The Goalie's Reckless Game

1. Chapter 1

Chapter one

~LILLY~

“Thanks, Lonny,” I tell the guy at the coffee stand, taking the cup from him with one hand and adjusting the strap of my duffel bag with the other.

“You never stay long enough to let me impress you properly,” he says, leaning one freckled forearm against the counter.

“The coffee does it for you,” I laugh. “See you around.”

“Good luck with the kids,” he shouts after me, and I raise my cup to him in response as I walk off before he can keep the whole thing going.

He flirts with me every time I come in. Nothing pushy. I appreciate it. But in reality, the thought of going out with anyone right now sounds exhausting.

I’m not there yet. Not after Liam.

Don’t do this, Lilly.

I push the thought away and keep walking. I came in early for a reason. I wanted to get some ice time alone before the kids start pouring in for Academy hours.

I love working with these kids. It’s the absolute best part of my week and the closest thing I have right now to the future I actually chose for myself.

I’ve got an entire folder on my laptop dedicated to it.

Floor plans, programs I want to run, notes about everything from tutoring rooms to after-school activities.

Teaching skating basics to kids whose main motivation today might be catching a glimpse of a pro player isn’t just a side job to me.

It’s the first small piece of something that’s mine.

I head farther into the building, curling my fingers a little tighter around my coffee cup as I glance automatically toward the massive digital clock on the wall. Right on time to catch my dad before he leaves for the day.

Summer’s been different. The team’s had their well-earned time off, and for weeks, the Blazers’ HQ barely felt like the same place.

Now, with the new season getting closer, I’m starting to see more of them again.

A few players are back in the building here and there for the occasional practice or meeting.

Sometimes one of the players even comes out with the kids for a bit, which usually turns the rink into complete chaos in under thirty seconds.

I’ve been to the Blazers’ arena enough times to sort of know where I’m going, yet I’m still mentally replaying the route I took the last few times I was here. By now, I should probably know where I’m going without having to think about it, but this place is massive.

There are too many offices, too many doors, too many stretches of polished floor, framed photos, and giant Blazers logos.

Still, I manage to find my dad’s office without accidentally ending up in some restricted part of the building, which feels like progress.

I love being here with him. It only gets complicated when Dad sees me on the ice alone.

He never says anything, but I know how badly he wants me to try again. Sometimes I catch it in the brief shift in his expression when he watches my skates pick up speed on the ice, or the way his attention lingers for half a second too long before he looks away.

He tries to hide it.

He’s just never been very good at hiding it from me.

Before my skating accident, he used to talk about my skating like the future had already made room for me.

Now neither of us talks about that future at all.

But there’s still a part of me that feels like I became a broken promise to him anyway.

I’m almost at his door when I hear voices. One is certainly his, but I don’t recognize the other one. It’s way deeper than my dad’s, harsher too.

I slow down when I realize they’re not talking.

They’re arguing.

I stop just before the door, half-hidden by the wall beside the glass panel.

“I’m asking for one practice,” I hear my dad say.

“And I’m still saying no,” the other voice responds.

Will they be long? I want to catch my dad before the kids come in, but I don’t want to wait this out or interrupt.

“The academy camp is just two days.” My dad tries again, and I finally understand what this is about. My dad, for some reason, is trying to convince this man to come to the Academy’s summer camp.

“No.”

“You don’t even have to stay the whole weekend.”

There’s a pause.

Then the man says, “This conversation is pointless.”

Okay, asshole.

“You’re one of the biggest names attached to this organization,” Dad argues.

“And?”

“And that comes with responsibility.”

“It comes with invoices. I pay them.”

“Is this how little you’re willing to give?” I wince at the question.

“How little I’m willing to give?” Something about the way he repeats it makes my shoulders go tight.

“That’s not—” My dad starts, but the man cuts him off.

“I’ve given millions for the academy. I give this team my body every fucking season. It’s the off-season, and I’m still here instead of in the Bahamas like the rest of your team. Don’t ask me how little I can give.”

Dad must be glaring at him hard enough to scorch skin right now. He doesn’t tolerate that kind of a tone.

“It’s one drill, Mercer,” Dad says instead.

I need to leave.

