The Pucking Player

36. Game-Winning Moves

36

GAME-WINNING MOVES

SOPHIE

“ I can’t believe I let you ladies talk me into this.” I slump in my seat, trying to ignore how the entire arena vibrates with energy. “We have a ten a.m. flight tomorrow.”

“Please.” Jenna bumps my shoulder. “Like you were going to miss this. Historic game. Russian Bratva takedown celebration. Your ex looking particularly edible?—”

“He’s not my ex.” I tug on my sweatshirt, refusing to acknowledge how good Liam looks during warm-ups. “We were never officially together.”

“Right.” Jessica appears with nachos, because apparently stress eating is now a family sport. “You just let him deflower you in a B&B during a snowstorm. Totally casual.”

“Can we not discuss my sex life in the middle of Madison Square Garden? Please?”

“What sex life?” Jenna scoffs. “Newsflash: you’ve got none. That’s why we are going to Miami tomorrow. You’ll get railed real good, and then you’ll be like, ‘Liam who?’”

I roll my eyes as the crowd suddenly erupts in a chant that makes my stomach flip .

“O’Connor! O’Connor! O’CONNOR!”

I can’t help looking. Liam’s on the ice for warm-ups, that familiar number eleven jersey like a magnet for my eyes. He’s doing his pre-game stretches, all long lines and focused intensity.

“Would you look at that.” Jenna elbows me as Liam fires a perfect top-shelf shot. “Someone’s showing off.”

“He always shoots like that.”

“Yeah, but usually he’s not scanning the crowd between every shot like he’s looking for—” Jenna cuts off as Liam’s eyes find our section. Even from here, I feel the jolt of connection. “Oh. Oh .”

He misses his next shot. Completely whiffs it.

“Smooth, O’Connor,” Jessica mutters, but she’s grinning. “Real smooth.”

The crowd’s energy ratchets up another notch as the teams clear the ice. Signs wave everywhere.

“O’CONNOR FOR PRESIDENT”

“RUSSIAN MOB 0 - DEFENDERS 1”

“MARRY ME, LIAM”

I definitely don’t crumple my nacho wrapper at that last one.

“You know,” Jenna says carefully, “we could always change our tickets. Miami will still be there next year.”

“We’re going to Miami.” I straighten my shoulders, ignoring how my heart races every time Liam skates past. “With our friends for spring break. Like we planned. This is just...supporting the team. Supporting my brother.”

“Right.” Jessica offers me a nacho. “Because Adam is the one your eyes are on right now.”

Before I can protest and come up with a retort, the lights dim. Game time .

Just get through the next three hours , I tell myself. Then Miami. Beaches. No more heartbreak.

The announcer’s voice booms, “Your New York Defenders!”

The crowd explodes as the team takes the ice. Liam comes out last, the captain’s C gleaming on his chest, looking like every hockey fantasy I never knew I had.

I’m so screwed.

Just get through three periods , I keep repeating my mantra as the puck drops.

Liam wins the face-off, because of course he does. The puck flies to Adam, who threads a perfect pass back to him. The crowd’s on their feet as Liam dekes past one defender, then another.

“Holy shit,” Jenna breathes as he roofs the puck, top shelf. “Twenty seconds in.”

The arena erupts. I grip my armrest as Liam skates past our section, his eyes pinning me down, one hand touching his left wrist—right where he wrote his number that first day—before pointing skyward.

“Did he just—” Jessica starts.

“No.” I sink lower in my seat. “That’s just his new celly. ESPN’s been talking about it for weeks.”

“Uh-huh.” Jenna’s practically vibrating. “And the fact that he’s staring directly at you while doing it means nothing at all.”

“He’s not—” But he absolutely is, those blue eyes locked on mine even as his teammates mob him.

The game moves at a blistering pace after that. Liam’s everywhere—setting up plays, making hits, commanding the ice like he was born for it. The crowd chants his name after every shift .

“Your boy’s on fire tonight,” Jenna says as Liam weaves through three Vancouver Blazes for another perfect shot.

“He’s not my?—”

The words die in my throat as Liam scores again. And once more he taps his wrist, looking at me, then points skyward.

“That’s two,” Jessica says meaningfully. “One more for the hat trick. And the franchise record.”

I clutch my nachos tighter. “I couldn’t care less. I’m going to Miami tomorrow.”

But even as I say it, my traitor heart races. Because the look in Liam’s eyes when he scored that last goal? That wasn’t just hockey intensity.

That was a man with a purpose.

The second period is pure torture. Every time Liam touches the puck, the crowd surges to their feet. Every shot feels like it could be the one—the historic goal, the franchise record.

The one I’m simultaneously dreading and desperate to see.

“You’re actually shredding those napkins,” Jenna points out, snatching the pile of paper victims from my hands. “And I’m pretty sure you haven’t blinked in like, five minutes.”

