My Athlete Neighbor (Neighborhood Hotties #2)

Chapter Three

A llison stood before her closet, staring at clothes she suddenly hated. She wasn’t about to wear Jesse’s jersey. Why hadn’t she burned that already? She tossed it on the bed to get rid of later. She certainly wasn’t going to wear her grandfather’s jersey. The game started in two hours, and she was still in her bra and panties. She couldn’t go like that either.

She’d be chilly.

She finally settled on dark jeans, boots, and a cream sweater that somehow made her look both casual and like she'd made an effort. Her phone buzzed as she was debating scarves.

Guest services will have your pass. Section 114. See you after?

Her stomach flipped. After. When he'd be sweaty and triumphant or needed consoling and—

Stop it, she told herself firmly. It's one hockey game. Not a date. Not a relationship. Just supporting a neighbor.

Why was she so nervous then?

She opened the small display box on her dresser. Inside, nestled in faded blue velvet, lay her grandfather's puck. His most famous one—the one that he sank into the net during the 1960 Olympic games.

"For luck, princess," he'd said, pressing it into her hands when she was old enough to take care of it. "Sometimes we all need a little magic."

She'd brought it to every important moment since: graduation, job interviews, first day of work. Not because she believed in luck—she didn't, couldn't after Jesse—but because having a piece of her grandfather close made her braver.

Before she could overthink it, she slipped the puck into her coat pocket. Just for comfort. Not luck.

The arena parking lot was already packed when she arrived. She followed clusters of fans wearing Chill jerseys, trying to ignore how familiar it all felt. The sounds, the excitement, the smell of ice and anticipation—it was like stepping into her past.

Guest services had her pass waiting. "You’re Kane’s new squeeze?" the attendant asked, and Allison nearly choked.

"No! We’re neighbors."

The attendant smirked, but thankfully said nothing else as he handed over a VIP pass on a lanyard.

Section 114 turned out to be the family section. Of course it was. A dozen women in varying degrees of team gear occupied the prime seats, along with a few older couples she assumed were parents.

"You must be Allison." A petite brunette waved her over. "Kane said you were coming. I'm Pauline, Liam's sister. Come sit with us."

Allison found herself wedged between Pauline and a statuesque woman introduced as "Sofia, Dmitri's cousin" who was apparently visiting from New York. Others turned to study her with friendly, but assessing looks.

The puck felt heavy in her pocket as the teams took the ice for warmups. She spotted Kane immediately, powerful and graceful as he moved through drills. He glanced toward their section, and her heart definitely didn't skip when he raised his stick slightly in greeting.

"First hockey game?" someone asked kindly.

"No, I..." Allison bit her lip. "I grew up with it."

She could do this. She could watch one game without getting sucked back into this world.

The first period was brutal. The Chill couldn't connect passes, couldn't maintain possession, couldn't seem to do anything right. Kane's frustration was visible even from the stands. Allison's hand kept creeping to her pocket, fingers curling around the puck like a worry stone.

"They've been in a slump," Pauline explained during intermission. "Ten games without a win."

"Eleven," Sofia corrected. "Dmitri is very... how you say... grumpy?"

The second period started differently. The Chill's passes suddenly clicked. Their shots found nets. Kane scored on a beautiful breakaway that had the whole arena on their feet.

Allison's pocket felt warm.

By the third period, it was clear something had changed. The team played like they were possessed, culminating in Kane's hat trick goal with two minutes left. The arena erupted. Hats rained onto the ice.

"Best game all season!" Pauline squealed, hugging Allison. "You're our good luck charm."

After the final buzzer, Sofia's phone buzzed. "Dmitri says party at Kane’s place." She looked questioningly at Allison. "You’re coming, right?"

"What? No, I—" But the women were already gathering their things, chattering excitedly about the win.

She arrived back at her apartment building and the fourth floor was hopping. Kane’s door was wide open, but he wasn’t there. She wondered who had a key to his place. She stood awkwardly amidst the hustle and bustle and wondered if she should just go back to her own apartment. The team burst in minutes later, bringing noise and energy and the sharp clean scent of postgame showers. Kane was last, tie loosened, hair damp, looking unfairly gorgeous despite a bruise darkening his jaw.

