So of course, after I finished my delightfully flirty text exchange with the lovely Holly Laurent, I did Google myself. I’m not proud of it, as there is a kind unspoken agreement we never do that. You just never really want to know how much is out there and what people are saying. It’s like authors or actors who say they never read their own reviews.

And, yeah, I can see why she’s shying away. Lots of pictures much like the one I warned her about, only most of them I was glad to participate in, and many of them led to other activities which shall not be named.

She probably thinks I’m a total man-whore and she wouldn’t be wrong. And really, what do I want from Holly anyway? I’m not a commitment and royal wedding kind of guy. That’s not me, or at least it hasn’t been. I’m a one-and-done, no-strings guy. And I can tell it’s not who she is at all.

Thing is…I like her. It’s not just because she’s gorgeous, which she certainly is. It’s not just that she’s sexy, because she’s definitely sensual, as well. It’s also because she’s good at her job, smart, hard-working. She’s funny and doesn’t take herself too seriously, but she’s also got convictions.

I wonder if she’s ever Googled herself? Probably not, right? Since she probably has a perception only moderately famous people have an online presence worth looking at? Okay, maybe that’s a stretch.

Well, well, what have we here? Holly has a LinkedIn profile. Nice. It’s got a few internships on it, plus a list of extracurricular activities. This job at the Crush is her first real gig, it looks like. Her headshot looks nice and polished.

Of course, that’s boring. Next link. This one is a link to her UCLA running profile. She was a distance runner, regional champion in cross-country. Lots of wins next to her name. Color me impressed, and her official Bruins athletic photo is so cute, I find myself wanting to ask her to put on that little white t-shirt and grey running tights just for my own amusement.

Not much else to be found on this girl. She definitely keeps a low profile. It’s intriguing, really. I really want to know more about her. I should probably apologize for being a pig. Surely, she thinks very little of me, if she’s seen all of these photos all over the web, but when we talk, I feel she really does kind of like me. She says as friends, but is this really the way she sees me? I’m in kind of a grey area here. One, no woman has ever denied me once I’ve made an offer to get together. She’s now done it multiple times. Two, am I more attracted because she keeps saying no? Will my interest fade once I get her into bed, like it always does?

There’s only one way to find out, in my estimation.

And either way, I need to apologize and be on my best behavior with her.

Coach tells us the media team is going to be in the hallway doing some video for social media as we head out onto the ice for this game. He says to watch our language and behave for the cameras, as if we’re little kids. I, of course, feel like a little kid getting all excited knowing I’ll see Holly there. I question if I should go find her before we head out and apologize for acting like a beast.

I should. I’m going to.

I wander out of the locker room and find the woman who gives out media credentials standing with Fiona. The girl is in jeans and a Crush pullover. She looks fourteen and I’d swear she was a fan waiting for an autograph if I hadn’t seen her sitting across from Holly’s desk the day I went into the office. She gives a little wave as I emerge.

Fiona’s bob is sharp and sleek, her suit well-tailored. She narrows her eyes at me as I look around.

“She’s not here yet,” Fiona says.

“I’m sorry?”

“Holly,” she says in a tone that lets me know I’m not going to convince her I’m out here for any other reason. “She’s not here yet.”

“I wasn’t—I was just looking for one of my gloves. Thought I dropped it on my way in from practice.”

She raises an eyebrow, not buying it. I shut myself back into the locker rooms, bummed I can’t get this off my chest prior to game time.

Georg elbows me as I pull on my skates. “You sick or something?”

“No, why?”

“You’re acting bizarre,” he says. “You didn’t stay out long last night, ditched us the night before. Now you’re all quiet.”

“Are you my mother now? I’m not sick.”

“Well, you’re not your usual self,” he says. “So, knock it off. Get your head in the game. It’s go time.”

I let out a laugh and slap him on the back of the head. We get up and huddle, the coach giving us our last words before game time. As we move out into the hallway, Fiona, the girl whose name I don’t know, and Holly are all there with their phones. They’re asking us to say hi to fans, to call the final score, and to yell out our favorite songs. I push my way to the other side of the hallway so I can end up on Holly’s camera, but just as the guy in front of me gets past her, she shuts off her phone and averts her eyes, leaning down and fiddling with her boot. She looks adorable, her long hair in a thick braid, a Crush sweatshirt over skinny jeans tucked into high-heeled boots. I want nothing more than to grab that braid and pull her to me. I want to kiss her.

Fuck. I have to keep going. No time for big displays. And besides, kissing her without her consent, in front of her boss, is not going to win me points.

I keep going, annoyed. We skate out on the ice, the home crowd loudly booing. I keep looking to the edge, where we came from, hoping I can catch her eye as she holds up her phone to get more video. She never looks at me, though, only checks her footage, frowns a little, and heads up to her seat.

We head to the bench and Coach puts Georg and me in as starters. I force myself to focus on the ice, the puck, the guys around me. I drown out the crowd noise and look for openings.