“I’m just...invested. In the team.”

“Right. The team .” She smirks as Liam battles for the puck along the boards. “Nothing to do with how those eyes are locked on you.”

“Oh my God, stop.”

“What? Just making factual observations about—” She cuts off with a gasp as a Blaze defenseman slams Liam into the boards. Hard.

I’m on my feet before I can stop myself .

The crowd holds its breath as Liam stays down for a moment. Then he pushes up, shaking it off, and everyone exhales. Everyone except me, because he’s looking right at me again, that damn half-smile playing on his lips.

Show off.

“You know,” Jessica muses, “for someone who’s supposedly over him, you’ve got some interesting reflexes there, baby sis.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.” She grins as the buzzer signals the end of the second. “Though you might want to save that energy. Something tells me the third period’s going to be interesting.”

I slump back in my seat, trying to calm my racing heart. Two periods down. Twenty minutes to go.

Then Miami. Where the only ice will be in my pina colada, and the only scoring will be not hockey-related.

But right now, all I can focus on is Liam. Three minutes left, and he’s lining up for the face-off, tightly coiled energy radiating off him. He wins it clean—because why would he not—and suddenly the puck’s on his stick, the crowd’s on their feet, and my heart’s lodged somewhere in my throat.

The puck hits the back of the net with thirty seconds left.

Madison Square Garden erupts.

Hats rain down from every direction as Liam not only clinches the win but breaks the franchise record. His teammates pour off the bench, mobbing him at center ice while the final seconds tick away. The Blaze players skate off, defeated, as the goal horn blares one final time.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice booms, “your New York Defenders have just made history!”

I’m trying very hard to stay seated while my stupid heart does stupid cartwheels in my stupid chest. The team’s still celebrating, hugging and shouting, when Liam suddenly breaks away from the group.

“What’s he doing?” Jenna grabs my arm as Liam skates to center ice, where someone’s handing him a microphone.

The crowd quiets, probably expecting the usual “couldn’t have done it without the team” speech. The kind of generic post-game spiel every player gives.

But Liam O’Connor has never done anything the ordinary way.

“A few months ago,” his firm voice fills the arena, “I fell for a girl over an oat milk cappuccino.”

My stomach drops through the floor.

“Extra hot, light foam.” He’s grinning now, the same grin that got me into this mess in the first place. “The kind of complicated order that makes newbie baristas cry.”

“Oh my God,” I whisper as my face appears on the big screen and twenty thousand heads turn in our section.

“The thing about complicated coffee orders,” Liam continues, his voice echoing through the stunned arena, “is that sometimes they lead to complicated situations. Like falling head over heels for your coach’s daughter.”

Twenty thousand people are dead silent. Even the Blazes have stopped their bench discussion to watch this unfold.

“Sophie Novak made me work for that first date. She made me earn every smile. And then” his voice catches slightly, “I had to push her away to keep her safe. Had to let her hate me because the alternative was letting her get hurt.”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“But you know what they say about love and hate.” He’s skating closer to our section now, those blue eyes locked on mine. “There’s a thin line between them. And, angel, I’ve been hoping—praying really—that it’s true. And I’m hoping that you hate me just enough to give me one more chance to make this right.”

Jenna actually squeals. Jessica grabs my hand.

“So yeah, I went into a Bratva boss’s club. Took a risk. But you know what the scariest thing I’ve ever done is?” He’s right in front of our section now. “Watching you walk away. Letting you think I don’t care.”

The Garden is dead silent.

“Before you go on your spring break, I need you to know something.” Liam’s voice softens, but the mic catches every word. “I love you, Sophie Novak. I loved you when I wrote my number on your wrist. I loved you when I had to push you away. And I love you now, in front of twenty thousand people and your terrifying father who’s probably planning out my trade as we speak.”

A laugh ripples through the crowd. I catch a glimpse of Daddy in the owner’s box, looking like he can’t decide whether to kill Liam or admire his courage.

“Stay with me.” The word rings through the arena. “Choose me. Or at least let me try to earn you back.”

I’m frozen in my seat, my heart doing some kind of complicated gymnastics routine.

“And if you’re still set on Miami,” his grin turns wicked, “hockey players like sun and sand too.”

“Oh my God,” Jessica mutters.

But I’m not listening anymore. Because Liam’s looking at me like I’m the only person in this packed arena, like he’d trade everything—his career, his reputation, this historic night—just for a chance.

And suddenly Miami seems very, very far away.

Move , I tell my legs. Just. Move.

But I’m frozen, caught between twenty thousand expectant faces and those blue eyes that have turned my world upside down since that first stolen kiss. The silence stretches so long, I swear I can hear my heart trying to escape my chest.

“If you don’t go down there,” Jenna finally hisses, “I will personally throw you over these seats.”

