Page 257 of Don't Fall for the Goalie
She says it so casually.
Like it’s obvious.
Like happiness belongs to me now.
“You know,” she says thoughtfully, “I think your teammates might actually be worse than Gram.”
“That’s objectively false.”
“Connor told a reporter you became emotionally available because of my vagina.”
I nearly choke to death on coffee. “What?”
“He said—and I quote—” she raises her fingers dramatically, “Peyton Sinclair performed emotional CPR on our goalie with her vagina.”
Jesus fucking Christ.
“I’m killing him.”
“You say that every day.”
“Because every day he earns it.”
She laughs again.
God. I love that sound.
My chest tightens painfully around the realization.
No fear this time. Something softer. Terrifying in an entirely different way.
The waitress drops off our food with a smile.
Peyton steals bacon off my plate like the tiny menace she is.
“You ordered your own.”
“Yours tastes better.”
“It’s the same bacon.”
“Debatable.”
I shake my head, fighting another smile.
This right here? This is the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.
Not hockey.
Not fame.
Not winning.
This.
Coffee across from Peyton. Her foot brushing mine beneath the table. The way she smiles at me like I’m something worth loving instead of something broken.
And maybe that’s why the second her phone rings, something inside me shifts. An innate sense that everything is about to change.
