The End Goal

Book 1: Love, New York

by Lauren Penny

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Sports Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

A star NHL player goes toe-to-toe with his team’s new data analyst over the right strategy to make the playoffs, but will their heated feud on the ice turn into something even steamier off it?

“I'm obsessed with The End Goal! Lauren Pennyʼs debut is everything I want from a hockey romance—tension, passion, banter for days, and the perfect amount of spice.”—#1 New York Times bestseller Lauren Blakely

She's there to make the rules. He's determined to break them.

Bree Morgan, a fiery financial wiz, is out of her league. Yesterday, she’d never seen a hockey game; today, she’s the senior advisor for her boss's new acquisition, an NHL team based in Buffalo. Armed with analytics, she's guaranteed a position as the youngest partner ever at her competitive Wall Street firm if she gets the team to the playoffs.

There’s just one person standing in her way: Jake Paxton, the thirty-two-year-old, 6’4’’ hockey captain with a reputation larger than his stature. He’s been the star player for years, but with all eyes on his paycheck and his age (er, experience), Jake’s upcoming contract renewal isn’t a sure thing. He’ll do whatever it takes to win the championship and secure his spot on the roster . . . except listen to some Manhattan data analyst who only understands numbers, not the game.

When Bree and Jake are forced to work together, building frustration begins to feel dangerously like attraction. As sparks fly, the ice between them starts to melt. But with Bree returning to New York City soon, can they risk taking a shot on love, or is their budding romance doomed to end with the season?

Release date: October 13, 2026

Publisher: Dell

Print pages: 368

Sample

Chapter One

Bree

I am never late.

It's a rule I have, like not wearing white after Labor Day or my two-martini limit.

I am especially never late to make a first impression. Yet here I am, watching precious seconds tick by while I wait for what must be the only Uber driver in this entire town to pick me up for my first day of work with the Buffalo Blizzards.

I stare at the tiny, unmoving car on my phone and tap my heel to an anxious rhythm. I've turned my Manolos into a patent leather metronome.

I should have known the corporate gods were working against me this morning when I entered the only café on my new street and couldn't order my morning usual. When I asked for the "extra-hot sugar-free vanilla half-caf almond milk latte," the monotoned barista told me simply, "No."

With a glance at my watch, I told her to just give me the most popular order. That's how I ended up paying six dollars for a plain coffee with oat milk.

Little did I know I'd be waiting at the counter twenty minutes later, watching Arnold and his black sedan inch toward the panicked blue dot on my phone. I take some deep breaths and torture my cuticles, trying my hardest not to make a spectacle of myself. I already stand out as the only pencil skirt and button-down in a sea of flannel shirts and knit beanies. I've caught everyone in here gawking at me like a zoo animal at least once since walking in.

Ah yes, spectators of Buffalo, New York, up here on the left you can see the black-clad Manhattanite outside of her natural habitat. This species lives on overpriced salads and Diet Coke, typically mates twice in a lifetime, and is the natural predator of anyone walking too slow.

Reviving my phone with a tap, I see that Arnold has turned onto my street but is still five minutes away, the perfect amount of time to remind myself why I moved my whole life almost four hundred miles in the middle of August to work in the NHL when everything I know about hockey is from The Mighty Ducks.

Youngest. Partner. Ever.

It's the promotion I've been working toward since I was first hired at Meacham Wealth Management eight years ago. Back then I was a twenty-one-year-old, fresh out of university with the dream of one day making partner at the Wall Street behemoth. Today I'm a twenty-nine-year-old with the dream of one day making partner at the Wall Street behemoth.

I thought one day had come two weeks ago, when my boss wanted to talk about a big move for my career. I still remember the misguided thrill of walking into Mr. Meacham's office, practicing my promotion acceptance speech like an Oscar favorite on the red carpet.

"Come in," Mr. Meacham's voice booms through the door.

After all these years, his office still has the same intimidating effect on me that it did my first day. A gargantuan wooden desk is a fixture between floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Central Park. Crown molding frames the ceiling, and a chandelier dangles in the center. Behind it all sits Byron Meacham, looking like the answer to the question, "What would happen if Winston Churchill and a bulldog had a baby?"

He's a king in his castle, and I've been summoned to court.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Meacham," I chime automatically. "What is it you wanted to speak with me about?"

I can't wipe the grin from my face. I hope he isn't too disappointed that I'm not surprised when he offers me the promotion.

"Briana," he starts, leaning back in his tufted desk chair. "Please have a seat."

I perch myself in the chair across from him. Even his spare office chairs feel like they're made from clouds. I wonder if I can get the same one for my new office.

"You're a superstar," he says proudly. "Someone I trust to run point on my most prized business endeavor."

I feel my smile split my face. "Thank you, sir. That means a lot. And can I just say . . ."

