Page 4 of Golden Goal

I leisurely pack my belongings into my bag and place it on the bench in front of me. Walking over to Coach's office, I knock and wait.

After a minute, there's no response. I wait another minute, but still, nothing. There's no way Coach left before we all finished. I slowly push the door open and notice it's empty, except for one unexpected occupant—a girl.

She looks as if she's been caught red-handed, and I'm at a loss for how to handle this situation. She might be stealing our plays and planning to share them with rival teams. I should be the one to run into this issue, considering it doesn't align with my penchant for avoidance.

Quickly, I find my voice and ask, "What are you doing in here?"

The girl appears frozen, panic in her eyes. I wait for her to explain, but she seems paralyzed, like a deer in headlights. I hope to God she's not trying to steal our playbook.

"Hello? What are you doing in here?" I repeat, my tone more forceful. "You're not allowed to be in the men's locker room, let alone Coach's office."

She snaps out of her daze, her response coming in a rushed, "Well, okay."

I observe her as she hurries past me, and she's undeniably beautiful. I rake my gaze across her—her long brown hair, brown eyes, freckles across her nose and cheeks. She's of petite stature, and for some inexplicable reason, I can't tear my eyes away. They linger where her chest pushes against her slightly low-cut shirt.

Damn, I need to look away.

What's wrong with me? I should be focusing on the situation at hand, not ogling this girl. Thoughts race through my mind as I struggle to regain my composure.

One thing is certain: she is not my concern.

Still slightly dazed, I exit the office and retrieve my bag from the bench. My mind remains occupied during the drive home, and I carry this confusion into the house.

Once inside, I place my keys on the entryway table and toss my hockey bag beside the stairs, where Ronan's bag still sits from earlier.

This house is shared with Ronan, our teammate Marshall, and another schoolmate, Liam. Ronan and I occupy the upper level of the house, a decision he made to ensure we're never too far apart. He's been attached to me since kindergarten.

At 6'2", Ronan is a towering presence, which serves him well on the ice. Off the rink, his height, brown hair, and blue eyes make him rather appealing, at least to most people.

I don't see the appeal.

Despite being my best friend and knowing me inside and out, he sometimes knows too much. I must shake off this weird feeling before I face him. Ronan can read me like a book, and it's disconcerting how in tune he is with me.

He's aware of my routine, which revolves around practice, classes, and working out. My days might involve more, but that's the general gist. Today's routine was disrupted, and Ronan will sense it immediately.

This is not good.

I stroll into the living room and find Ronan sprawled on the couch, absorbed in TV. Marshall occupies the other end, engrossed in a video game. Ronan looks up with a smile, which quickly vanishes when he takes in my appearance. I must appear as dazed as I feel.

He's on his feet in an instant, rushing toward me.

My god, he won't like what I have to say. To avoid any awkwardness, I contemplate telling them it was a guy I encountered in the office instead of a girl. I'd do it if I didn't know Ronan could smell my lies from a mile away.

I attempt to regain composure and sit next to Marshall on the sectional, maintaining some distance between Ronan and me, as I recount the bizarre incident in the locker room, starting from the moment he left until my return home. Ronan's face registers disbelief as I finish recounting my story.

He's rendered speechless for a moment, but it doesn't last long.

"You didn't stop her?" he demands.

I sigh, "Don't yell at me. I've never been in a situation like that. I'm not sure what to do."

"Is she stealing our plays or something?" Ronan presses.

I retort, "Back off. No, I don't know. I texted Coach and informed him about the situation. It's time to move on."

"What if—" he begins.

I cut him off with assurance, "It won't happen."

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