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TWENTY - HERS
publish date:
2026-07-28 08:11:21
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PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE TWENTY-TWO - FAMILY
The phone rings at 8 AM on a Saturday and the name on the screen is RICHARD MADDOX, which is a name that has never appeared on my phone.The fact that his name is on my screen instead of his son’s means something has shifted in the architecture of how this family operates.I answer standing in the kitchen with cold coffee in the chipped mug and the laptop closed on the table because the laptop has been closed for three days – since the leak since opening it means seeing the notifications of my signature on that paper being digested by strangers.“Naomi.”His voice is the same voice it’s always been, but there’s something underneath it today that I haven’t heard before.“The exposure will escalate before it settles,” he says, and the sentence has weight. “These organisations have legal teams whose job is to reframe the narrative until the person at the centre of it can’t recognise their own story. You need representation.”He pauses.“I know a firm.”Of course he knows a firm.“Richard
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE TWENTY-ONE - HOW IT FELT LIKE
The document surfaces at 6:47 AM on a Thursday while I’m brushing my teeth, and by the time the toothpaste hits the sink the internet has already decided what it means.My signature. My actual handwriting on a page that says PARTNER VISIBILITY MANAGEMENT at the top and REDUCED PUBLIC PRESENCE in bold underneath, the words printed in the careful, contractual language that Victoria’s firm used to make my disappearance sound like a marketing strategy.The document is real and the signature is mine and the handwriting is unmistakable because I dot my i’s with the specific, aggressive stab of a woman who was taught penmanship by a mother who believed that how you formed your letters was a reflection of your character, and my character is currently on display across every sports gossip platform within reach of a screenshot and a caption.The leak came from a disgruntled employee at Victoria’s former firm, and that could matter later, but at 6:47 AM with toothpaste foam on my lip and my phon
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE TWENTY - HERS
NAOMI'S POVThe bed has been a crime scene for three months and neither of us has acknowledged it until tonight.I stand in the doorway of our bedroom and look at the mattress intently.This is the bed where I lay awake after the conference room while he slept on the floor. This is the bed where his phone buzzed on the nightstand and his eyes went to the screen for three seconds before they came back to me. This is the bed where I flinched my hand away from his chest in a motion so small it might have been invisible and so large it rearranged the entire architecture of how we sleep, because after the flinch I stopped pressing my palm flat against his heartbeat at night and started curling my fingers inward against my own sternum instead.He’s behind me in the doorway with his hand on my hip.“The bed,” I say quietly.He doesn’t answer with words.His hand on my hip tightens and he turns me toward him in the doorway, then his mouth finds mine with a slowness that makes my ribs ache.He
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE NINETEEN - NOT A LIABILITY
RHYS’ POVI call Victoria from the car because the car is the only place where my face can do what it wants without Naomi seeing it.The aim today is a phone call, and the phone call is enough.“The arrangement is over,” I say, and my grip on the steering wheel is tight enough for the leather to crease under my knuckles, but the tightness in my hands is keeping the rest of me steady, so I carry on. “Send the final invoice to Derek.”“Rhys, I think we should discuss–”“I said no.” My voice the low, controlled register that Naomi calls the weapon voice. “The arrangement is over, Victoria.”I hang up and sit in the car with the engine running and my hands still gripping the steering wheel and the adrenaline still sitting in my forearms.Derek calls.“Victoria’s telling the front office Naomi is emotionally compromised,” he says carefully. “The word ‘volatile’ was used.”My hands tighten on the wheel again.“Set a meeting with the GM,” I say. “Noon. Today.”***The GM’s office is too cold
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE EIGHTEEN - FAKE BLOG
I’ve been sitting on the cold kitchen floor for eleven minutes on a random weekday with my back against the cabinet and my knees pulled up.The linoleum is pressing through my sweatpants with an unforgiving chill that reminds me it was never designed for human habitation, but at the same time, it has become the place where every honest conversation in my marriage happens.The dishonesty of the last three months has been accumulating in my chest.He’s beside me. Same position. His shoulder against the cabinet next to mine, close enough that I can feel his body heat through both our sleeves without the sleeves actually touching.He came home from practice and found me on the floor and didn’t ask why, just walked across the kitchen and slid down the cabinet and sat because he’s learned the geography of this marriage well enough to know that the floor means truth and truth means sitting and sitting means waiting until the words are ready to come out in the order they need to arrive.I go
PUCKED BY MY STEPBROTHER: A FORBIDDEN HOCKEY ROMANCE SEVENTEEN - PROTECTION
Sasha orders a black coffee with oat milk and no sugar.I know because I’ve been sitting across from her for seven minutes watching her interact with the barista with the easy, practiced warmth of a woman whose job requires being likeable to strangers, and I see that she truly has been doing it long enough that the performance has fused with the personality until neither she nor the barista can tell the difference.We’re at a coffee shop in a neighbourhood where neither of us lives because the arrangement has rules about public visibility and two of those rules are “avoid locations frequented by sports media” and “don’t be photographed together without coordinated styling,” and the absurdity of two grown women choosing a coffee shop based on the probability of being seen by a blogger with a telephoto lens is the kind of detail I would put in the novel if the novel weren’t dying on my laptop one blinking cursor at a time.She stirs her coffee and looks at me with the clear-eyed directn
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