Not the game-winning save. Not that the playoff spot is getting so close I can practically taste it. Not even the moment we lifted Howie the gnome above our heads like he was the Stanley Cup itself.
No, my brain has decided that the only thing worth analyzing at this hour is the seconds my lips were on April Hansen’s.
The way she tilted her face up to mine. The soft intake of breath right before our mouths met. How her hand rested on my chest, right over my heart that was beating so hard I was sure she could feel it through my metric ton of goalie padding.
It was brief. All too brief. Appropriate for the kiss cam. The kind of thing that happens at hockey games all the time.
Except it felt like everything.
I roll over, fluff my pillow, and try to convince myself that this doesn’t change things. We’re just friends. Friends who are about to fake date. Possibly. Which, according to the guys andWhitaker, is totally normal for public figures and a not-at-all-complicated situation that definitely won’t make things weird.
The dogs are snoring. Even Purdy, who’s made herself at home, curled up between Moose and Buster. Only Scout is awake, watching me from his spot on the window seat as if asking, “Why are you still up, boss?”
“You know why,” I mutter.
He huffs as if I’m a hopeless case and rests his head on his paw.
By five a.m. I’ve had a fitful few hours of sleep and have given up on getting any more shut-eye. After hauling my butt out of bed, I grab a notepad. April will be here in a couple of hours to walk the dogs. I need to leave her a message before I head to practice.
April,Please come back at six. I owe you dinner.- Clark
I stare at it. Too formal? Not formal enough? Should I add a smiley face? No, that’s weird. AnXand anO? I puff a breath from my cheeks and remind myself that I’m overthinking. It’s best to keep things simple.
Leaving the note on the counter, weighed down by Purdy’s food bowl, I head out.
Practice is my mind versus muscle memory. The two are on opposite teams. Not because my performance is bad—I’m still riding the high from last night’s win. But because I can’t focus on anything Coach Badaszek is saying. My brain is too busy planning dinner.
Creamy pasta primavera with chicken. It’s seasonal and April loves that dish. I made it for her once when she was stressed about a work presentation. She said it was the best thing she’d ever eaten. Then she immediately followed up with, “But don’t let it go to your head, Culpepper.”
Oh, she’s gone to my head. Taken up residence. Rearrangedthe furniture. And that’s April. Always keeping my ego in check. Keeping me at a brotherly distance.
“Culpepper!” Coach’s whistle is a javelin through my thoughts. “Are you planning to participate, or are you having a private daydream session in my goal?”
“Sorry, Coach!”
He skates over to me. “Let me guess. Still thinking about that kiss?”
My face heats. “What? No. I was—How did you—?” He can’t know it meant something to me, can he?
The entire team bursts out laughing.
“The whole arena saw it, genius,” Mikey calls out.
Jack adds, “It’s all over social media.”
“Plus,” Pierre adds, “you’re practically glowing.”
“I am not.” I’m about to tell them that I’m tired, but then they’ll wonder if it was because I was up thinking about April, which won’t help my case.
“You are,” Liam confirms. “It’s unsettling.”
Coach crosses his arms. “Look, I don’t care if you’re on the kiss cam or performing modern dance. What I care about is whether you can keep your head in the game.”
“I can, Coach. I promise.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Don’t let anything become a distraction?—”
“I won’t.”