“But—”

“No buts.” Jessica’s already pulling me up. “Security’s waiting to escort you.”

Sure enough, two guys in Defenders jackets materialize beside our seats. Like this whole thing was orchestrated.

Of course it was. This is Liam O’Connor we’re talking about. When has he ever done anything halfway?

The crowd parts as security leads me down toward ice level. By the time I reach the boards, I’m trembling. Someone’s laid down a carpet to the ice—because apparently when Liam O’Connor makes grand gestures, he thinks of everything.

He’s waiting at center ice, still in full gear, chest heaving like he’s just played the game of his life. Which he has. Championship record. Hat trick. And somehow, I’m still the main event.

“You’re completely insane,” I manage when I reach him, grateful the mic is off. “You know that, right?”

“Only about you.” His voice is rough, like he’s been skating for hours or maybe like his heart’s trying to escape too. “Is it working?”

“I have a flight in the morning.”

“So, miss it.”

“My friends?—”

“Will understand.”

“You can’t just?—”

“Yes, I can.” He steps closer, and suddenly we’re in our own world, twenty thousand people fading to background noise. “I’m done playing it safe, angel. Done watching you walk away. If you go to Miami, I’ll follow. If you choose Stanford, I choose Stanford. Hell, I’ll learn to surf if that’s what it takes.”

“You hate the beach.”

“But I love you.”

The words steal my breath. Because this is Liam O’Connor—hockey god, captain, certified heartbreaker—laying everything on the line. For me. In front of everyone.

“You broke my heart,” I whisper.

“I know.” His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing away tears I didn’t even know were falling. “Let me spend the rest of my life making up for it.”

My heart’s doing this thing where it can’t decide if it wants to burst or melt. Because Liam O’Connor just laid himself bare in front of twenty thousand people, and he’s looking at me like I’m the game-winning goal and the Stanley Cup rolled into one.

“You really think it’s that easy?” My voice shakes. “That you can just score a hat trick and make this grand speech and?—”

“No.” He drops his gloves and takes my hands in his, the familiar spark shooting through me. That connection that’s been there since day one. “I think this is just the beginning. I think I’ve got years of making it up to you ahead of me. And I can’t wait to start.”

The crowd is holding their breath. I can feel Jenna and Jessica probably having simultaneous aneurysms in the stands. Somewhere out there, my father is probably planning various ways to torture Liam in our basement.

But all I can focus on is how his eyes haven’t left mine once. How he’s still looking at me like I’m everything .

“I’m going to Columbia,” I whisper.

His smile could light up all of Manhattan. “I heard from Adam.”

“Did you also hear I’m incredibly high maintenance? That I need my coffee a very specific way?”

“Extra hot, light foam.” He tugs me closer. “I’ve got it memorized.”

“And that I’m stubborn?”

“Noticed that too.”

“And that I’m never going to make it easy for you?”

His grin turns wicked. “Angel, when have I ever wanted easy?”

The crowd’s starting to murmur, probably wondering if they’re about to witness a very public rejection. Instead, I do the only thing that makes sense.

I grab the front of his jersey and pull him down to my level.

“If you ever push me away again,” I breathe against his lips, “I will personally ensure that hat trick is the last goal you ever score.”

Then I kiss him.

The arena explodes. I vaguely register the sound of people losing their minds. But all I can focus on is how Liam’s lips feel against mine, how his arms wrap around me like he’s never letting go again.

When we finally break apart, he’s wearing that stupid, gorgeous grin that started this whole mess.

“So,” he says, forehead pressed to mine, “Columbia, huh?”

“Columbia.” I can’t help matching his grin. “But don’t get too cocky, O’Connor. I hear spring break is just the beginning of all the ways I can torture you.”

“Already planning my punishment?” His breath fans across my lips. “And here I thought the suicide sprints from your dad were bad enough.”

“Please. Daddy’s just warming up.” I slide my hands up his chest, feeling his heart hammering under his jersey. “Pretty sure he’s got a whole training program designed specifically for guys who steal his daughter’s virtue in a B&B.”

“Worth it.” His fingers tighten on my hips. “Though next time we get snowed in somewhere, maybe we don’t tell him about it?”

“Next time?” Twenty thousand voices fade into background noise as I arch an eyebrow at him. “Pretty confident for someone who just had to grovel on center ice.”

“What can I say?” That stupid, gorgeous grin spreads across his face. “I’ve got a thing for complicated girls with even more complicated coffee orders.”

“And I’ve got a thing for hockey players who learn how to make them anyway.”

His laugh rumbles through me as he pulls me closer, pressing his forehead to mine. All around us, the Garden is electric with celebration, but I barely notice. Because Liam O’Connor just laid his heart bare on center ice, and somehow that’s only the second craziest thing he’s done for me.

The first was walking into that coffee shop, taking one look at the chaos I created, and deciding right then that some complications are worth the risk.