The Pucking Player

1. Off Limits and Off Balance

1

OFF LIMITS AND OFF BALANCE

LIAM

I circle the block near Manhattan’s Children’s Hospital for what feels like the hundredth time, silently cursing my ego for insisting on driving the new Tesla today. I could’ve parked in a garage three blocks away, but the icy wind rattling the windows is a pointed reminder that walking even three blocks isn’t an option unless I’m ready to freeze my ass off. Now here I am, crawling through New York traffic like a sucker and glaring at every SUV taking up two spots.

Nate’s already texted me— twice —to say he’s camped out at the Moonbeans next door. The second message was a passive aggressive “Take your time, Captain,” which I’m choosing to ignore.

Finally, I spot a space just big enough to wedge my car between two oversized SUVs. It takes three attempts and a near-panic attack, but I manage. With the car locked and my patience frayed, I jog toward the coffee shop.

As soon as I step through the door, a blessed wave of warmth hits me, along with the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Nate’s at a table in the corner, waving like he’s trying to flag down a plane. He’s sitting with Jessica—our head of PR and the ever-intimidating daughter of Coach Novak—and a brunette in a navy wool coat who I assume is the journalist.

I clock the line for coffee—an unholy mass of bleary-eyed office workers moving slower than molasses—and head toward the back. Before I can so much as sigh in defeat, Nate calls out loud enough to draw half the café’s attention.

“I’ve got you, Captain!” He grins and gestures to the steaming cup in front of him.

For once, I’m grateful for his over-the-top energy. I give him a quick salute as thanks, my attention briefly snagging on a woman in a camel coat. She’s standing at the counter, her shoulders squared as if she’s preparing for battle while the poor kid behind the register fumbles with her order.

Rookie.

Her posture screams patience, but the way she taps her manicured fingers on the counter tells a different story. There’s something effortlessly polished about her—sleek waves of brown hair, high cheekbones, a scarf that looks so soft, it’s probably made of clouds—and yet, she doesn’t have that icy, untouchable vibe that usually comes with the Manhattan elite.

Interesting.

As I slowly walk over to the table, my attention is glued to her.

“I’m sorry,” the kid stammers, his voice cracking just enough to make the moment cringe-worthy. “Could you, uh…repeat that?”

“Oat milk cappuccino?” She says it like a question, clearly trying not to stress him out more than necessary. “Extra hot, light foam? ”

There’s something about her that’s hard to ignore. Maybe it’s the way she stands tall and composed, somehow managing to radiate both confidence and kindness, or the dark waves of hair spilling out from under her cream cashmere beanie.

The kid looks helplessly at the screen, his fingers hovering over the register like he’s attempting to decode the Rosetta Stone. “Oat milk…uh…light foam?”

Before he can combust from sheer panic, a more experienced barista swoops in, shooting the woman an apologetic smile. “I’ve got this, Jake. Oat milk cap, extra hot, light foam coming right up.”

“Thanks,” she says with obvious relief, her tone warm enough to thaw the January air. Then, instead of blowing him off like most impatient Manhattanites would, she leans forward slightly. “First week?”

“First day,” the kid admits, flushing beet red.

She smiles, and I swear it’s like someone turned on a spotlight in the middle of the café. Even from where I’m sitting, I feel the magnetic pull of her easy charm, the way her kindness seems entirely genuine. Without meaning to, I catch myself grinning, completely sucked in by her ability to make what should’ve been an awkward interaction look effortless.

As she steps aside to collect her coffee, I stand frozen next to our table, watching her as if hypnotized.

It’s impulsive—I’ll admit that—but a tiny part of me starts crafting a plan. I could catch her before she heads out, casually ask for her number. Sure, I’ve got a packed schedule today, but I could make time. Call her after practice, arrange a date. It’s been a while since someone’s caught my attention this fast .

But before I can do anything, she’s moving. And not toward the door.

Nope. She’s walking straight toward our table.

What the ? —

“Liam,” Jessica says, her grin so wide I know I’m about to get bulldozed. She stands, her tone far too amused. “You remember my sister, Sophie? She’s volunteering in the pediatric wing as part of her pre-med program.”

Sophie.

Jessica’s sister Sophie.

I feel like I’ve been sucker-punched. My brain scrambles to process the revelation that Coach Novak’s baby girl isn’t a baby anymore. Far from it.

Meanwhile, Sophie turns to me, clearly unfazed, and offers a polite smile. But those green eyes, piercing and playful, lock onto mine and hold. It’s like she knows exactly what I’m thinking, and she’s daring me to say it out loud.

My pulse kicks up a notch as I take her outstretched hand. It’s warm and soft, her grip firm enough to tell me she doesn’t mess around.

“Nice to see you again, Liam,” she says, her voice calm and confident, like she hasn’t noticed—or doesn’t care—that I’m still trying to reboot my brain.

