Page 1 of Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend (Catching Feelings #1)

CHAPTER ONE

SEAN

T here’s a stillness that comes over me when I’m guarding the net.

The moment I enter the blue-painted crease that makes up a goalie’s world, everything else fades away. The blaring music, shouting fans, pre-game nerves, even my screaming knees—they all vanish. Nothing exists except me, my opponent, and the puck.

Because I have one job to do: hold my post. Hold the line.

And I’ve been doing that my whole life.

There’s just one problem: I’m not in the crease right now.

I’m suited up on the bench, like I have been for the last seventeen games since the Augusta Arsenal called me up. When their starter got injured, they needed a new backup.

Enter me.

The Founder’s Forum isn’t overly cold, especially not when you’re in full pads, but I’ve been the starting goalie on every team I’ve ever played for since my peewee hockey days. I’m not used to sitting night after night on the ice without a single minute of play time.

At least not in my professional life.

I’m plenty used to being the backup in my personal life.

You can wait. You’re the failsafe. Disaster insurance. That matters. The team still needs you, even if you’re not on the ice.

‘Course, that’s what I told myself with my ex when she was going out every night while I watched her toddler, and look how that turned out.

On the ice, Bouchard, the backup goalie-turned-starter, is shifting side to side in the crease as Kovalov, the Renegades’ star forward, approaches.

When he shoots off a quick snap shot, all Bouchard needs to do is stay square and absorb the puck into his chest and guide it to the corner.

But Bouchard chooses style over substance. His windmill glove save does the trick, but he risked a rebound.

Down the bench, the goalie coach gives a small shake of his head, but he still claps. We all do.

Bouchard likes a little flair, and with a slower opponent, it works fine. The score might be tied right now, but the Renegades are fast-paced and high-scoring, and they lead the series 3-2. If the Arsenal can’t pull it out tonight, this playoff run is over.

The team tries to match the Renegades’ pace, but it leaves us vulnerable to counterattacks.

One of our defensemen attempts a risky pass, and Kovalov picks it off, like he’s done all night. He breaks away like a blur and is quickly joined by one of their forwards, turning the play into a dangerous 2-on-1 while the rest of our team scrambles to cover.

Kovalov drives down the left side, and their forward flies toward the net. The duo is ruthless, and Bouchard gets burned by a fake and power-pushes to the other side of the net. When the puck shoots toward him, Bouchard throws himself into a desperate pad stack, limbs as wide as they can go.

But he overextends, and the movement makes my knee twinge.

He deflects the puck, but his legs buckle when he tries to rise. He crumples, waves to the bench, and the refs blow the whistle.

Trainers and the head coach rush out.

It’s chaos.

When the goalie coach waves to me, though, it all quiets. The roar of the arena hushes like someone turned the volume down. My jackrabbiting pulse slows to something stronger and steadier. And my sideline nerves disappear altogether.

I tug on my gloves, drop my helmet, and walk across the rubber mats to the ice. Otto, the goalie coach, slaps my shoulder over my pads.

“Remember: this is your game.”

He’s being kind.

I’m only here because the guy they wanted couldn’t be.

But I give him a sharp nod, anyway.

And the second my skates touch the ice, I’m filled with a sense of purpose, secure in my identity, on and off the ice:

I’m the last line of defense.

They don’t want you, they need you, I can practically hear my ex say, the words bouncing in my head like a bad echo.

I shut the voice down like the slam of a door, and I skate into the crease.

The onslaught is immediate.

The Renegades know I’m the backup, that I’m colder than a glacier. The first low shot to the pads is a gimme. They’re trying to force a rebound, but I see it coming a mile away. I drop into a controlled butterfly, angling my pad to deflect the puck safely into the corner.

No nerves. No sound of blood rushing in my ears.

Just control.

Just efficient, repeatable movements that don’t draw attention to me at all. Because I’m not part of the team. Not really. I’m just here to mind the net until Bouchard is back in the game.

Fortunately for the Arsenal, no one’s a better backup than me.

