Page 92 of Goalie's Obsession

“Only if you promise to look good doing it.”

I huff out a laugh as we move forward, the sea of bodies parting for us like we’re royalty. Ahead of us, Hunter’s shaking hands with someone from the New York Rangers. Blake and Sophia are already being mobbed by fans that are lining the roped off walkway.

Across the way, the goddamn Vegas team—the ones we beat for the Cup—are posing like models in front of the sponsor wall.

Everyone here looks like they stepped out of an Armani ad. I’m wearing my favorite suit, the one I got tailored just right on a visit to Rome a year ago. It's navy with a subtle sheen, sharp lapels. The full works.

I clean up pretty damn well, just fucking ask me.

But next to Lucy?

I look like herbodyguard, not her date.

It's pretty fucking obvious that I'm the one that used to shovel snow off our roof with my sisters and eat hot dogs three nights a week. Yet now I’m walking a red carpet with Lucy Daniels in a dress that could stop traffic.

I’ve done media lines before. I know how to smile for the cameras, drop a joke, charm a headline.

But this? Watching Lucy smile for the cameras and waltz the red carpet in the way she is right now?

This isherworld.

And I’d burn it all down if it ever made her feel like she didn’t belong in it.

The ballroom’s massive—gold chandeliers dripping crystal, velvet ropes sectioning off media areas, servers in black ties weaving through the crush of enormous hockey-player bodies and their girlfriends with trays of champagne and gourmet sliders.

I’ve seen playoff finals with less chaos.

But in saying that, it's still… fun.

Coach Brody’s deep in conversation with the Vancouver General Manager, looking sharp in his tux and smug as hell like he just aced a trade deal. But Lucy nudges me and tilts her head toward them, barely containing her grin.

“Look at his hand,” she whispers.

Sure enough, Coach has one arm slung around Natalie’s waist like she’s the crown jewel of the Icehawks roster. But as we watch, his fingers start drifting lower… and lower… until his palm lands squarely between her thighs like he’scasuallychecking puck placement mid-interview.

“Is he serious right now—” I start, already winding up a loud, public callout that would absolutely earn me extra laps at practice.

Lucy grabs my arm and spins me around so fast I nearly spill my champagne.

“Nope. We are not interrupting whateverthatis,” she says, eyes wide with laughter.

"Come on," I plea as Lucy pushes me back. "There’s no way I’m letting that slide without giving him shit."

"Yes, you are." Lucy whispers. “Let's just hope they get caught. Then you'll never have to run laps again.”

We both break into barely-contained snorts as we pass Blake and Sophia holding court with Logan and Seattle’s top rookie draft—who looks like he’s still figuring out how to wear cufflinks.

The entire team looks like they're working the room like they were born in front of a camera. Every one of us is laughing, posing, sipping champagne like it’s water.

Meanwhile, Lucy and I are still drifting through the crowd, stealing sips and dodging photo ops like we’re on a stealth mission.

We finally make it to our table which is nestled near the stage with just enough distance from the media pit to breathe. Blake and Sophia are already there now, deep in conversation with Logan and Ryder, while Coach Brody and Natalie have disappeared somewhere toward the back.

Probably so Coach can keep copping a feel in peace.

Lucy leans close, her shoulder brushing mine as she slides into her seat.

“Okay,” she whispers, eyes scanning the crowd. “Ethan and I used to play this game at our parents events. Want to play?"

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