2. Liam
2
LIAM
T he press conference wraps up, and I spot her near the podium, scribbling furiously in a notebook. Her auburn hair is a mess, and those freckles are like a constellation across her nose. For some reason, my heart does a weird skip. I’m not used to that.
I hesitate for a split second—unusual for me—then stride over. "You got everything you need?" My voice comes out gruffer than intended.
She looks up, startled, then composes herself quickly. "Uh, yeah. Just wrapping up some notes."
I reach out, offering my hand for a handshake. "Liam Makar, team captain. What's your name?"
"Olivia, Oliva Lutz." She responds.
Her hand is small, soft against my calloused grip. I hold on a moment too long, awkwardly releasing it. She doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe she’s just polite.
"Uh, good game tonight, huh?" I say, feeling lame immediately after. Small talk isn’t my thing.
"Yeah, it was crazy," she says, eyes gleaming with excitement. "Your defense was on point."
"That’s what I do," I reply with a shrug. "But you already knew that, didn’t you?"
She chuckles, a sound that’s oddly satisfying. "You’re not exactly a mystery on the ice."
"And off the ice?"
She arches an eyebrow. "I’m a reporter; mysteries are kind of my thing."
The room empties out, and I can’t shake the feeling that letting her walk away would be a mistake. "Hey," I say, stepping closer. "You want a tour of the facility?"
She blinks, surprise flickering in those green eyes. "Really?"
I nod, trying to appear nonchalant. "Yeah, why not? Follow me."
We move through the corridors, the hum of post-game activity fading behind us. The scent of sweat and ice lingers in the air. I’m hyperaware of her beside me, the soft swish of her steps almost distracting.
"This here’s the weight room," I say, pushing open a door. Rows of equipment gleam under fluorescent lights. "Where we turn into machines."
She peers inside, jotting something down. "How often do you guys train here?"
"Every day," I reply. "No days off if you want to win."
She grins. "That sounds... exhausting."
"You get used to it." I catch her eye, a spark passing between us. "You want to see the locker room?"
"Lead the way captain," she says, her voice steady but with an undercurrent of curiosity.
I guide her down another hallway, pointing out the trainer’s room and the video review area on the way. She asks questions, jotting notes quickly but attentively.
We reach the locker room door. I hesitate for a second—unusual for me—then push it open. "Here it is," I announce.
She steps inside, glancing around at the benches and lockers, each one personalized with player names and gear.
"So this is where all the magic happens," she muses.
"And some cursing," I add with a smirk. "Lots of cursing."
"I can imagine," she says with a laugh that’s surprisingly contagious.
We leave the locker room, just as quickly as we entered. Something about the thought of her potentially seeing my teammates walk butt ass naked out of the showers doesn't sit well with me.
We continue to walk down the corridor, the echo of our footsteps bouncing off the walls. Most of the employees and fans have already left, leaving a calm stillness in the air. I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to do something I never do—open up.
"You know," I begin, glancing at Olivia, "we have this pre-game ritual."
Her eyes light up with curiosity. "Oooh? What kind of ritual?"
I chuckle. "Well, it’s kind of stupid, but every game day, we all have to touch the same spot on the locker room doorframe as we walk out."
"Why that spot?" she asks, genuinely intrigued.
"It started years ago," I say, scratching my stubble. "Back when we were in a losing streak. One of the guys—Noah, actually—touched it for luck before a game, and we won. Ever since then, it’s been our thing."
"Superstitious much?" she teases.
"Hey, don’t knock it," I say with a grin. "Hockey players are a superstitious bunch. We’ll take any edge we can get."
She laughs softly. "So what happens if someone forgets?"
I grimace. "Let’s just say it doesn’t go over well."
We continue walking, and I find myself relaxing more than usual. There’s something about her—maybe it’s her easygoing nature or those inquisitive eyes—that makes it easy to talk.
"Do you have any other rituals?" she asks.
I hesitate for a moment. "Well... I always put my left skate on first."
"Really? Why’s that?"
"No idea," I admit with a shrug. "It’s just something I’ve always done since I was a kid."
She nods thoughtfully, scribbling notes in her notebook. "Fascinating how these little habits can become so important."
"It’s all mental," I say. "Gives us something to hold onto when things get tough on the ice."
"I get that," she says quietly. "Everyone needs something to ground them."
For a moment, there’s a comfortable silence between us as we head down another hallway.
We reach the ice rink, the cool air brushing against my face. The surface is pristine, reflecting the overhead lights like a mirror. I glance at Olivia, noticing her hesitation.
"You ever been on the ice before?" I ask.
She bites her lip, looking almost embarrassed. "No, never."
"Seriously?" I can't hide my surprise. "Well, there's a first time for everything."
She gives me a skeptical look. "I'm not sure this is a good idea. I'm a liability claim waiting to happen."
"Come on," I say, grinning. "I won't let you fall."
Before she can protest, I take her hand to steady her. The contact sends a jolt of electricity through me, something unexpected and intense. I quickly drop her hand, pretending to adjust my jacket to cover up the reaction.
"Just take it slow," I advise, stepping onto the ice first.
She steps cautiously onto the slippery surface, gripping my arm for balance. Her eyes widen as she takes another step, clearly trying to get the hang of it.
"This is... different," she says with a nervous laugh.
"Different good or different bad?" I tease.
"I haven't decided yet," she replies, her voice tinged with amusement.
Olivia slips slightly, her foot sliding out from under her. Instinct kicks in, and I reach out, my hands gripping her waist. We freeze, faces inches apart. I become acutely aware of how close we are, the scent of her perfume filling my senses—something floral and warm.
"You okay?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Yeah," she breathes, her eyes wide and locked onto mine. "Just... didn’t expect the ice to be so slippery."
"Well, it is ice," I tease, unable to help myself. "What were you expecting? A red carpet?"
She laughs softly, the sound vibrating through me. "Point taken."
We stay like that for a moment longer than necessary. My hands tighten slightly on her waist, and I can feel the warmth of her body through her jacket. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth and back up again. The arena feels suddenly too small, too quiet.
The spell breaks with the roar of the Zamboni engine. I nearly jump out of my skin, not a great look for the team captain. "We should get off the ice," I say, more brusquely than intended.
Olivia nods, eyes wide, gripping my arm tighter as we navigate our way back to solid ground. In my haste to get her off the ice, I nearly trip over my own feet, but manage to catch myself just in time. Graceful as ever, Makar.
"Thanks for the tour," she says once we're back on firm footing. She tucks a stray strand of auburn hair behind her ear and gives me a genuine smile. "This will be great material for the feature."
Oddly enough, I don't want this interaction to end. "How about you come by tomorrow? Watch us practice?" The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.
Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "For real? I'd love that."
"Yeah," I say, trying to sound casual. "It'll give you a deeper insight into how we prep for games."
As soon as she nods and agrees, reality crashes down on me like a ton of bricks. Coach Bergman is gonna have my head for this. "Uh, just... keep it low-key, okay? Coach isn’t exactly keen on outsiders during playoff season."
She smiles with a grin that makes my stomach flip. "Your secret's safe with me. See you tomorrow Makar."
As she leaves, I watch her go, a mix of excitement and dread settling in my chest. Damn it, Makar, what did you just do? Breaking my own rule about maintaining professional distance from the press, especially during crucial games—brilliant move.