Page 95 of Goalie's Obsession

Celeste hums. “Of course. I thought I recognized you. The defenseman with the temper.”

“Goalie,” I correct with a grin. “The defenseman’s taller and has better manners.”

She laughs like I’m a mildly amusing pet.

Then her eyes slide back to Lucy, all faux concern.

“You’re looking well,” she says, brushing phantom fingers over Lucy’s forearm. “Especially after everything your brother’s gotten tangled in…”

I feel Lucy’s grip twitch in mine again. My jaw tightens.

Celeste tilts her head, mouth curling. “Such a shame. Your father would be devastated to see all his work unravel this way.”

And there it is.

The blow. Polished, pointed, dipped in velvet.

Lucy doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fold. She just smiles, cool and precise like the high society performer she is.

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I stopped living for his expectations a long time ago.”

Celeste’s lips twitch.

I open my mouth—fully ready to let somethingveryunpolished fly—but Lucy subtly shifts in front of me and angles her shoulder between us like she’s blocking a shot on the ice.

“Enjoy your evening, Celeste,” she says sweetly, already turning away.

We’re two steps gone before I mutter under my breath, “Tell me you never have to see that witch again and I’ll sleep better tonight.”

Lucy exhales, voice low. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

I keep a hand on Lucy’s lower back as we weave through the crowd, past the stage, the press wall, the glittering chaos of it all.

She doesn’t say anything, but her body leans into mine just enough to make my chest tighten.

I want to fix it. Rip the words out of Celeste’s mouth and shove them back down her throat. But Lucy?

She already did that in heels and satin, without raising her voice.

As we step outside into the waiting SUV, she exhales like she’s been holding that breath since we walked in.

And just like that, for the first time…

We get to keep our perfect night.

Chapter Twenty-One

Lucy

Thenextmorning,Istretch beneath the sheets, my muscles pleasantly sore, my brain still wrapped in that warm cotton haze of post-gala bliss.

And then I look to my left.

Connor’s flat on his back, one arm tossed behind his head, the other resting palm-up on his chest. The sheet’s pushed down to his waist, exposing a whole lot of tanned skin and carved muscle and the kind of body that really shouldn’t be legal before coffee.

He’s snoring softly.

Like an actual, stupidly attractive bear.

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