“Uh…” The word comes out strangled, which earns me an arched brow from Jessica and a barely contained snort from Nate.

“What took you so long? Did you park in Jersey?” Nate quips as we sit down, shoving my coffee toward me like that’ll somehow snap me out of it.

I take the cup without looking at him, my attention still locked on the girl.

Because Sophie Novak—Coach’s youngest daughter, who used to follow Jessica around at team barbecues with braces and a scrunchie—is sitting across from me. Only now, she’s…well, this .

And I’m completely, utterly screwed.

Her lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Well, well, if it isn’t the infamous Liam O’Connor,” she says, her tone teasing and deliberate, like she’s enjoying watching me squirm. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you lately. Daddy has all sorts of good things to say.”

Daddy. The word lands like anvil, a jarring reminder of exactly why this girl is about as off-limits as they come.

But the way she looks at me—sharp eyes holding mine, that subtle challenge in her voice—makes it damn hard to remember why I should stay away.

Coach Novak would kill me. No, scratch that. He’d murder me, bury me at center ice, and probably do it with a grin.

The league’s notorious bad boy cozying up to his youngest daughter? Yeah, that’s a disaster waiting to happen. My captaincy—and probably my career—wouldn’t survive the fallout.

Sophie raises her eyebrows, her eyes glinting with quiet amusement, and suddenly, none of that seems to matter. Because even though I know I should steer clear, there’s something about her that makes me want to throw every rule out the window.

I recover quickly, slipping on the smirk that’s been called both infuriating and irresistible. “Is that so? I hope I live up to your expectations.”

Her gaze holds mine, steady and unflinching, and for a second, it’s like the room narrows down to just the two of us. The hum of the coffee shop fades, and all I can think about is how easy it would be to close the space between us and?—

“Liam. ”

Jessica’s voice cuts through the tension, smug as hell. I don’t even have to look at her to know she’s enjoying this way too much.

She shifts her attention to the journalist at the table, mercifully dragging me back to reality. “And this is Emilia,” she says. “She’s here to cover the hospital visit for the team’s press campaign.”

Emilia practically vibrates with excitement, her grin so wide it looks like it might split her face. “Liam, it’s such an honor to meet you! I’m a huge fan of you and Nate—of the team , of course. And the work you both do in the community. Not just you two specifically, I mean. Oh, God, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I’ll just…stop talking now.”

I chuckle, reaching out to shake her hand. “It’s all good, Emilia. We’re thrilled to have you here. I can’t wait to meet my little fans and brighten their day.”

She exhales like I’ve just granted her a stay of execution, and the rest of the group dives into a conversation about the game plan for the visit. At least, they’re talking logistics.

Me? My attention keeps drifting back to Sophie.

She’s sitting a little apart from the table’s chatter, her slim fingers curled around her coffee cup. When I glance her way, I catch her watching me out of the corner of her eye.

Our gazes collide, and her cheeks flush. As the two faint stains rise high on her cheekbones, I swear I can feel the heat of it from across the table.

I should stop staring. I should . But there’s something so damn captivating about the way she blushes, like she’s not used to being caught off guard.

She ducks her head, glancing down at her coffee as she tucks a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear. It’s such a small, quiet gesture, but it hooks me all the same .

I bite back a grin, my mind wandering to places it absolutely shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be wondering what her lips would taste like. Or how soft her mouth might feel against mine.

Oh, fuck. I’m a goner for this girl.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. I’m here for the kids. Not to mentally undress Coach’s daughter over a cup of overpriced coffee.

But then we’re all standing, ready to leave, and Sophie brushes past me.

It’s nothing. Barely a touch. Just the lightest graze of her hand against my arm.

But it sends a jolt through me, sharp and electric, leaving my skin tingling and my focus shattered. And in that moment, I realize something critical.

Today is going to be an exercise in self-control.

And I’m not entirely confident I’m going to pass.

Sophie walks ahead with Jessica and Emilia, her boots clicking softly against the tile floor, and I let my eyes drift— just for a second . The sway of her hips beneath her coat is hypnotic, and my brain goes straight to places it shouldn’t.

“Careful,” Nate mutters beside me, his tone low and laced with amusement.

“Shut up,” I grumble under my breath, glaring at him as we follow the women out into the cold.

The icy wind hits me as soon as we step outside, but it does nothing to cool me down. Sophie Novak is a problem, a walking, talking distraction .

And I’m in so much trouble.

I try to get my head on straight as we head toward the hospital. But it’s not just the way she moves or how she handled that rookie barista with such effortless grace. It’s the way she carries herself, like she’s perfectly at ease with who she is. No pretense. No angle.

She’s not like the usual puck bunnies or the Instagram models sliding into my DMs. She’s something else entirely.

And that’s exactly the problem.

Because if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that Sophie Novak isn’t just any girl.

She’s off-limits.

And I don’t care one bit.