Page 2 of Love in the Net (Blue Ridge Buffaloes #2)

Returning a wallet to its rightful owner sounds simple, right? Wrong.

Apparently, when that wallet belongs to Blue Ridge’s starting goalkeeper and local celebrity, “simple” leaves the building. Along with my sanity.

I finished my event at the park and ran home to get out of my muddy clothes. My freshly washed curls bob against my shoulders as I walk with Waffles’ leash secured around my wrist.

My nerves buzz, my palms sweat despite the fall Appalachian temps, and I can’t stop second-guessing every decision that led me to this moment.

Maybe I should’ve just mailed the wallet—I have the man’s address from his driver’s license.

Or waited for him to call me like he said he would.

Or, you know, pretend like I never found it and avoided all of this altogether.

But no. Here I am, walking up to the Buffaloes practice facility, armed with Liam’s leather billfold and what I can only assume is the worst case of why did I wear this outfit?

regret known to mankind. I glance down at my cozy cardigan, skinny jeans, and ankle boots, suddenly wishing I’d opted for something less… dog-bakery chic.

“Okay, Claire,” I mutter to myself. “You’ve got this. You’re just returning a wallet. To a very attractive man who wanted your number. Who happens to be a professional athlete. No big deal.”

The automatic doors whoosh open, and I’m hit with a wave of cold, artificial air. Inside, the rink is a hive of activity—skates clattering on the ice, players shouting to one another, and the unmistakable echo of hockey sticks hitting pucks, ice, and who knows what else

It’s overwhelming, to say the least. I love sports, but I don’t usually attend them live.

I have a television that allows me to watch four channels at once, so I’ve never seen the point of paying for tickets.

Plus, I can develop and test new doggy treat recipes while it’s a power play or on fourth down.

I grip the wallet like it’s a live grenade and needs the pressure to stay dormant and take a deep breath, willing myself to channel some of Waffles’ boundless confidence. If my dog can tackle a six-foot-something man into the mud without a second thought, surely I can handle this.

Spotting Liam isn’t hard. He’s on the ice, crouched in front of the goal with laser-focused intensity.

His tight movements are quick, precise, and—dare I say it—graceful.

Not exactly what I expected from someone built like a tank.

He blocks a shot, then another, and I realize why they call him “The Wall.” He’s practically impenetrable, a fortress of focus and determination.

It’s impressive. And, okay, maybe a little distracting.

I’m so caught up in watching him that I don’t notice the figure approaching me until it’s too late.

“Hey there,” a cheerful voice says, startling me out of my goalie-induced trance. I turn to see a tall, blonde man with a grin that could rival the sun. He’s holding a water bottle and looking at me like he’s trying to place my face. “You lost or just here for the view?”

“Uh…” I blink, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

“You have to have a special pass to attend practice in the last hour,” he says.

That’s good to know. “I’m, um, looking for Liam.” I hold up the wallet like it’ll be my special pass to watch the hot hockey goalie for the next hour.

“Oh, you’re that girl.”

I frown, mostly because I have to tear my eyes from Liam’s hulking shape in the net. “What do you mean by that girl?”

“The one who tackled him in the mud earlier today.” He chuckles, clearly enjoying my confusion. “The boys have been talking about it since practice began. Liam’s been unusually quiet—which, trust me, is saying something.”

My cheeks heat up. “I didn’t tackle him. My dog tackled him.”

“Sure, sure,” he says, nodding like he doesn’t believe me for a second. “I’m Chase.” He sticks out his hand. “I usually play left wing, but I was doing my physical today.”

“And resident team gossip, apparently.” I cock my eyebrows at him.

Chase only laughs, and he has a good air about him. “I’m Claire,” I say, offering him a smile. “And this is Waffles.”

Chase’s laugh echoes through the rink. “Waffles, huh? Sounds like a troublemaker.”

“You have no idea.”

Before I can say more, Chase turns toward the ice and shouts, “Hey, O’Brien! Your mud girl is here!”

Mud girl.

Son of a scone.

