Page 17

Finn

I am desperately trying not to become friends with the women in this box, but it’s not working. We’re in New York for yet another away game, and I’m trying to analyze Sammy’s save percentages from the first period. Ellie and Fallon—Brett’s wife—are already chatting about the logistics of Fallon opening up her own physical therapy practice, and whether or not she should create satellite offices outside Burlington.

Their low, chattering voices are already enough to distract me, so my attention goes completely out when an even bigger distraction enters.

“Okay!” Lola Burke says, breezing into the box and dropping a pink leather purse on a table. “Guess who just got the next book in the basketball series approved!”

Ellie, Fallon, and even Penny—who I’m sure is dying on the inside—erupt into squeals, immediately turning to her and engaging in conversation, asking her about the plot and chatting about the last romance books they read. In all my research about the team, I’d avoided reading about Devon’s personal scandal—he’s no longer on the team, so I didn’t think it necessary to learn study up on it.

Imagine my surprise when Penny told me last night that his wife is romance writer Lola Burke—which meant almost nothing to me—and that they would both meet me at the game in New York.

According to Penny—who filled me in on the talk from the box last night—Lola and Devon planned to be in New York anyway for a meeting with Lola’s publisher, and so planned to come to the game. Penny was practically frothing at the mouth in excitement to meet Lola.

“I can be cool,” she’d whispered to herself, quietly, in our hotel room.

“Penny,” I’d said back, “you’re freaking me out.”

Now, I blink and try to re-focus my brain on the graphs I’m generating. Sammy has been putting up better and better numbers every game, which has helped to put me at ease. My tactics are working.

Still—not as quickly as usual. But they are working.

“What is everyone squealing about?” Devon himself asks, walking into the box. When I glance at him, I see a tiny sleeping body in his hands.

“Lola’s new basketball romance,” Fallon says cheekily, before turning to Lola. “Please tell me there's a scene in the gym again. I have to say, your workout scenes are actually anatomically accurate—which is only the second-best thing about them.”

Below us, the game is going into play again. I watch the Vipers lose the face-off—this seems to be a weak spot of theirs, and though it doesn’t actually affect Sammy’s performance, I can’t shake the feeling that I should talk to Grey about it. With a few adjustments to the—

“I took your notes to heart,” Lola laughs, cutting off my train of thought. “And learned so much about muscles.”

“Ladies,” I hear myself say, twisting in my seat to fully face them. “The game is on.”

They all stare back at me, six pairs of eyes focused on mine, and I realize I might have come off a little sharper than I intended. Penny wordlessly shifts away from the group, a blush creeping over her cheeks, and I feel a little guilty.

“Finn,” Ellie says gently, laughing and breaking the tension. “It is five to nothing. And there’s always film. You don’t have to write everything down as it’s happening, right? Besides, we’re all dying to hear more about the book, Lol—isn’t it about the sports psychologist and—?”

“Oh my god, wait, don’t spoil it!” Penny says, covering her ears with her hands. They all look to me and I sigh, realizing I’ve been drawn into this conversation once more against my will.

“She likes to go into every book blind,” I mutter. “She nearly fainted once when I wanted to read the back cover of a book.”

“You know what?” Lola says, gesturing toward me with her drink. “Fair.”

“Speaking of sports psychology,” Ellie says, playing mediator like I imagine she does with her kids at home, “it seems like your whole program is really working with Sammy.”

“I’m not a psychologist,” I say. But, as if right on cue, Sammy makes a save below us and the boxes flanking ours erupt in cheers.

“There’s definitely more flexibility in his lateral movement,” Fallon says, a look crossing her face. “I wonder what plan his PT has him on.”

“Oh!” Ellie pulls out her phone. “Before I forget, everyone's still good for the team BBQ on Sunday? At our place? I've got the menu planned, but with the way these hockey players eat...”

And before I know it, I’m sucked into a conversation, the game mostly forgotten behind me on the ice.

***

“I’m just saying…” Fallon’s friendly hand is against my bicep. “All you need to do is stretch your lower back like every twenty minutes, and that pain will go away.”

We’re standing in a little area they’ve informed me is where the arena staff have told them to wait for their guys. Sometimes they come right out, sometimes it takes longer if they’re waiting for them to come back from press conferences.

This must be our lucky night, because several of them have already appeared. But not Sammy.

“Oh, that’s interesting, Fallon,” I say, trying to be polite. “But—”

It’s no use telling her I already have a physical therapist I see regularly. I’ve seen enough battered athlete bodies to know it’s better to start taking care of mine as soon as possible.

But she just continues on. As she talks about the spine and how to care for it, my attention shifts over her shoulder, where a familiar man appears.

Sammy ducks into the hallway, his hair still damp. A single tendril falls loosely onto his forehead, and my fingers twitch to push it back into place. He’s wearing a loose pair of navy-blue sweats and a gray hoodie, and I can almost imagine what the fabric would feel like, pressed against his warm skin.

Fallon pauses, then looks over her shoulder, too.

“Oh,” she says, face brightening “there’s Sam—”

She stops when Harper appears, as though from thin air, walking quickly toward him. She’s wearing a smart navy-blue pantsuit, and I realize—with a pang of something bitter—that they’re inadvertently matching. Her hair is long and curled, bouncing over her shoulders, and looks just as perfect as when I caught sight of her before the game.

Something warm and aware moves through me the moment I see his eyes shift toward her, and I recognize it a moment later as jealousy.

Which is ridiculous.

Sammy is smiling at her, looking down at her, his voice dropping so it’s just the two of them in the conversation. She’s standing close to him, her chest less than a foot away from his. Intimate.