This has gone from casually overhearing something to fully lurking outside my father’s office. This is not my business, and if I stay here any longer, I’m officially a little rat.

At least I should signal to my dad that I’m here, right? Totally not because I’m nosy and want to see who has the nerve to talk to the Blazers’ coach like that.

I take a step forward, and the office comes into view all at once.

Dad is behind his desk, looking up at the other man, whose back is the only thing I see. But it’s enough.

He’s standing with one thick arm braced on the desk, a black T-shirt stretched over a broad back, with ink spilling out from under it. So many tattoos. Neck, arms, hands, crawling down to his knuckles. His black hair is pushed back, matching the color of his T-shirt.

He sighs and pushes off the desk, straightening to his full, absolutely intimidating height. His size makes the office look smaller than it is.

I don’t have time to focus on it for more than a second before he turns his face to the right, and I get a look at the side of it.

His jaw is prominent, highlighted even more by the tattoo that snakes up his throat.

His eyebrows are low-set and dark, and beneath them are eyes so pale they almost look fake. And he looks annoyed.

My father looks up, seeing me through the glass, and gives me the smallest shake of his head.

Not now.

Got it.

I start backing away, but not fast enough. The other man notices my dad signaling someone. His eyes snap to me the moment I turn around and bolt.

I head down the hall and keep walking until I’m out of sight, my pulse kicking.

Okay.

So.

There is apparently some giant, tattooed man in my dad’s office who writes checks, hates the idea of doing anything else for the kids at the Youth Academy, and has the balls to talk to my dad in a pissy tone.

Good to know.

By the time I step onto the ice, my time alone is already running out. I’ve got maybe twenty minutes before the kids start trickling in.

The rink is empty for now. Just me, the hum of the building, and that clean, familiar scrape of my blades as I push off from the boards.

I start easy with one lap, then another. I do a few crossovers and a turn, loosening up.

When I get the ice to myself like this, something old in my body wakes up.

It starts as adrenaline, always. My body hums before I’ve even decided what I want it to do.

My muscles remember things I haven’t asked them to remember.

My feet want more speed, my legs want more power, the rhythm of old programs and older habits rising, waiting under the surface this whole time.

Push harder.

Go faster.

Do more.

And for a few seconds, sometimes, I almost do.

The muscle memory is still there, buried under everything else. My body starts to reach for more without permission. A sharper turn, a stronger push, the beginning of momentum for a trick this circus banned a long time ago.

That’s when my mind catches up and blocks it. Every time.

I carve a shallow arc across the ice and gather speed anyway, just enough to feel that old edge of it, the faint, dangerous thrill of my own body trying to become itself again.

Then I pull back.

I turn my head, meaning to circle back toward the other side of the rink, and catch movement near the entrance with the corner of my eye.

At first, he’s just a blur behind the glass. A tall shape in dark clothes, big enough to stand out. I skate another few feet before I slow, my eyes narrowing as the distance closes and my vision sharpens.

It’s him. The man from my dad’s office.

He’s off to the side near one of the rink entrances. He looks like he might’ve just been passing by and stopped. Like he heard blades on the ice, glanced over, and there I happened to be.

I meet his eyes, and that theory dies immediately.

He’s definitely watching me. He doesn’t wave, smile, or look away. If he were doing any of those things, it would be easier to file away and move on.

But his gaze is assessing and thorough. It feels invasive in a way that shouldn’t be possible from this distance.

I circle back, still keeping my eyes on him, too aware of my movements all of a sudden. He stays very still, his eyes dropping to my feet, no doubt assessing my footwork, then slowly looking up again.

I push off and skate backward a few feet.

What? Does he think I’m going to pull out a full triple axel for his inspection?

This close to the ice, with the silence and the distance between us, the whole thing feels strange and way too intimate. We haven’t spoken a word to each other. I don’t know this man, and yet there’s something about the weight of his attention that gets under my skin.

Suddenly, two tiny bodies appear from the other side of the rink, near the entrance, and the spell cracks. I turn my head automatically at the sound of their excited voices. When I look back at the glass, the man’s gone.

“Miss Lilly!” The kids keep coming in, calling my name.

I stay frozen for one second longer, staring at the place where he stood.

No name.

No words exchanged.

And somehow, I’ve caught his attention.