Their eyes met across the room. The intensity in his gaze made her breath catch.

She retreated to the kitchen to help bring out the victory pizza boxes that were stacked up.

"What’s your favorite topping?"

She turned. Kane pushed into the kitchen, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up. His eyes were bright with victory and something else that made her pulse race.

"Pep-pepperoni," she managed.

He moved closer. "Thank you for coming. I’m really glad you saw us win.”

"It was a lot of fun,” she surprised herself by saying.

“Maybe, you can make a habit of it.”

She wasn’t sure how to answer him, especially when he moved closer to her. She found herself staring at his mouth, wondering what it would be like to kiss him.

Kane crowded her against the counter. One hand came up to cup her cheek. "Allison..."

The first brush of his lips was gentle, questioning. Then she made a small sound in her throat, and the kiss turned hungry. His other hand tangled in her hair as she gripped his shirt.

He tasted like victory and possibility and danger.

"Kane," Dmitri's voice echoed from the community room. "Where did you go? Media wants quotes."

They broke apart, breathing hard. Kane rested his forehead against hers for a moment.

"To be continued?" he murmured.

"Yeah." Allison smoothed her shirt, cheeks burning. "Go. Handle the press."

He squeezed her hand before leaving, and she took a moment to collect herself before following. His living room was packed with players, staff, and what looked like local sports reporters. Allison shrugged off her coat in the sudden warmth, not noticing until too late that her grandfather's puck had slipped from the pocket.

The puck hit the floor with a distinctive thunk and rolled, somehow finding its way directly to Oliver's feet. He picked it up automatically, then froze, eyes widening as he recognized the distinctive mark.

"Holy shit!” His voice carried in the suddenly quiet room. “Is this from Squaw Valley? The 1960 Olympics?"

Allison's stomach dropped as every head turned toward her.

"That gold medal team?" One of the reporters pushed forward.

“How did you get it?” D’mitri asked, crowding in for a look at it.

“That’s Allison Warrant. She’s Michael Warrant’s granddaughter,” Coach Vicky said.

Well, so much for keeping that a secret.

"That pucks from your grandfather's Olympic run?" a reporter asked.

"From the Sweden game," Allison said quietly, her fingers finding the familiar mark in its surface. "He scored in the third period. Each player got to keep a puck from their Olympic games back then." Her grandfather’s Olympics story was familiar, told so many times over backyard hockey lessons. How young Michael Warrant, just nineteen, had helped secure America's first Olympic hockey gold, decades before anyone had heard of Lake Placid or miracles on ice.

"You had an Olympic game puck in your pocket?" Another reporter asked, incredulous. "The actual puck your grandfather scored with?"

"The game where we broke our losing streak," Oliver added helpfully, his social media instincts kicking in. "With Kane's first hat trick as captain."

"It's not—" Allison started, but she was drowned out by the excited chatter.

"Michael Warrant's granddaughter brings his Olympic puck to her first Chill game, and they have their best performance of the season?" Phones were clicking madly.

Oh no.

"Kane, did you know about this?" One reporter asked.

"The last American Olympic gold before the Miracle on Ice—that's serious hockey history," Liam said.

"Will you bring it to more games?" A woman Allison didn’t recognize asked.

Dmitri gasped dramatically. "Is magic puck! Like in fairy tales, yes? Bringing luck to team."

His cousin walloped him in the head. “Don’t be stupid.”

Kane raised his hand and his voice. "The puck didn't score those goals," he said firmly. "The team did. Through hard work and talent."

But Allison could see it was too late. The story was too good, too magical, too perfect for social media.

"Still," one reporter pressed, "you have to admit the timing is interesting. The granddaughter of hockey legend Michael Warrant shows up with his Olympic puck, and suddenly—"

"No comment on lucky charms or family heirlooms," Kane cut in smoothly, his captain's authority clear. "We're celebrating a team victory tonight."

But the energy in the room had shifted. Players were eyeing the puck with new interest. Allison could practically see the headlines forming.

She needed to get out of here and take her grandfather’s puck with her. When they flooded to the table to demolish the pizzas, she slowly faded into the background before making her escape back to her apartment unnoticed.