“Wow,” Fallon says, crossing her arms. When I spare a second to glance over at her, she looks impressed, pivoting so she’s standing at me and watching, like we’re two moms at the park willing our kids to make friends.

“I didn’t know Sammy actually had a chance there,” she says. “Brett told me he’s been pining after her for years! Seems like she might be interested.”

“Yeah,” I say, then realize I might be watching a little too intently when Fallon gives me a strange look. I can’t help it—this is his opportunity. Opening up right in front of him.

Harper leans in, puts her hand on his chest. I swallow, unable to look away.

Then, Sammy does the unthinkable—he laughs, leans backward, and looks at me.

“Oh, no,” Fallon whispers, when Harper lets her hand drop, then looks in my direction as well. When our eyes catch, there’s a horrifying moment in which I think she might recognize me, but she doesn’t. Fallon must add to my camouflage, because Harper just says something quickly to Sammy, then turns and walks in the other direction.

“I’m going to…go talk to Ellie,” Fallon says, her voice turning to a whisper as Sammy gets close. I must look furious, because she sends him what looks like a pitying glance before ducking away.

“Sammy,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm when he gets near enough. “What was that?”

“What?” he asks, giving me a lopsided grin that makes me have to force down the spark of joy that catches in my chest. “The amazing block in the first period or the really amazing block in the third?”

“ That ,” I say, gesturing over his shoulder to where he and Harper were just talking. I won’t let him distract me by talking about his performance. “Don’t be purposefully dense, you know exactly what I’m talking about! You just had a perfect chance with her and you—what? Walked away?”

The voices at the other end of the hallway get a little louder, and Sammy presses his lips together, suddenly looking drained.

“Come on,” he says, catching me by my sleeve. His eyes dart to the end of the hallway, where the rest of the players and family members are talking and laughing. An adorable little girl weaves in and out of people’s legs.

“I already called a car,” he says.

“You—what?”

But the words are left behind us, as he’s already tugging me in the opposite direction. He’s clearly not totally sure where we’re going, but nobody questions the big guy making his way through the arena, so ten minutes later we’re spit out onto the sidewalk courtesy of a random side door, and we spend the next five looking for the car he called.

“Good thing you made it,” the driver calls, as we approach. “I was just about to—hey! You’re Sammy Braun! Holy shit!”

“Hey, man, mind keeping your voice down? I’m trying to make a quick getaway here.” Sammy says, his hand landing casually on the small of my back as he ushers me into the car. I ignore the frisson of pleasure and heat that travels up and down my spine.

Obviously, Sammy has a lot to be confident about, but he doesn’t usually act the big, tough hockey man. Right now, though, chatting with the driver, he’s completely different, and I have to work to keep my mouth from dropping open.

“I’m a Rangers fan,” the driver was saying, “but man—that save in the third? Worth the watch, even if we lost.”

“You might not believe it, but I’ll agree with you,” Sammy says, and then, when the car pulls up outside the hotel. “Hey, man, I know you’re not a Vipers guy but if you want something signed, I got a minute.”

He waits a moment for the driver to produce a napkin from the glove box, then beams when he holds it up after Sammy signs it.

“Thanks, man,” the driver says, waving the napkin like a flag. “Based on the way your season is going, I’m betting this is going to age very well.”

The driver pulls away, and Sammy offers me his arm.

“What the hell was that?” I ask, as we head into the lobby and find the elevator.

“What?”

“That! You just—why couldn’t you turn on that charm with Harper?”

“Okay, I did not turn on the charm with the driver—”

“He was practically drooling over you, Sammy.”

“I don’t think he was gay.”

“One,” I say, ticking it off on my finger as the elevator climbs, “how would you know? And two, you were charming in the car. Suave!”

He turns to me, eyebrow raised, and I suddenly realize how small the elevator car is and how close he is to me. Swallowing, I try to avert my eyes, but find them locked on his.

“You think I’m charming?” he asks, his voice an octave lower than normal.

“No,” I say, letting out a breath when the elevator finally dings and the door opens. Reaching into my purse, I search for my key card, not remembering my number.

“You’re across from me,” Sammy says, gesturing for me to follow him down a hallway. I do, and we travel almost to the end, stopping in front of 2106 and 2107. Right across from each other.

“All I’m saying,” I whisper, aware of the time, “is that you should have acted like that with Harper.”

“So you do think I’m charming?” he asks again, his dimples popping. My eyes flit to them momentarily, and I think about what it would feel like to bite one, then push the thought from my mind.

“You’re not paying attention, Sammy,” I snap. “You need to stay focused. On Harper.”

“I’m just not sure tonight was right!” His smile oozes away and a strange thrill runs through me at the frustration in his tone. “She seemed—I don’t know. I didn’t want to make a move and have her reject me.”

“She had her hand on your chest, Sammy,” I say, and in a move that surprises me, I move forward and place my own palm against his chest. His heart is skipping under it, faster than I thought.

I know his resting heart rate. And this is not it.

Am I frustrating him? Making him angry? Good . I don’t want him getting complacent now that he’s finally getting good.

“So?” he says, voice low as his hand skips from my eyes and down to my hand on him. “What does that mean?”

“It means she wants you!”

“But what if she didn’t?”

“What if she did?”

“What if all it did was make things awkward?”

“Jesus, Sammy,” I snap, realizing I’m breathing hard. “Sometimes, you just have to go for what you want, and ask for forgiveness later!”

Three things happen in very quick succession. First, his eyes dart down to my lips. Second, his hands move, one to my lower back, and the other sliding up into my hair.

And third, Sammy Braun backs me up into the wall and brings his mouth to mine like I’ve just given him an order he wouldn’t even think to disobey.