The final buzzer sounds before I’ve caught my breath.

Before I’ve let it sink in that the Arsenal won.

We won.

My chest is heaving when the team swarms me, sticks tapping my pads and helmet, guys patting my shoulders. A chant starts in one section, low, at first, but it grows louder until the whole arena echoes with a sound I’m struggling to even process.

“O’Shan-nan! O’Shan-nan!”

Hughes and Johansson each pull me into a hug.

“Way to bail us out, man!” Hughes says.

“O’Shannan! That’s how you hold a post, brother!” Johansson shouts in my ear, his booming voice carrying over the thunderous celebration.

Soon, I’m getting pulled into the handshake line, and I have to shake myself that I’m here at all.

But I’m not really here. I’m a glorified seat filler. A might-have-been the Arsenal doesn’t mind wearing out. The kind of guy who’ll put my body on the line to help them win.

Though I didn’t on that last save …

Otto comes over with the head coach, Mike, and they both give me a hug and congratulate me.

Otto looks me over.

“That was a smart use of the stick,” he says in his light Finnish accent. “You let the play die on your terms. That’s the confidence you need.”

I’m already sweating, but his words make me flush with worry. “I hoped it was the right play. Not to drop into the butterfly, I mean.”

Otto gives me a sharp half smile that makes me think he’s second-guessing his “confidence” line. “You stopped the game-tying score. That’s the right play.”

I smile as he moves on, but I almost slump in relief, too.

The guys try to sweep me into their enthusiasm, but it still feels like I’ve just watched my favorite team win instead of my team. And when a rinkside reporter with a microphone approaches me, I can’t help turning around to figure out who she’s trying to talk to.

Except, there’s no one behind me.

“Sean O’Shannan,” she says with a big smile.

It’s the type of smile that’s probably earned her a lot of compliments in her life, and yet all it does is remind me of someone else’s.

I haven’t let myself think of that smile in months but it just about stopped my heart the first time I saw it.

Made me forget my ex ever had power over me at all?—

Head in the game, O’Shannan.

“What a huge win,” she says loudly. I’ve always seen rinkside reporters and players talk post-game, but I never imagined I’d be the one they were talking to.

“You didn’t let a single puck past you tonight, in spite of coming in under tough circumstances against an aggressive Renegades team.

Can you take us through that final save? ”

I’m still catching my breath, but just thinking about that moment calms my mind. “I just had to do my job. Stick to what Otto’s been teaching me.”

“But what was going through your head when Kovalov hit that one-timer? You made that final save with your stick instead of dropping into the butterfly, an unexpected move in such a high pressure situation. Walk us through that decision.”

“I knew if I dropped early or if I didn’t have total control, it could give them a sloppy rebound. I couldn’t risk it. So I just kept my eyes on Kovalov’s stick so I could angle the puck away cleanly.”

She smiles, and I know it’s been a while since I dated, but it’s a little warmer than it should be. “It’s quite the underdog story. How does it feel to be the oldest rookie in the NHL?”

“I’m not worried about my age,” I chuckle, like I ain’t lying through my teeth. “I just want to do right by the team. Bouchard is a great goalie. It’s a lot to be asked to fill in for him, but that’s what they needed me to do, so I did my best.”

Her eyes dance, and I find myself wishing they were a different pair of eyes.

“Sean, before I let you go, I have to ask on behalf of our female fanbase: do you have someone waiting for you at home?”

I barely manage to hold back a deep snort, but I can’t stop the dark chuckle. At least no one can hear it over the thunderous cheering in the stadium.

“No. I’m not the guy a girl waits at home for. I’m the guy who waits at home for the girl.”

She fans herself, looking from me to the camera.

“If that isn’t the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.

Whew!” Then she puts her hand on my arm and leans toward me, speaking loudly over the crowd.

“After women hear that, I bet you won’t be single for long.

And after this game, I bet you won’t have any problem finding a home in the NHL, either. ”

I laugh, as much for my sake as for hers. The idea of someone choosing me—the team, the girl—is a dream I let die a long time ago.