"Which is why"—okay, not my turn to talk yet—"I want to offer you—"

"Mr. Meacham, thank you so much—"

"a huge opportunity—"

"I won't let you down, sir."

"with the NHL team I just bought."

"This has been my dream for . . ." Wait. "What?"

"I just bought the Buffalo Blizzards, the hockey team upstate," he continues as I remain frozen in my seat. The only signs I'm still alive are my trembling hands and rapid blinking. "They've come close to making the playoffs a few years in a row, but just can't clinch a spot. Their data and analytics need work, but if they get that part right, there are big returns in it for the franchise." He pauses. "And, the franchise owner, of course."

"Uh-huh," I mutter. "That's great, sir, but what does it have to do with me?"

"Briana, you're the best analyst we've got. Hell, you school half the partners in this office on investments in every staff meeting." Mr. Meacham is staring at me like I'm the one confused here. "I want you to join the team for the season and run their analytics department. Help them get their shit together and start making better decisions. Every time I try to work with these guys, I end up screaming at them on speakerphone and my wife is worried about my blood pressure."

"Well, sir, high blood pressure can lead to serious health risks." Such as heart attack and stroke, like I think I'm having now. "But, back to what you're asking me. I don't know anything about hockey. I work in finance." I pause, looking around. "For you. Here."

"And now I want you to work for me there." Mr. Meacham's face settles into the thin-lipped expression that tells me his decision is final. "I know this is a big ask, Briana, but it's a big opportunity too. You go up there and help me build a championship team, you help get them to the playoffs, and I'll make you a partner here at MWM when you're through."

And that is my villain origin story.

The buzzing of my phone cuts through the memory. Finally.

Arnold and his Toyota Camry don't even come to a full stop before I throw myself into the car. I beg, bribe, and even threaten him to race to the Falls Bank Arena, but we barely flirt with the speed limit. Arnold is a real Boy Scout.

He is also, apparently, a Blizzards fan and wishes me luck as I run into the arena almost twenty minutes late. My heavy breathing is as loud as the frenzied clicking of my heels as I race toward the elevator to the management offices.

I pass empty hot dog vendors and condiment carts, beer stands and arcade games, as I trample the linoleum tile. It's a far cry from Fifth Avenue, but it'll have to do for the next eight months.

Once in the elevator, I ride it to the top floor, reserved for the team's most senior managers. My office at Meacham Wealth Management is on the fifty-seventh floor. Here, I'm sitting all the way up on . . . three.

The doors open to reveal a stark white entryway. It leads like a stout tunnel to a reception desk with the Blizzards logo fixed to the front. Behind the desk, and slightly off to the left, is a large common area spotted with navy blue couches and a handful of round tables and chairs. I look right and left, down both clinically white hallways lined with glass doors to what I assume are offices and meeting rooms. I was expecting something far shabbier than this take on an upscale dentist's office. I was also expecting, well, people.

I am uncharacteristically late to meet Coach Adam Barker for an informal orientation and can only hope that he isn't the kind of hard-ass who left the reception area when the clock struck one minute after our scheduled meeting time. Please, please don't let this be karma because I am, in fact, that kind of hard-ass. Otherwise, my walk of shame from the coffee shop register will be nothing compared to searching this glass labyrinth for a face that looks remotely like his team website photo.

I give each hallway its own long glance, willing this man into existence. It's a familiar ding! that startles me and turns me in place. Out of the elevator steps a slim, tall man in loose black trousers and a navy Blizzards polo. Mostly bald, his short gray hair rims the sides of his head like a monk, and his frameless glasses levitate above the genuine smile on his face.

"Miss Morgan?" he asks, offering me a surprisingly large and calloused hand.

"Yes, and you must be Coach Barker," I reply, leaving out who looks nothing like his team photo so I would have been f***ed.

"Yes, I am. And welcome to the team," he says, still smiling. Two minutes into the new gig and he's already the friendliest older man I've ever worked with. "I apologize for keeping you waiting up here. I went downstairs after a few minutes to see if you'd had trouble finding the elevators."

"No, I was a bit late," I offer sheepishly. "Ubers aren't as quick here as they are in New York." I quickly add, "City," remembering that Buffalo is, technically, in New York.

"I think you'll find nothing is as quick here as it is in Manhattan," he adds with a chuckle. "Our team captain was also meant to greet you this morning, but he's running late so will catch up with us."

While being late is off-brand for me, it is spot-on for team captain Jake Paxton. I spent the ninety-minute flight from the city learning everything I could about the Blizzards' key players and while some Google deep dives required high school newspaper clippings, the internet is replete with coverage of Paxton.

He spent his twenties chasing pucks on the ice and women off it. Depending on which headlines I paid attention to, he either led the league in scoring or brawling in a given year. Now thirty-two, he seems to have calmed down a bit. Either that or People magazine got tired of covering one of their most eligible bachelors' late-night escapades.