I want to sink into the floor. Instead, I clutch the wallet tighter and prepare myself for the inevitable mortification.

Liam skates toward the bench, his expression a mix of curiosity and amusement.

He pulls off his helmet, revealing slightly damp hair and a face that, unfortunately, looks even better in indoor lighting highlighted by blue ice. How is that fair?

I’m sure I look like a Halloween ghoul.

“Claire.” Liam steps off the ice, shoves his helmet at Chase, and brushes by him. “What’s going on?”

“I found your wallet in the mud.” I hold it up.

“You didn’t have to bring that here.” He takes it, his voice warm and husky. He presses in close to me. “Mm, you smell nice.”

“I had time to shower.”

“Lucky.” He grins at me.

“Figured you might need it,” I say, not sure what to do with the warmth of his body so close to mine and the way he’s devouring me with his eyes. “And I didn’t want you thinking Waffles was also a thief.”

Liam’s lips twitch, the ghost of a smile playing there. “Thanks, sweetheart.” He makes no move to leave or go back to practice. A few steps below us, the drills rage on, the sound of skates against ice and the hard slap of sticks continue.

Chase, still lingering nearby, goes, “Awww. Isn’t this cute? Mud Girl and The Wall, reunited.”

Liam shoots him a look that could freeze water, but Chase doesn’t seem fazed. “Don’t mind him,” Liam says, as his fingers brush mine, and I swear we scatter sparks all over the facility. “He’s been dropped on the ice one too many times.”

“Hey,” Chase protests, but his grin suggests he’s not offended in the slightest.

“Claire?”

I turn to see Poppy Brighton, owner of Sweet Curves Boutique, one of my favorite new shops in Blue Ridge. She’s holding a garment bag and looking as surprised to see me as I am to see her.

“Poppy,” I say, grateful for a familiar face. “What are you doing here?”

“Delivering a custom jersey for Jack,” she says, nodding toward her boyfriend on the ice. Of course I knew they were together—engaged now, to be married once this hockey season concludes. She flicks a look over to Liam. “What about you?”

“I’m, uh, returning a wallet,” I say, gesturing toward Liam, who holds it up. “Long story.”

Poppy’s eyes light up with interest as Liam’s coach yells at him and he waddle-walks down to the ice. “Oh, I love long stories. Especially when they involve handsome hockey players.”

“It’s not like that,” I protest, though my flaming cheeks probably say otherwise.

Poppy leans in conspiratorially. “You know, Liam’s a great guy. A little grumpy, but in a charming way. And he’s single.”

“Poppy,” I hiss, glancing at Liam to make sure he didn’t hear that. He’s busy talking to another teammate, thankfully oblivious to our conversation.

“What?” she says innocently. “I’m just saying, you could do worse.”

“Poppy,” I repeat, this time with more emphasis.

She grins and says, “Come by the shop for something amazing to wear for your first date.”

“He hasn’t asked?—”

Liam returns, looking slightly flustered. Poppy squeezes his bicep and goes to sit behind the boards. She obviously has a special pass to watch practice.

“Thanks again for bringing my wallet.” He leans down and scratches Waffles’s head. “Can I take you to dinner after practice?”

His question catches me off guard, and for a moment, I forget how to speak. He’s asking me out. Liam O’Brien, professional hockey player and local heartthrob, is asking me out.

“I—uh—sure,” I stammer, my stomach doing somersaults. “Dinner sounds great.”

“Great,” he says, his expression softening. “I’ll call you later to set it up.” With that, he leans in and sweeps his lips along my cheek, turns, and grabs his helmet from Chase.

I stand there, my fingers absently reaching up to touch where his lips did.

“Claire,” Poppy calls. “You and Waffles come sit by me.”

I glance over to Chase, but he doesn’t make me show him a pass. So I go sit by Poppy.

“Well,” Poppy says, looping her arm through mine. “I’d say that went pretty well.”

“Did it?” I ask, still trying to process what just happened.

“Oh, absolutely,” she says with a knowing smile. “Trust me, Claire. This is just the beginning.”