Page 11

LIAM

T hanksgiving break looms on the horizon, but Boston's weather has already fast-forwarded to full winter mode.

The Tuesday before our final away game of the month brings a light dusting of snow that has campus looking like something from a holiday greeting card.

I've been staring at my phone for twenty minutes, thumbs hovering over the screen like an idiot.

It's just an invitation to a hockey game.

For podcast research.

Totally professional.

So why does typing this simple text feel like preparing for a penalty shot with the championship on the line?

Ever since that journalism mixer last week—where Piper Thompson actually defended me to her pretentious professor—I've been replaying our conversations in my head like game tape.

The way she looked in the soft lighting of the department lounge.

The walk across campus afterward. The way her pink lips parted when we went to say goodbye.

Dangerous territory, Sullivan.

With a frustrated grunt, I finally type.

Away game at Northeastern tomorrow night. Good opportunity for podcast research on pre-game rituals and relationship communication under pressure. You in?

I hit send before I can overthink it further, then immediately toss my phone onto my bed like it's suddenly caught fire.

Ryan walks in without knocking, as usual. "Dude, why do you look like you just sent nudes to your grandma by accident?"

"What? No. Shut up."

My phone buzzes, and fuck me, I practically lunge for it.

PIPER

Of course. I’m always in for research purposes. What time?

Bus leaves campus at 5. Meet at the arena at 4:45?

PIPER

I'll be there. With recording equipment.

"You invited Thompson's sister to the game, didn't you?" Ryan says, reading over my shoulder.

I lock my screen. "For the podcast."

"Right." He flops onto my desk chair. "And I'm taking that philosophy seminar next semester because I'm deeply interested in existentialism."

"You're not taking philosophy."

"Exactly my point." He spins in the chair. "Just be careful, man. Derek was already asking questions after the mixer."

I freeze. "What mixer?"

"The journalism department thing you got all dressed up for? You think people don't talk on this campus?" Ryan raises an eyebrow. "Kellan's girlfriend Wren was there with her art department friends. Word gets around."

"It was podcast research," I insist for what feels like the hundredth time.

"Sure. And that's why you borrowed my expensive cologne."

Northeastern's ice gleams under the arena lights as we warm up for the second period.

We're down by one goal, and Coach Murphy's face has achieved that special shade of purple that normally precedes an explosion of creative profanity.

But for once, my focus isn't entirely on the game.

Because up in the stands, sitting between Abigail and Wren, is Piper Thompson, wearing a UB Hockey sweatshirt that's at least two sizes too big for her slender frame.

My colors. My team.

The sight does something weird to my chest.

"Sullivan!" Coach barks. "If you're done pulling your head out of your ass, maybe focus on not letting their forwards waltz past our blue line?"

"Yes, Coach," I mutter, cheeks burning as Ryan snickers beside me.

The second period is a blur of hard checks and near misses. By the third, we've tied the score, but goddamned fatigue is setting in.

With two minutes left on the clock, I intercept a sloppy pass from Northeastern's center and see my opening.

I don't think—just react.

Breaking away, I navigate through their defense, the puck an extension of my stick.

Time seems to slow as I approach the net, peripheral vision catching a flash of UB maroon in the stands.

The goalie shifts left.

I fake, then shoot right.

The lamp lights.

The arena erupts, half cheers from our traveling fans, half groans from the home crowd.

My teammates crash into me, a tangle of sticks and gloves and shouted congratulations.

But my eyes find her in the stands.

Piper's standing, actually jumping up and down while Abigail hugs her.

Wren's pointing toward me, saying something that makes Piper's face break into a smile brighter than the goal lamp.

Goddammit. This can’t be happening.

I've scored hundreds of goals in my life. Maybe two hundred.

But none has ever felt quite like this one.

A half an hour later, I’m still getting congratulations from every friend and teammate within a five miles radius.

"That last goal was incredible!" Wren shouts, leaning against Kellan in the parking lot after the game. "The way you just sliced through their defense?—"

"Pure luck.” I shrug. "Right place, right time."

"Don't let his modesty fool you," Ryan interjects. "Sullivan's been practicing that move since freshman year."

My eyes drift to Piper, who stands slightly apart, small recorder in hand, apparently taking notes on our post-game interactions.

The oversized UB sweatshirt makes her look softer somehow, less intimidating than that business-like reporter get-up she usually wears.

I step away from the group.

"Thanks for coming," I tell her when she’s within earshot. "Did you get good podcast material?"

"Definitely." She nods, clicking off her recorder. "The pre-game rituals alone will fill half an episode. Still don't understand why you all touched the wall in exactly the same spot before heading out."

"Hockey players are superstitious creatures," I explain with a grin. "We believe in patterns. Like, lucky socks. Oh, and never, ever washing gear during a winning streak."

She wrinkles her nose. "That's disgusting."

"That's tradition."

Kellan clears his throat loudly. "We're heading to Victory Pizza. You two coming?"

I glance at Piper, and she surprises me.

"Actually," she says, "I need some more detailed notes on post-game communication patterns. For the podcast."

“Yeah, sure,” Kellan replies. "The podcast."

"We'll catch up later," I tell him, ignoring Ryan's knowing smirk.

As the others pile into Kellan's Jeep, Piper and I find ourselves alone in the quickly emptying parking lot.

"So," I rock back on my heels. "Post-game communication patterns?"

She winces. “Okay, that was a lie. I just...I don't know. The entire game was a rush. I guess I just wasn't ready to call it a night."

"Me neither," I confess, something tightening below my belt. I clear my throat. "Coffee? There's a decent place around the corner."

