Page 34 of Playmaker

She picked that same moment to steal a glance at me.

Our eyes locked for a second.

Then she smiled. So did I.

Facing the game again, I blamed my racing heart on the intense shift I’d just played and the thrill of a goal. That had to be it. That was all it was.

There was a lot of pressure right now. We’d tied up a game against a team favored to go deep in the postseason. We had to keep our foot on the gas if we wanted to win this one. Yeah, that was all it was—pressure. Hockey. Normal stress during a game.

I was more subtle about glancing Lila’s way this time.

She didn’t meet my gaze, but my pulse spiked again. She had her helmet off, wet strands of blond hair tumbling down either side of her face as she had an animated conversation with the defensive coach.

I gulped, facing the ice again as my heart slammed against my ribs.

Aww, fuck.

I am so screwed.

In the end, despite fighting hard from start to finish, we lost that game in overtime. It was a struggle all night long, and there were a few times I thought we would lose in regulation. A buzzer beater from Val kept us alive, and we held our own in OT for almost the full five minutes. With twenty-two seconds left on the clock, Boston broke away, and though Anya tried like hell, she couldn’t stop that shot from their star center.

None of us were thrilled about the loss, but it was a hard-fought game and we did still get a point, so it wasn’t a disaster.

Three nights later, we brought down the house in Orlando, breaking their four-game winning streak with a 5-3 win. A lot of Pittsburgh fans were in the crowd, and it was as loud and raucous as a home game. I loved it, and I especially loved getting us back into the win column.

While my teammates went to the bar to celebrate afterward, though, I was ready for some quiet. I said goodnight to everyone, then headed up to my room.

And wouldn’t you know it—I’d barely taken off my jacket before that all too familiar ringtone went off.

I sat on the edge of the bed and glared at the screen.

Dad.

God, I didn’t need his bullshit tonight. Not on the heels of an exhilarating win. The calls after those games were the worst.

I tossed my phone aside, buried my face in my hands, and groaned. I was in a good mood, damn it. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to hear whatever he had to say about the way I’d played tonight.

Because hewouldhave an issue with something.

I needed to stop being a hero and playing long shifts, because when I got tired, I got sloppy. Didn’t matter that I hadn’t had the opportunity to go to the bench—we’d been hemmed into our own end, Val had been without a stick, and the other team had been making drive after drive for our goal. I’d been gassed, but so were my linemates, and we couldn’t just take off and leave Anya vulnerable.

Or he’d be pissy because I had, yet again, racked up multiple assists without a single goal. Or maybe it was that penalty I took in the third period? No, I hadn’t intended to trip the other player, but accidental tripping was still tripping. I didn’t make the rules.

My ringtone stopped. A solid minute later came the chirp to indicate a voicemail.

For a long moment, I lay there, listening to my heart thumping against my ribs. There was a second chirp to remind me Dad had left a message. I ignored that, too, though my pulse ratcheted up again. This wasn’t nearly as pleasant as the feeling whenever I looked at Lila. When my heart would start going wild just because she smiled or brushed her hair out of her face or… who was I kidding? Because she existed.

That stressed me out for different reasons, but it was way more fun than this bullshit.

So why am I up here trying to talk myself into listening to Dad’s message when I could be downstairs with my team?

With Lila?

Without a second thought, I pushed myself up. I left my phone in the room, grabbed my keycard, and went downstairs to the bar.

I tried not to read too much into the way Lila’s eyes lit up when I came into the bar. “Oh, hey!” She smiled. “You decided to join us after all?”

I shrugged, keeping my own smile in place to hide my soured mood. “Wasn’t as tired as I thought I was.”