Page 35 of Pucking Sweet

“Shoot it,” the Bauer rep next to me yells.

“Pass it,” someone shouts behind me.

I’m on the edge of my seat again, watching as Lukas dances around his pursuer. The slot is a mess of players. All our forwards are jammed up by the Hurricanes, trying to get clear for a pass. Lukas darts right with the puck and takes the shot. The whole arena seems to hold their breath for the span of the two seconds it takes for the puck to fly across the ice and slip right between the goalie’s skate and the post. The cherry lights up, and the Rays fans go wild.

Rays—1. Hurricanes—0.

Lukas Novikov, a mouthy defenseman with anger issues and caramel eyes, just scored the first goal in Rays history.

The team descends on him, cheering and patting his back. He breaks free, smiling ear to ear as the music changes. The chorus of Daft Punk’s “Get Lucky” plays over the sound system as the Jumbotron zooms in on Lukas’s confident, smiling face. Finding the right camera, he turns, looks straight down the lens, and winks.

My cheers die in my throat as I drop to my seat. I snatch my gin and tonic off the ledge and take a sip, trying to drown the stupid, girlish fluttering in my chest. Even if no one else in this arena knows the truth, Lukas knows…and I know it too.

He was winking at me.

13

Claribel and I are two of the first people on the plane after the Hurricanes game ends. Leaving her up with the rest of the media team at the front, I make my way to the back. Now I’m just sitting here, foot jiggling, anxiously waiting for the flight attendants to close the boarding door. If I was thinking straight, I would be the last one on for each flight. Then I wouldn’t have time to let my anxiety build.

For better or worse, I have a serious fear of closed-in spaces. Blame my brother, Rowan. When he was eight and I was five, we were playing hide-and-seek, and he shut me in a hope chest in our Nana’s attic. Then the jerk forgot about me and left me up there all afternoon. No one could hear my screams because it was the attic. Our Daddy whooped him for it, but the damage was already done.

Twenty-two years and three therapists later, I’m still a bit of a mess. Planes, elevators, tanning beds—basically, if it’s got a lid or a sealed door, I’m counting the milliseconds until the torture is over.

“Gosh, what is the holdup?” Peering up the aisle, I see Mars Kinnunen is out of his seat, saying something to Rachel. I’m too far away to hear, but it looks animated. After a couple minutes, she stands, snatching her stuff out of the seat. Then she follows Kinnunen up the plane to his row and sits with him.

Hmm…I knew Jake Compton was carrying a torch for our dear Barkley Fellow. Could it be that our two-time Stanley Cup-winning goalie is also a smitten kitten?

As Rachel and Mars sit farther up the plane, Colton stands.

Oh my…was she just sitting with him? He’s not interested in her too, is he?

A flash of jealousy sparks through me, and I feel a primal urge to go hiss the wordmineat her. It must be my anxiety gummy talking.Colton Morrow is not mine. He’s allowed to sit by whoever he wants—and kiss them too.

We make eye contact and I gasp, sinking back in my seat.

Colton’s coming this way. He’s walking right down the aisle toward me. A wild image flashes in my mind of Rachel trying to flirt with him. No doubt, she offers him a taste of her better, sexier granola, but he throws the bag in her face, vowing he’ll never eat anyone’s granola but mine. Then he kicks her out of his row, banishing her to the death seats in the middle of the plane.

Sure…I bet that’sexactlywhat just happened.

I groan, trying to make myself as small as possible. This crush is getting really inconvenient. I don’t want him to see the way I’m blushing, so I bury my face in my phone.

“Poppy?”

The surprise in his tone has me looking up. Heavens, he’s gorgeous. He got his haircut since I last saw him. Now the sides have a sharper fade. All his stubble is gone too. His dark cheeks are silky smooth. I trace the line of his angular jaw with my eyes, following it down to his full lips.

“Poppy,” he says again. I watch his mouth form the word, his lips curling in slightly to pronounce the “P.”

I pull my gaze from his mouth and meet his dark eyes. “Yeah?”

He glances around. “What are you doing back here?”

“Sitting,” I reply lamely.

“Managers usually sit up front with the coaching staff,” he says, pointing over his shoulder. “Back of the plane is for interns.”

“Wow, really feeling the love, Morrow,” says Teddy in the row across from me. He’s sitting with Max, my favorite social media intern.

One of the flight attendants walks up behind Colton and taps him on the shoulder. He’s a tall, Black man wearing clear-frame glasses. “Mr. Morrow, you need to find your seat, please.”

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