Page 3 of Chasing The Goal
“Never been,” I admitted.
She stopped outside a closed door and, for the first time since we left Tucker’s office, really looked at me. Her gaze steadied, something softer curling at the corners of her mouth. “You should,” she said. “Winter up there isn’t like it is here. It’s... gentler. Like the cold knows how to hold you without biting.”
She leaned against the wall, her eyes drifting upward like she could see it, all of it, beyond the concrete and fluorescent lights of the hallway.
“Snow doesn’t just fall in Vermont. It settles. Like it’s tucking the world in for a long, quiet sleep. The trees don’t rattle in the wind like they do here; they whisper. And the rooftops—god, they look like something out of a fairy tale. Heavy with powder, icicles catching the light like glassdaggers. Even the air feels... different. Cleaner. Slower. Like breathing through a snow globe, everything suspended and glittering.”
She paused, a faraway smile flickering. “I used to snowboard, back before kinesiology took over my life. Sugarbush was my favorite. The trails there snake through the woods, long and wide and patient. After a fresh storm, when the powder’s untouched and it’s just you and the mountain? You push off and it’s like the world forgets how to make noise. No crowds. No ticking clocks. Just the soft crunch under your board, the cold brushing your cheeks, and the steady glide of motion that feels more like floating than falling.”
Her voice dropped, quiet with memory. “It’s the kind of silence that doesn’t feel empty. It feels earned. Like the mountain is letting you in on a secret, just for a little while.
I probably should’ve been listening better, she talks about Vermont like its a winter wonderland. Instead, I was looking at her mouth. Small, a little pink, and the kind of mouth that made words sound like secrets. She was dressed in the standard team polo and black leggings, but they clung to her with military precision. She wasn’t just strong, she was carved, but somehow still soft in the places that made my brain stutter.
She turned back to the door, opened it, and stepped inside. “This is where we’ll be working. Starting Wednesday.”
I nodded, mostly to stop myself from staring. “Nice setup,” I said, eyes landing on the neat row of resistance bands and foam rollers stacked like a rainbow of torture.
“What about you?” she asked, casual as she leaned against the counter. “Where’s home?”
I blinked. “Uh… here. Chicago, I mean. Born and bred.”
I could feel myself fumbling. “Italian family. Big. Loud. Food everywhere. My nonna still thinks I should be a dentist or a priest. Hockey was always it for me, though.”
She nodded, still looking at me like she was collecting puzzle pieces.
I cleared my throat. “Anyway, I’ll see you Wednesday. For the actual, uh, session.”
“Looking forward to it,” she said.
I turned and limped out before I could say something else stupid.
And maybe next time I’d remember to breathe when she looked at me.
***
I didn’t mean to end up at Logan’s. I was supposed to go home, ice my leg, and pretend I hadn’t just made a complete jackass of myself in front of the most beautiful woman I’d seen in… maybe ever. But instead of taking the exit for my place, my SUV kind of… drifted. Like my subconscious decided I needed a witness to my humiliation with added analytics from my best friend, and his wife.
Logan’s building wasn’t far, tucked on the quieter side of West Town, the kind of loft space that had brick walls, a coffee grinder that probably cost more than my couch, and a surprisingly domestic vibe thanks to Ava. I buzzed up and by the time I hobbled to the door, he was already holding it open with a beer in one hand and a brow lifted like he’d been expecting me.
“Shouldn’t you be at home with your leg elevated?” he asked as I limped inside.
“I needed to see a friendly face. Also, your fridge.”
He handed me the beer. “You’re pathetic.”
“And yet, still better looking than you.”
“Debatable.” He dropped onto the couch, and I eased down beside him with a dramatic groan. My hamstring throbbed, a dull, pissed-off ache.
“So? You saw the doc?”
“Yep. Coach Tucker gave me the breakdown. Six weeksoff the ice. Rehab starts Wednesday.”
He nodded, already flipping on the TV. “You’ll be back way before playoffs.”
“Yeah. Thank god. I would go crazy if I wasn't. This is our comeback season.”
Logan groaned, putting his head in his hands, "Don't call it a comeback, that's a death sentence."
