Page 3 of Love in the Net
Again, no question mark in sight.
I note it, but this time, it’s not a strike against him. I nod, and then he’s gone, walking away with his pups at his heels. I watch him go, feeling a weird mix of attraction and disappointment.
I look down at Waffles, the menace who now has something in his mouth. “What’s that?” I reach for it, and I extract a wallet from his mouth.
I flip it open and suck in a breath.
Liam O’Brien.
“For the love of leashes,” I say as I stare at the picture of the starting goalkeeper for the Blue Ridge Buffalo. He really is a professional athlete—and he’s going to call me later.
2
Returninga wallet to its rightful owner sounds simple, right? Wrong.
Apparently, when that wallet belongs to Blue Ridge’s starting goalkeeper and local celebrity, “simple” leaves the building. Along with my sanity.
I finished my event at the park and ran home to get out of my muddy clothes. My freshly washed curls bob against my shoulders as I walk with Waffles’ leash secured around my wrist.
My nerves buzz, my palms sweat despite the fall Appalachian temps, and I can’t stop second-guessing every decision that led me to this moment. Maybe I should’ve just mailed the wallet—I have the man’s address from his driver’s license. Or waited for him to call me like he said he would. Or, you know, pretend like I never found it and avoided all of this altogether.
But no. Here I am, walking up to the Buffaloes practice facility, armed with Liam’s leather billfold and what I can only assume is the worst case ofwhy did I wear this outfit?regret known to mankind. I glance down at my cozy cardigan, skinny jeans, and ankle boots, suddenly wishing I’d opted for something less…dog-bakery chic.
“Okay, Claire,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got this. You’re just returning a wallet. To a very attractive man who wanted your number. Who happens to be a professional athlete. No big deal.”
The automatic doors whoosh open, and I’m hit with a wave of cold, artificial air. Inside, the rink is a hive of activity—skates clattering on the ice, players shouting to one another, and the unmistakable echo of hockey sticks hitting pucks, ice, and who knows what else
It’s overwhelming, to say the least. I love sports, but I don’t usually attend them live. I have a television that allows me to watch four channels at once, so I’ve never seen the point of paying for tickets. Plus, I can develop and test new doggy treat recipes while it’s a power play or on fourth down.
I grip the wallet like it’s a live grenade and needs the pressure to stay dormant and take a deep breath, willing myself to channel some of Waffles’ boundless confidence. If my dog can tackle a six-foot-something man into the mud without a second thought, surely I can handle this.
Spotting Liam isn’t hard. He’s on the ice, crouched in front of the goal with laser-focused intensity. His tight movements are quick, precise, and—dare I say it—graceful. Not exactly what I expected from someone built like a tank. He blocks a shot, then another, and I realize why they call him “The Wall.” He’s practically impenetrable, a fortress of focus and determination. It’s impressive. And, okay, maybe a little distracting.
I’m so caught up in watching him that I don’t notice the figure approaching me until it’s too late.
“Hey there,” a cheerful voice says, startling me out of my goalie-induced trance. I turn to see a tall, blonde man with a grin that could rival the sun. He’s holding a water bottle and looking at me like he’s trying to place my face. “You lost or just here for the view?”
“Uh…” I blink, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.
“You have to have a special pass to attend practice in the last hour,” he says.
That’s good to know. “I’m, um, looking for Liam.” I hold up the wallet like it’ll be my special pass to watch the hot hockey goalie for the next hour.
“Oh, you’rethatgirl.”
I frown, mostly because I have to tear my eyes from Liam’s hulking shape in the net. “What do you mean bythatgirl?”
“The one who tackled him in the mud earlier today.” He chuckles, clearly enjoying my confusion. “The boys have been talking about it since practice began. Liam’s been unusually quiet—which, trust me, is saying something.”
My cheeks heat up. “I didn’t tackle him. Mydogtackled him.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, nodding like he doesn’t believe me for a second. “I’m Chase.” He sticks out his hand. “I usually play left wing, but I was doing my physical today.”
“And resident team gossip, apparently.” I cock my eyebrows at him.
Chase only laughs, and he has a good air about him. “I’m Claire,” I say, offering him a smile. “And this is Waffles.”
Chase’s laugh echoes through the rink. “Waffles, huh? Sounds like a troublemaker.”