I’m a winger, so I play along the wings, at the outside of the rink. Georg plays interior, always at my side, defending me from defensemen who would try to check me into the glass or snag the puck and send it down to their offensive players.

As one of the New York players comes at me, I maneuver away from the wall, forcing him to skate past me. His skates scrape on the ice as he skids to turn back on me. I pass the puck to Georg, who moves it down closer to the net before dropping back and passing to Chalamet, who skates off with it, close enough to take a shot on goal before getting checked into the glass—but not before he passes the puck back to Georg, who swings it to me as I skate free of my defender, grabbing it and making a short, quick shot past the goalie and into the net.

George skates up and smacks me on the back as we reset. I look around and see Holly, working between her phone and her laptop. She’s slipped a pair of glasses on since I last saw her and, damn, it makes her look even more sexy.

I shake my head, trying to get thoughts of her out of my mind so I can play this game. Pointless, even though Georg and I play well together. My mind jumps to Holly again and again. I look over at her, hoping she’ll look back, make eye contact. But she never does.

I sit out for the first five minutes of the third period while coach plays the rookie Mikhail on the wing. He’s good, scrappy. Not as fast as me but definitely has the look of a killer on the ice. He’ll be good in a year or two, definitely has the capability, but the weight of that chip on his shoulder is holding him back.

Coach transitions the whole line on a commercial break. A pop song about being confident comes on and all the women in the arena stand up to sing and dance. Holly grins at this, doing a panoramic sweep of the area with her phone. I watch, totally mesmerized by her smile, until the music fades and the game resumes.

New York’s got an enforcer who alternates between playing the wings and the defensive line. He’s big and brutal and George absolutely hates him. His name is Viktor Demoskev. Mostly, Georg has kept him out of my line of sight tonight, but I think it’s pissing the guy off, because in period three, he’s gone berserk, scrapping with Georg and trading verbal barbs that are distinctly not indicative of good sportsmanship.

I’m focused on the net, trying to score my third goal to get us out of a tie with New York. Georg passes the puck and I skate like my life depends on it, only to get crosschecked by the big Russian.

Not gonna lie. I see stars as I fly about two feet to hit the glass, sliding down the wall to hit the ice. It takes me a good minute to realize Georg is right in front of me. His voice sounds muffled. I think he’s saying my name. Then the trainers are there, one of them waving a finger in front of me. I look around, confused. I still can’t quite hear right.

The trainers pick me up by the armpits and I hear the crowd cheer as we make our way off the ice. As we head into the tunnel. I look up and see her face. Holly’s beautiful face. She looks worried.

“Is that AC/DC?” I ask dumbly

Mick, one of our trainers, says, “Yep. Thunderstruck. Like you.”

This cracks me up for some reason but laughing makes my head hurt. I think I might throw up.

I’m taken to the New York team’s training facility, where they have an in-house sports medicine team on hand. I’m feeling a little less scrambled as they divest me of my uniform and put me into a pair of shorts and a t-shirt.

They take me to the MRI first. Not my first rodeo for concussion protocol, and even I can tell my brains got cooked on that one. My knee is also swollen and hurting—I landed funny when I hit the boards. The team doctors decide to send me home early, too much loud protesting on my end. We’ve got one more game in this road series.

Mick travels back with me that night, telling me he’ll be my roommate for a couple of days until I’m cleared by the doctors. I spend most of the next two days in a dark room, pissed off at the massive headache I have. Mick forces me awake every few hours, making me do light exercises.

By the third day, everyone is home and I’m back in the MRI for another scan. Three wins in the books, no thanks to my sorry ass. I head into the Crush training facility to meet with Scott, the team physician, and Coach Brown.

“Got your noodle cooked, hey boy?” Coach asks.

“Did,” I agree, grabbing a chair and popping open a can of soda.

“Feeling’ better?” he asks.

“Yeah, today I am,” I say. “Not so soggy.”

“Good,” he says. “Doc, what’s the verdict?”

“His scans look better,” the doctor says. “His reactions are stronger today. I think he’ll be good to go in a couple of days as long as he stays upright. Pull him if you see any lingering symptoms, though.”

“You got it,” Coach says. He turns to me, “Dodged a bullet, thank God. I need you out there.”

Relieved to be cleared, I head back home on strict instructions to rest the next two days and then report back for practice. I’m also, finally, given clearance to look at screens, which was prohibited by my short-term roommate, Mick. I check my phone, hoping to see a text or call from Holly, but there is nothing from her.

Georg, however, has sent me a few video links. The first is the video of the impact I took. I cringe watching it, but I make myself watch it twice more before looking at the second video, or Georg trying to pummel Demoskev during the post-game handshake. A fight breaks out that is quickly pulled apart, with both Georg and Demoskev hurling insults at each other in Russian.

This makes me laugh a little, and I send Georg a text thanking him for sticking up for me.

Shaking my head and grinning like a loon, I check my phone again for any sign of Holly. Fuck it, I’ll just call her.

It rings four times before heading to voice mail.

I don’t have the heart to leave a message.

And I really do wallow and sulk for the rest of the night.