Page 7

Chapter Seven

Connor

I t’s been four days since the gala.

Four days since Lucy kissed me—then vanished into thin air like I hallucinated the whole thing.

I haven’t stopped thinking about it. About her.

The locker room smells like eucalyptus and over-roasted espresso, the kind of high-end scent that only exists in facilities where someone gets paid six figures to do ' vibe curation .' The Icehawks Players’ Lounge has been freshly redone since we brought the Cup home—sleek new hardwood floors, smart glass partitions, matte black lockers lined with custom lighting, and a goddamn barista on staff from six a.m. to post-practice.

Because that's what this place needed… more fucking luxury.

There’s an espresso shot in my hand, warm and smooth, but it tastes like ash today.

Flat-screens line one wall, rotating between slow-motion highlight reels and behind-the-scenes Cup celebration footage. In one corner, Logan’s playing FIFA. Ryder is bitching about how our offseason tour schedule better not mess with his 'plans'.

It’s chaos—but the kind we thrive in.

Hockey is back. After four long weeks of celebrating, we're gathered back at Icehawk HQ, thrown together in the Player's Lounge to plan an offseason like no other.

Coach Brody is at the front, reading from a clipboard like this is fucking high school, while half the rookies scroll their phones or make bets about who’ll puke first in conditioning camp next week.

I should be paying attention. I want to pay attention.

But my phone’s buzzing in my palm again, and I can’t stop flipping it over in the hope that—

"Fuck," I mutter to myself.

Still nothing from Lucy.

One unread ESPN alert. A Bleacher Report headline. A notification from our own media team tagging me in a “Top 10 Most Romantic Moments in Hockey” reel like this is some kind of sick joke.

And shit, there's another GIF—this one of me spinning Lucy in that goddamn dress, smiling like I just scored the winning goal.

And still, amongst all of this… She hasn’t answered a single text.

I've barely seen her at the rink, haven’t bumped into her in the parking lot, haven’t heard her laugh except in my own goddamn head.

She’s ghosting me.

Like I imagined it all. Like the kiss, the soft weight of her hand at my chest, the way she whispered my name right before everything exploded, was some charity-induced dream.

I've walked past that damn book shop so many times the security guard across the street probably thinks I'm casing the joint. And every single time, that leather armchair by the window— her chair—sits there empty like it's taunting me.

“Yo.”

Blake elbows me in the ribs as he drops into the chair beside mine, steam rising from his oversized cappuccino.

“So… did you send Lucy the bill yet?” His grin is all teeth. “I mean, she technically owns you now.”

Ryder turns from across the lounge, one brow raised in mock concern. “We should start a GoFundMe. Help Connor Walsh Find His Dignity. ”

“Fuck you guys. I’m leaving.”

I stand halfway, mostly out of instinct.

“Oh, you can leave, buddy,” Ryder calls after me, grinning like an idiot. “But you can’t run from love .”

“Sit your asses down,” Coach Brody barks from the front of the room, cutting through the noise and turning it to instant silence. "And Ryder? Wipe that fucking grin off your face."

Coach Brody doesn’t move. He doesn’t have to. He stands there in his fitted team jacket, arms crossed, whistle dangling from one finger like a warning.

“Y’all done gossiping like bored housewives, or do I need to separate you like toddlers?” His eyes drag across the team with warning written in them. "Day One of the new season starts today. So sit down, and shut the hell up."

He clears his throat.

“Offseason tour kicks off next week. This season we're heading to LA. A mix of media, fan events, and training. Don’t be late, don’t embarrass us, and for the love of hockey, keep your pants on.”

Ryder leans toward me, whispering behind his hand. “So… no sex tape?”

Lucky for Ryder, Coach Brody doesn’t even look up. “Now, a warning. I will be making you do spin drills until your toes fall off. And when you think you’re done? I’ll reset the clock, add weighted vests, and blast Celine Dion on repeat until one of you cries.”

A low groan ripples through the room.

“Yeah,” Brody adds, finally glancing up. “Try me.”

I sink deeper into the leather chair and drag a hand down my face.

Lucy still hasn’t texted me back.

And now I have to smile through interviews and pretend like the last four days haven’t been fucking torture.

"Enjoy your last days off boys," Coach smirks. "They might the last ones you ever have."

