Page 83 of Goalie's Obsession

The ring drops to the sheets.

“I don’t want to fake anything anymore,” I murmur. “Not after tonight.”

He nods once, then reaches over and links our fingers together.

“Lucy,” he says simply. “I don't think anything about this was ever fake. At least, it wasn't for me.”

And just like that… it’s real.

He kisses me—slow, sweet, and a little shy around the edges. Like the kind of kiss you’d give yourgirlfriend, not your fake auction-winning date. And when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Just rests his forehead against mine.

“So,” he murmurs. “What happens after this?”

I let out a slow breath. “After Ethan. After the media. After our names stop trending?”

“After we go home,” he says softly. “Back to Iron Ridge.”

I picture it—cold air and snow-dusted mountains. No family drama or gallery galas or velvet ropes.

Just early morning skates at Icehawk HQ, coffee at Chapter & Grind, maybe a blanket draped over both of us on a beat-up couch while we watch hockey and pretend not to care about anything.

“Something quiet. Something real," I whisper, letting the smile lift my lips ever so gently. "Something that has nothing to do with last names or net worth or headlines.”

“Something that has everything to do with sour peach rings and heated blankets?” Connor teases.

“Yeah. And kissing you whenever I want,” I add, leaning in again.

He brushes his lips over mine once more, softer this time.

“Yeah. I think I’d like that too.”

Chapter Eighteen

Connor

WhenIopenedmyeyes, she was already awake.

Propped up against the pillows, thumb tapping quietly against her screen, a crease between her brows that hadn’t been there last night. The sun was barely peeking through the curtains, but she was lit by the glow of her phone, chewing on the inside of her cheek like she was bracing for something.

I didn’t ask what she was doing.

Didn’t need to.

I caught a glimpse of the name on the screen before she locked it and tucked the phone face-down on the nightstand. Ethan. Probably checking in to see if his head still existed after last night’s self-inflicted spiral. Probably trying to play damage control in the only way he knows how—badly.

She didn’t say anything. Just curled into me and let me hold her a little longer.

Now she’s in the shower, and I’m trying to figure out how the hell to bring some of the magic back into a morning that started with tension and quiet sighs.

Room service felt like the obvious move.

I added the chocolate croissants—two of them, extra flaky—because even when Lucy’s pretending she doesn’t want food, she’ll demolish one if it’s covered in powdered sugar. I threw in a green juice too, just in case she wants to balance the pastry with a little moral superiority.

The suite still smells faintly like last night—rose petals, candle wax, her perfume lingering on the pillows. I eye the bed. Half the duvet’s hanging off the side, and the memory of her flushed and gasping beneath me flashes like a sucker punch I didn’t see coming.

The bathroom door creaks open, steam billowing out like some dramatic movie entrance.

Lucy steps out in a robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, skin still damp and flushed.

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