The puck stops Here (sort of)

I never planned on falling for a guy who smelled like frozen sweat and bad decisions. But here I was, standing in a hockey rink that felt like the inside of a walk-in freezer, watching my life implode in real time.

My name is Avery Kane, and until three weeks ago, I lived in sunny San Diego where the only ice I dealt with came in my iced latte. Then Dad got the dream job: head coach of the Evergreen Eagles, Minnesota’s junior hockey powerhouse. Translation: pack up everything, say goodbye to my friends, my beach reads, and my dignity, and move to a town where the high school mascot is literally an angry bird on skates.

“Ready to see the boys in action?” Dad asked, clapping me on the shoulder like I was one of his players. He was already in coach mode—whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand, hair sticking up from the static of his beanie.

“Define ready,” I muttered, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets. My boots squeaked on the rubber mats as we stepped inside. The air hit me like a slapshot: cold, metallic, and thick with the smell of rubber pucks and teenage ambition. The rink stretched out below us, a gleaming white battlefield where twenty guys in green-and-white jerseys were already carving circles into the ice like they owned gravity.

I slumped onto the lowest bleacher, pulling my hood up. My phone buzzed—my best friend back home, sending the fifth crying emoji of the morning. I fired back: This is cruel and unusual. Send help. Or pizza. Preferably both.

On the ice, the team moved like a pack of wolves. Fast. Loud. Terrifyingly coordinated. Sticks cracked against pucks. Someone shouted, “Left wing, Callahan!” and every head turned toward Number 17.

Oh no.

He was… annoyingly perfect. Tall, even in skates. Shoulders that looked like they could bench-press a Zamboni. Dark hair curling out from under his helmet, and when he yanked it off for a water break, his face was all sharp jawline and cocky grin. Knox Callahan, team captain and local legend, according to the three different people who’d already warned me about him in the grocery store.

Dad blew his whistle. “Callahan! Quit showboating and run the power play again!”

Knox laughed—actually laughed—and flicked the puck to a teammate so smoothly it looked choreographed. Then, because the universe clearly hated me, the puck took a weird bounce off the boards and rocketed straight toward the bleachers.

Straight toward me.

I had half a second to think, This is how I die, before it smacked the metal seat next to me with a sound like a gunshot. I yelped, jumped up, and promptly slipped on a rogue chunk of ice that had somehow migrated onto the floor. My arms windmilled. My dignity took a nosedive.

A gloved hand shot out and caught my elbow before I face-planted.

“Whoa, easy there, new girl.”

I looked up—way up—into eyes the exact color of the ice behind him. Blue. Freezing. Way too amused.

Knox Callahan was even taller up close. And he was grinning like he’d just scored the game-winner.

“I’m fine,” I squeaked, yanking my arm back. My cheeks were on fire despite the negative-degree temperature. “Just… practicing my interpretive falling.”

He chuckled, low and warm, which should not have been allowed in this weather. “Solid form. Eight out of ten. Deductions for lack of follow-through.” He scooped up the traitor puck with his stick like it was nothing. “You’re Coach’s kid, right? Avery?”

I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know my name?”

“Small town. Plus your dad mentioned you in the group chat. Something about ‘my daughter who thinks hockey is just figure skating with violence.’” He tilted his head, that smirk deepening. “Accurate?”

“Extremely,” I said, crossing my arms. “I prefer books to bruises.”

Knox leaned on his stick, helmet dangling from his other hand. Sweat glistened on his temples, but he still smelled like mint gum and victory. Unfair. “Books, huh? What’s your poison? Romance? Mystery? Or are you one of those ‘I only read classics’ types?”

I blinked. Was the hockey god actually making conversation? “Mostly fantasy. The kind with dragons, not… whatever this is.” I gestured at the entire rink like it had personally offended me.

He laughed again, and I hated how much I liked the sound. “Dragons are cool. But have you ever seen a perfect slapshot? It’s basically magic. Just faster. And with more cursing.”

Before I could fire back a witty retort—something clever about how magic didn’t usually end in missing teeth—Dad’s voice boomed across the ice. “Callahan! If you’re done flirting with my daughter, get back to the blue line!”

The entire team turned. Whistles and whoops erupted. My face officially achieved meltdown status.

Knox didn’t even flinch. He just winked at me—actually winked—and skated backward, stick raised in salute. “Duty calls, Avery. But hey, after practice? I owe you a hot chocolate for saving you from that deadly puck. Non-negotiable. Coach’s orders.”

“I didn’t need saving!” I called after him, but he was already gone, weaving through drills like he’d been born with blades on his feet.

I sank back onto the bleacher, heart doing stupid cartwheels. My phone buzzed again. Best friend: Spill. Is he hot?

I typed back with shaking fingers: Define hot. Because if hot means ‘could ruin my entire senior year with one smirk,’ then yes. Dangerously.

Practice dragged on, but I couldn’t stop watching him. The way he led every drill. The way he high-fived teammates like they were brothers. The way he glanced up at the bleachers every few minutes, like he was checking I was still there.

When Dad finally blew the final whistle and the guys started filing off the ice, Knox lingered by the boards. Helmet off, hair messy, cheeks flushed from the cold. He looked… normal. Almost approachable. Almost like a guy I might actually talk to without tripping over my own feet.

Almost.

“Hot chocolate still on the table?” he asked, voice casual but eyes anything but.

I stood, clutching my phone like a shield. “Only if you promise not to mention the falling incident ever again.”

“Deal,” he said, crossing his heart with a gloved hand. “But I’m filing it under ‘most adorable first impression ever.’”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly pulled a muscle. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re freezing. Come on, California girl. Let me introduce you to the good stuff before you turn into an ice sculpture.”

As we headed toward the exit—him still in half his gear, me trying not to smile like an idiot—I realized something terrifying.

I’d been in Evergreen for exactly forty-eight hours.

And I was already in way over my head.