Little Puck Hucow Novels & Stories

It wasn't until Derek hit me on the shoulder that I turned away, and he gestured toward the car as the others climbed in, and we both followed suit. Inside, the seats were arranged, bearing names and numbers. As expected, Derek and I shared a seat, and the others took theirs, but behind us sat Marcus Webb and his favorite man, Anderson. Hendricks was the last to climb up, and the moment he got on, his whistle sounded like an alarm thundering against the eardrums. "Listen up." He cleared his throat, and everyone turned forward. "This is the beginning, and I know Oakridge is no big game, but I expect three points and nothing less. My goats are better than this."

Marcus had attached a social media summary the way he always did for new or flagged staff, a precaution we had started using after a locker-room image leak two seasons back. I stopped reading. The cold moved through me slowly, starting somewhere in my chest and spreading outward to my hands. Danny Cole had recently followed an account called IceLevelInsider on three separate platforms. I knew the name. Everyone in professional hockey knew the name. IceLevelInsider had broken the story about a Phantom's captain's substance issue two seasons ago. They had published the locker-room argument between two coaches before either team's management had been told. They had three hundred thousand follow

I walked in and saw him. Riven was on the ice, alone, stick in hand, angrily shooting pucks. Most of them missed. He looked exhausted, furious, and completely broken. “Fuck!” he yelled, kicking the puck away in frustration. I stepped onto the ice, my voice soft. “Was that ‘fuck’ or ‘puck’?” Riven spun around, eyes widening when he saw me. “No pun intended,” I winked. “How do you know I would be here? What are you even doing here?”

In a split second, I watched how he swiftly picked up the puck on the blade of the stick, controlling it like a lacrosse player cradling the ball. As he lifted his stick, time seemed to slow. With a flick of his wrist, Hayes tucked the puck around the post, and it soared into the top of the net, leaving the goaltender grasping at air. Holy shit! The final buzzer sounded and sealed our victory. 4-3. The guys poured onto the rink, shouting and chanting. At first, I didn’t hear what they were saying until I listened hard. “Seven!” “Seven!” “Seven!”

I followed Knox out of the rink like a girl who definitely wasn’t already replaying his wink on loop in her head. The cold slapped me harder outside, wind whipping through the parking lot like it had a personal grudge against California transplants. My boots crunched on the salted sidewalk, and Knox—still half in pads, helmet tucked under one arm—looked like he’d just stepped off a magazine cover titled “Hot Guys Who Don’t Own Coats.” “Truck’s this way,” he said, nodding toward a beat-up black pickup that screamed small-town hockey royalty. Stickers plastered the back window: EVERGREEN EAGLES, a cartoon bird flipping the bird (ironic), and one that read “I brake for slapshots.”

It was impossible. They were hanging over the plexiglass, shaking the boards, and holding up massive, neon poster boards that made my stomach twist into sickening knots. MERCER’S MATTRESS.* *DISTRACTION ON ICE.* And then, the ones that made my throat close up and my eyes burn, the ones scrawled with ugly, jagged letters that spelled out slurs I hadn’t heard since I was a kid in middle school. Every time I touched the puck, a chorus of boos rained down on me, so loud it vibrated right through my helmet and rattled my teeth.

I grab my sticks and skates, my movements jerky and fueled by a restless, itching energy. When I hit the ice of our private timeout rink, the sound is a violent, necessary grating. I drag my stick across the surface, the blade screaming against the frost. I’m craving the puck, craving something to hit. I find one near the center line and wind up, but another stick hooks it away before I can connect. "Gotta be faster than that, Captain." In the blur of the overhead lights and the white mist, Elliott’s face bleeds into Remington’s.

My hands were clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms, leaving little crescents that would probably bruise. Two minutes, and my heart was trying to beat out of my chest. Ace got the puck at center ice and the arena seemed to hold its breath. He moved like lightning, like something inhuman, weaving through defenders like they weren't there, like they were standing still. One guy tried to hook his stick and Ace spun away so fast I barely tracked the movement. One minute, and time felt both too fast and too slow. He passed to his winger, who immediately passed back like they'd practiced it a thousand times. Ace was in the slot now, perfectly positioned, and I knew, I just knew, this was it

GAVIN The rink was alive with the loud scrape of blades on ice, pucks smacking against sticks, and the heavy breathing of fourteen exhausted players pushing through practice drills as cold air bit my face, my eyes sharp on every movement. “Five more laps!” I barked, my voice cutting through the air. “Push harder, gentlemen. I want to see legs moving like you actually plan on beating the Cyclones on Thursday!” The guys groaned but obeyed, pushing off into another round of sprints around the rink. Their sticks clattered against the boards as they rounded the corners, their breath puffed out in visible clouds in the freezing air.

The pain I braced for never came. A gust of wind swept past, and Nathan's tall frame blocked me. He caught the blazing-fast puck in his hand with a low grunt. I opened my eyes and saw a spot of red seeping from the edge of his glove. "Are you okay?" I shot to my feet, my voice shaking. Nathan tossed the puck back onto the ice and turned to glare at me. "Are you stupid? You don't know how to duck? If I hadn't caught that, you'd be in the hospital with a concussion right now!"