The cafe is nearly empty this late, just a couple of students with laptops and a barista who looks ready to close up.

Luckily, we claim a corner table with our drinks.

Black coffee for me. Chai latte for her.

"So," she begins, cradling her mug between slender fingers, "that goal at the end..."

"Pure luck…”

"You looked right at me. Afterward."

I stare into my coffee. "Maybe I did."

"Why?"

The question hangs between us, deceptively simple.

"I don't know," I answer honestly. "It just felt...important that you were there."

She looks down. “Hockey’s more interesting than I expected. Wren explained the rules."

“You didn’t know the rules?”

She shakes her head., “I know. I’m a bad sister. Luckily, Wren helped me fill out all the holes tonight.”

I nod, grinning. “Yeah, Wren's good people. She's been good for Kellan.” I wink. “Made him less of an asshole."

"Love can do that," Piper smiles before the expression falls. “I mean—statistically speaking, committed relationships often encourage personal growth and behavior modification."

I laugh. "You can just say 'love makes people better' like a normal person, you know."

"Where's the scientific validity in that?" she counters, but she's smiling.

After that, the floodgates open, and I can feel my defenses start to melt down.

Piper and I talk for the next hour, the conversation flowing easier than it has any right to.

She tells me more about her mother's journalism career, about growing up with Derek's protective streak, about her father's quiet strength after her mother's death.

In return, I share…carefully selected stories about Connor.

About his talent. His drive. His ability to make friends with anyone.

I decide to leave the bits out that don’t matter.

Bits about the pressure his death placed on me, the weight of my parents' transferred expectations.

"He sounds like he was an amazing brother," she says softly.

"He was.” My throat tightens as I reach for my coffee once again. “The best."

Her hand moves across the table, coming to rest hesitantly on mine. The touch sends a current through my skin, sudden and electric.

"I'm sorry you lost him," she whispers.

When I look up, her brown eyes are softly watching me.

Not studying me as usual—no longer carrying that clinical analysis I’ve come to know. Come to expect.

No. This Piper is different.

In this moment, she's not Podcast Piper or Thompson's Sister. Or even Research Queen.

She’s soft, soulful, warm Piper.

Pretty, relaxed, cool Piper.

Vanilla-scented, button-nosed, sexy as hell Piper.

And I’ll be damned if those new versions don’t do something to me. Like make me want to lean across this table and kiss her.

Like make me want to brush my thumb across her cheekbone, just to feel her shudder.

Just to see if she’s responsive. If those pretty lips of hers will part for me. Part for my mouth.

Neither of us moves to break the contact. Her fingers are cool against my perpetually overheated skin, delicate but not fragile.

"Piper," I say, surprised by the roughness in my voice.

She leans forward slightly, her eyes dropping briefly to my mouth before meeting my gaze again.

The air between us seems to swirl. Shift. Surround us with a current that makes my skin hum and my cock hard.

I'm moving before I can think better of it, leaning across the small table. Her eyes flutter closed as I close the distance.

The first touch of her lips against mine is soft, tentative, a question neither of us asked aloud.

But when she sighs against my mouth, one hand rising to my jawline, the kiss deepens into something hungry. Hot. Heavy.

Her lips are cool to the touch. She tastes like chai, and she feels like mine. The second my mouth meets hers, I’m instantly desperate for more, my hand coming up to tangle in her hair.

I could seriously come in my fucking pants like a fucking virgin when she angles her mouth, deepening the kiss. The tip of her pink tongue sweeps against my own, and I groan, nearly gripping the back of her neck when a noise stops me.

A jingle. The bell above the cafe door.

The sound makes us spring apart like we've been electrocuted.

My heart slams against my ribs as the door opens, expecting Derek's enraged face—but it's just a group of Northeastern students, laughing loudly as they enter.

Piper's eyes are wide, her breathing unsteady. "That was?—"

"Yeah," I exhale, adrenaline still coursing through me.

We stare at each other across the table, the reality of what just happened—what almost happened—settling over us.

"What if that had been Derek?" she whispers, her face paling slightly. "Or Ryan?"

“But it wasn’t…”

She glances at her phone, sucking in a sharp breath. "It's after midnight. Derek's texted me three times asking where I am."

"What did you tell him?"

"That I was getting podcast notes from the game." She looks up.” This is—I don't know what this is."

I swallow. “Me neither.”

"I should go," she says finally, gathering her coat with trembling hands. "It's late. And we should... we should think about this. Whatever this is."

I nod, suddenly feeling the weight of the sister rule, of Derek's friendship, of the complicated mess we're potentially creating.

"I'll walk you to your ride," I offer, but she shakes her head.

"I already called an Uber. It'll be here any minute." She pauses at the door, looking back at me with an expression I can't quite decipher. "Thank you for inviting me tonight. The research was...illuminating."

And then she's gone, the door jingling closed behind her, leaving me alone with the lingering taste of chai on my lips and the unmistakable feeling that I've just crossed a line I can't uncross.

My phone buzzes a minute later:

RYAN

Where the hell are you? Whole team’s together

On my way. Just grabbing coffee

RYAN

You better be alone when you get here

DEREK

Yo, dude, did you see Piper after the game for podcast shit? She's not answering my texts

I stare at the messages, guilt and something like defiance warring in my chest.

The sister rule has always been sacred team code.

But nothing about Piper feels like any rule I've ever known.

As I step into the cold night air, I realize I'm in deeper trouble than any hockey rival could ever cause me.

Because for the first time in my life, I'm considering breaking a team rule for something—someone—other than hockey.