***

A few hours later, I toss my keys onto the counter as I step back into my apartment and toe off my boots.

The place is dark except for the ambient glow of Iron Ridge town center outside my windows. The sky’s inky, the mountain ridge just a jagged silhouette against the stars.

Everything else inside my home is still.

Too still.

The kind of still that reminds you no one else lives here.

I flick on a low light above the stove and take a long breath as I look around. Stainless steel appliances, matte black tile backsplash, a fridge full of protein shakes and a single leftover Summit Café takeout box from three nights ago.

This place is spotless, mostly because… I’m never fucking here.

It's sleek. Cold. Designed by someone who thought “bachelor athlete” meant expensive surfaces and zero personality.

There’s a gym bag slumped by the island. A half-finished beer bottle by the sink. But when my phone buzzes against the counter, I fucking lunge for it.

The screen flashes in my eyes. Fuck . Not her.

Just a spam email and a new Icehawks post on Instagram.

I don’t open it.

I open my texts instead. Her name’s still pinned at the top. No new messages.

I scroll. Last one that she replied to was four days ago.

The rest are still left on read .

I exhale through my nose and pull a beer from the fridge. Twisting the cap, I just let it sit there on the counter without taking a sip.

She’s ignoring me.

No, not just ignoring me— evading me. At The Nest. In meetings. I’ve walked past her office twice this week and she’s either vanished or had her door closed with Sophia guarding it like a fucking bouncer.

I drag a hand through my hair and step into the living room.

I sink onto my leather couch, staring at the blank TV screen. My reflection stares back—clean-shaven face now darkened with a small dash of stubble, messy hair, and an old t-shirt hanging loose around my neck.

Four fucking days ago, I thought... God, I really thought that was it. The moment everything would change.

The way she kept raising that paddle, refusing to back down. Her eyes locked on mine the whole time, like she was daring me to look away first.

And then that kiss—

My fingers brush my lips without meaning to. I can still feel how she melted against me, her hands gripping my jacket like she needed something to hold onto. Like maybe she'd been wanting it as long as I had.

For one perfect minute, I thought we were done with this dance. Done pretending there wasn't something explosive between us. Done acting like every time we're in the same room, we're not so aware of each other's presence nothing else seems to matter.

I thought she'd finally stop running.

Instead, she's running harder than ever.

I take a long pull from my beer, but it doesn't wash away the memory of how she tasted. How her body fit against mine like she belonged there.

The worst part? For a split second, when she looked up at me after that kiss, I saw it in her eyes. The same thing I've been feeling since Vegas. Since before Vegas, if I'm honest.

But then those cameras started flashing, and she bolted like I was radioactive.

I scrub a hand over my face.

Fuck. When did I start falling for my best friend's sister?

I look around my lonely living space. It’s all sharp corners and masculine polish—dark leather couch, stone fireplace, minimalist shelves. A few framed jerseys. One new Stanley Cup photo in the corner. A signed puck Ethan gave me when I turned twenty-one.

I stare at it.

Longer than I should.

It’s still in the same display case he gave me. Still has that stupid inscription on the back: Don’t get soft now, Captain Material. He was the first one who ever said it. Long before the league did.

We were inseparable once. Every summer break, every off-season. His family let me crash in their guest room whenever I needed. I practically lived there one summer.

His mom used to call me her “bonus son.”

Lucy used to steal my socks and draw on them with Sharpies, writing shit like Connor smells like goalie pads across the toes.

I used to laugh.

Now I can barely picture Ethan’s face without hearing the way his voice shouted at his sister as I approached them in the parking lot. How he said Not from you. Not my own damn sister as he yelled at her in a way that made me want to punch my best friend on the goddamn nose.

I grab the puck out of the display case and roll it between my palms.

Maybe ghosting people runs in the family. Ethan stopped replying to me sometime last year too. I sent texts. Called a few times.

Thought maybe he was just busy, maybe his job had finally wore him down.

I sit down on the couch, resting the puck on my knee, and pull out my phone again. I start typing a text to Ethan this time, the exact same tone as I have all week with Lucy.

You okay? Want to talk?

No. That's how I talk to Lucy. Too soft.

Eh fucker. You going to talk to me or keep pretending I don’t exist?

Nope.

I delete the message and toss the phone onto the coffee table like it burned me.

