Page 11 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
It didn’t make sense. I blinked once, then again. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not in this office. Not connected tothispart of my life.
But it was her.
Not Nora. I knew that. But still—her.
The same honey-brown eyes. That precise posture. The way she held herself like she’d rehearsed every movement ahead of time. The same tug behind my ribs, like a memory trying to reassert itself.
"Liam?" she said quizzically, eyes narrowing just a hair.
My name in her voice broke whatever spell I’d let wrap around my brain.
She shifted in her chair, turning slightly to face me.
“Claire?” The word came out before I could check it.
Coach looked between us.
He leaned back in his chair, eyebrows raised like he was waiting for the punchline. I didn’t move.
Claire didn’t either.
“Okay… and I’m Nolan. How the heck do you two know each other?”
She just shifted slightly enough for me to notice the way her hair was pulled back today. Different than before. Pulled back low, leaving her neck exposed.
Not Nora. She wasn’t Nora.
She looked up at me again. Her eyes flicked over my face, then down my shoulders and chest, before snapping back up. Quick.
My chest tightened. I needed to say something. Do something. But my brain, mouth, hand, foot hadn’t gotten the message yet.
So I just stood there, file still in my hand, heartbeat ticking loud in my ears.
Claire was the one who broke the silence.
“We’ve met,” Claire said, glancing my way. “He lives in your building, a few floors up.”
Coach Bennett blinked. “Wait, Callahan? Liam Callahan, my star goalie? You didn’t recognize him?”
Without missing a beat, Claire responded, “We exchanged first names. He was wearing a hoodie and talking about copper pans, not hockey.”
Now my new coach was looking directly at me.
Why do I feel like I'm being called down to the principal’s office?
“And you? You had no idea you were talking to my sister?”
Is that a rhetorical question, or do I need to answer that?
"Thanks for getting me in trouble with my brother," she said, looking straight at me. Her tone was dry, but there was a flicker of something behind it, amusement, maybe. A dare.
I turned to Claire. My head pinged between Coach Bennett and Claire, as if I were watching a tennis match.
Nolan’s head whipped toward her. “Hold on. What do you mean by ‘getting in trouble’? What happened?”
Claire tilted her head toward me. “Your goalie here was kind enough to give me a private tour of his apartment.”
“Private what?” Nolan sat forward.
