Ching Pucca Novels & Stories

“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.

Luca By morning, the fight was everywhere. I woke up to forty-seven missed calls and a text from my publicist that was mostly capital letters. The clip had been viewed eleven million times before midnight. Sports analysts were doing frame-by-frame breakdowns of the moment I dropped my gloves. Commentators were calling it a meltdown, a loss of composure, a side of Luca Devereaux nobody had seen in a decade. One panel show ran a fifteen-minute segment titled The Captain Cracks and used photographs of my face mid-fight that I had not known existed until that morning.

Then the doors opened, and Carla Pucci, dressed in a blood-red skirt and jacket, strode inside. Her eyes found mine, and her lips immediately twisted downward. She took a few reluctant steps toward the table before looking around. “Nice plants... but I would never taint such a room with paints and brushes.” I breathed out a laugh. “I love to paint, and my husband thought this would be a perfect place for my workshop.” I gestured for her to sit in front of me.

POV: KAI The press box smells like musty coffee and old popcorn. I sit in the back row, laptop balanced on my knees, hoodie zipped to my chin. The collar still hides most of the mark, but I feel it every time I swallow. Like a reminder I can't delete. Game starts fast. Puck drops. The crowd roars. I type without looking down much—habit now. The Ice Hawks are up early, but it's not the score I'm watching.

A deep blush crept up on Stacy’s cheeks. Bruce let out a cough. "Are you done eating, Pookie? You know it's bad manners to scream while eating. You shouldn't do that again,” He scolded but Cherry didn't even pay attention to his scolding. "Pookie?” Stacy was a little surprised by the nickname Bruce had called Cherry.

“...Marcus.” The carnival booth looked like it had survived a small tornado. Wooden bottles were scattered on the ground. A table was tipped over. Stuffed animals were everywhere. One huge panda hung halfway off the counter. Juliet stood nearby with both hands over her face, trying not to laugh. Across from her, the booth operator was red in the face. “And I’m telling you,” Marcus argued, “these balls are too big for that little hoop!” “They are not!” “They absolutely are!” “They’re normal size balls!”

Target: Get drunk and get laid. So I moved through the dancing bodies, nodding my head to the beat and grabbing another cup as my previous one was empty. But as some of the girls sidled up to me, twirling their hair, my irritation grew. One puck bunny I’d seen sucking Matt’s dick under the stairs tried to slide her hand up my arm, but I just knocked off her ugly nails and glared until she backed off. Just great Dorian. I muttered to myself, aware I was blowing any chances I had with the ladies.

And she thought that the man will wipe it but Peach is shock when Prince Caspian put the finger with the sauce and lick it. A loud cheer erupts her ears. "Ooh!! Smooth!" "That's my man!" "Way you go lover boy!" "Fafa Sev marry me~ kyah!" "Hahahahahaha" Ohh noooo. How can Prince Caspian do this to her. Peach try to feel her underwear. Oh gosh. Luckily it's still intact. This man can make your underwear slough.