He’ll come to me. That’s the agreement now, I guess. I already reached out once. I’m not chasing someone who already slammed the door. I've been there and done that once before.

Even if I miss him like hell.

Even if it feels like the two people who once knew me best have disappeared in the exact same week.

I lean back against the couch, letting my head tip toward the ceiling.

Silence again.

I open Instagram.

Scroll past the fan edits. The “Hot Hockey Husbands” memes. The screenshot of me and Lucy on the ice tunnel balcony two years ago— before . Back when things were simple.

And then I see it.

A photo from Chapter and Grind's page. Posted last week. Lucy is sitting in that old leather armchair by the window, head thrown back mid-laugh, a dog-eared paperback in her lap.

Her smile punches me straight in the chest.

She’s everywhere. And yet… she’s nowhere.

I close the app and launch myself off the sofa. I need to do something—get out of this apartment, shake off the noise in my head, maybe throw some weights around until my arms go numb.

I grab my keys, head for Icehawks HQ, fully intending to hit the gym.

But I take the long way in, park on the far side of the building and walk the back corridor. Just as the lights start to brighten in the hallways, I turn left instead of right.

Just so I’ll have to pass her office.

"Bingo," I smile.

The door to her office is cracked.

She’s alone. Finally.

She doesn’t see me at first—too focused, too oblivious, too fucking tempting.

I lean against the doorway, just watching as she places one hand on her desk, the other still flipping through a folder. She’s wearing a fitted black blouse tucked into a soft gray pencil skirt that hugs her hips like a damn secret that needs unravelling.

Her hair’s up in one of those clip things, messy and perfect, and there’s a smudge of ink on her wrist like she’s been scribbling notes all afternoon.

She shifts slightly so those enormous fucking heels click against the tiles, her skirt pulling tighter over her curves as she moves—and that’s it.

I step into her office without knocking.

“You’ve been dodging me.”

Her spine straightens. Her fingers still on the edge of the folder.

“I’ve been busy,” she says.

“Too busy to answer a text?”

I take another step forward but she still doesn’t look at me. I can see her jaw tightening, her shoulders lifting with a heavy breath.

“Too busy to look at your feed?” My voice drops. “Or did you just ignore the headlines too?”

That makes her look at me. Slowly. Like she hates that she has to.

Her eyes are sharp, stormy. Still goddamn beautiful.

“Connor—”

“Lucy, baby…. In the eyes of the world, we’re a couple,” I say, stepping closer. “They’re calling you my girlfriend. My soulmate . There’s a fan account dedicated to our fake fucking honeymoon.”

Her throat works around a reply, but nothing comes out.

“You’re the only one fighting this.”

Her nostrils flare. “Because it’s not real.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

I take another step. We’re close now. Close enough to see the way her pupils flare. The way her pulse jumps in her neck.

“You kissed me.”

“There were cameras.”

“There were no cameras in Vegas.”

She opens her mouth then closes it again.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” I say, voice lower as her eyes drop to my lips. “Tell me you haven’t thought about that night every damn time we’re alone. That you didn’t mean that kiss outside the gala. That when I touch you, you don’t feel like you’re going to fucking explode.”

And she still says nothing.

I don’t ask. I don’t wait.

Fuck it.

There's only one way I'm getting through to this woman.

So I just step in and kiss her. Hard.

Her back hits the door with a thud as my hands slide into her hair, knocking that stupid clip loose and sending strands tumbling around her face.

"Connor," she pants against my mouth. "We can’t—"

"We are ."

"But Ethan—"

I hook my hands under her thighs and lift her clean off the ground, pressing her back against the wall, her legs wrapping around my waist like it’s second nature.

"You gonna stop me, Lucy?"

I kiss her harder, then she’s kissing me back, forgetting her words as her fingers dig into my chest, pulling me in like she’s starving for it.

Like she’s done pretending.

"I didn’t think so."

The kiss turns frantic. Desperate. All heat and teeth and four days of silence exploding between us.

My hands find her hips, slide around the curve of her ass, press her tighter against me as I kick the door to her office shut.

Her head tips back, lips parted, pupils blown wide as my hand slides slowly, deliberately up the inside of her thigh.

"Well, what do you have to say now, Lucy Lou?"

"Lock the door," she whispers.