Puck From Sisters Grimm Novels & Stories

Someone yells his name like it's a prayer. He skates to the bench. Doesn't sit. Just stands there at the boards. Helmet off. Hair wet. Sweat dripping down his neck. Then he turns one last time, and he looks up, holds it. The whole damn rink could disappear and it wouldn't matter. It's just that stare. Deep. Patient. Like he knows exactly what's happening in my chest right now. I hit send on the live update before the final buzzer. My fingers shaking. 'Carter's hat trick seals it, but the real show was the way he played like the puck owed him something. Selfish? Maybe. Effective? Undeniably.'

Scar through the left eyebrow. Bruised knuckles wrapped around a hockey stick. My heart didn't drop. It fell – straight through my ribs, through the seat, through the concrete floor of the arena, through the earth itself. Every nerve in my body fired at once. The bar. The bathroom. The way he'd pushed my hair off my face afterward like I was something worth being gentle with. Number seventeen. The stranger. The bar. The bathroom door. Good girl. Still with me? Eyes open. He was here. He was on the ice. He was a Thornfield Wolf and he was looking directly at me with those grey eyes and that bruised face and he–

"I don't know what's going on with him. He lost, so now I'm just supposed to stand here and wait until he's ready to acknowledge me?" "Maybe he's just processing. Guys are stupid about emotions." She squeezed my arm. "Want me to stay and be a buffer?" Before I could answer, a voice cut through the noise behind us. "Well, well. If it isn't the princess herself." I turned. A guy I recognized from the Falcons, Kowalski, I think, was swaying in front of me, beer sloshing over his knuckles. His eyes were glassy, his grin ugly. His team had won, and he was celebrating hard.

A low growl had him hastily backing away from the door as he took in his grandmother and sister standing in the doorway. “Grab your things and go use Tomas’s rooms or one of the guest rooms. We need to help Crystal get ready.” His grandmother ordered. A soft laugh behind him made him aware that there was nothing he could do. He also knew just how anxious Crystal was about meeting the pack and being named his Luna. Grabbing a kiss, he gathered his things and left them alone. He heard his sister squeal with joy as she finally met Crystal. Crystal found herself facing Giana (Rook’s grandmother, who she already knew) and a young woman who looked so much like Rook that she instantly knew she had

he asked with a mocking tone, as if proud of his cruelty. Hound's silence continued, his gaze fixed, the weight of the moment still lingering in the darkened alley. The alley seemed to grow quieter with every second, the tension thick and suffocating. Suddenly, Puck froze mid-sentence, a strangled noise escaping his throat. Blood began to trail from his neck, dripping onto the ground below. His eyes widened in disbelief as he turned toward Hound, who stood holding a dagger. Its blade hovered over a small doll inscribed with intricate runes—the same symbols etched into Puck’s skin.

"A puck bunny is basically a hockey player's girlfriend." "Oh." "Or boyfriend." "Oh." "They follow the players around." "Oh." "They wear jerseys." I looked down at myself, then immediately wished I hadn't. "Oh." The girl nodded. "Yeah." For a second, I simply sat there processing that information then I physically shuddered. "No." "No?" "No." The word came out stronger than intended, the girl just watched me. I pointed toward the name on my back. "That's my brother." Her eyes widened.

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.

Without looking for it. The collision came in the second period, both of us going for a loose puck in the corner. Shoulder to shoulder, then chest to chest, then the barrier stopped us both and we were pressed against it with his hand gripping my jersey and my forearm across his chest and neither of us moving. The play had ended. The whistle had gone. We both knew it and neither of us pulled away. Three seconds or maybe four, Long enough that I became aware of the noise from the crowd changing texture, becoming something specific and pointed. Long enough that his eyes dropped to my mouth for a fraction of a second before coming back up to hold mine..

I turn the puck over one more time, slower now, and something cold and strange moves through my chest. Caspian carries a lucky puck. Has for years, apparently I overheard Riven mention it once in passing, something about how Beckett sleeps with it under his pillow, how no one's ever supposed to touch it or even acknowledge it exists because that's the kind of superstition that runs so deep it's become structural, load-bearing, the kind of thing you can't remove without something else collapsing. Under his pillow. I look down at the puck in my hand. Look at my bed. Look at the pillow I just pulled it out from under.

Belle bite her lips, her anger uncontrolled seeing how the creature tried to pretend as her dead sister. “Belle,” the creature’s voice softened. “I am Rachel. Trust me, I am really your sister. I know that it sounds—” the creature continue to take a step forward and Belle who had been careful of her wasn’t prepared for the sudden pull on her ankle, dragging her down from the tower.