, smoothing my hands over the hips of the emerald green satin, feeling the way it molds to me like second skin. It dips low at the front, clinging just enough to my curves without begging for attention, and the slit at the thigh promises danger with every step.

The back is mostly bare, all except for two delicate crisscrossed straps that make me feel like I’ve just walked out of that Bond film Natalie was talking about.

“Holy shit,” Sophia breathes. “I think we have a winner.”

I laugh, and for a moment, it doesn’t feel heavy. Doesn’t feel like I’m faking it.

It just feels good.

I wander toward the chair where we dumped clutches and heels and spare lipstick tubes, reaching for a sleek little velvet clutch to pair with the look. I flip the clasp open, but something small and folded falls out, landing softly on the carpet.

My name is scrawled across it in messy, unmistakably familiar handwriting.

Connor's handwriting.

I freeze, pulse fluttering in my throat. Then slowly, carefully, I crouch down and pick up the note.

I unfold it and read the words, each one etched with that same chaotic scrawl he uses on whiteboards and locker room notes.

I knew you'd pick this one. I've taken care of payment for you. Can't wait to see how beautiful you look in this stunner. –C.

My breath catches somewhere between my chest and my ribs.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t make it a moment or a gesture or a production. Just quietly, confidently, did something that made me feel more special than I have in years.

I’m still standing there, fingers curled around the paper, the dress clinging to me.

It’s stunning. Show-stopping. The kind of thing I would’ve tried on, loved in secret… and put back on the rack becausemaybe not this one. Maybe it’stoo much.

Too bold. Too seen. Toorich-world-y.

And somehow, Connor already knew that.

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