Puck Me Novels & Stories

I stand and he shakes my hand and I leave. --- I text Vera from the car. *Paulson is thinking. Garrett is a yes. Come to the rink tonight — there's a side entrance on the east end, I'll leave it unlocked. Nine o'clock.* She replies in under a minute. *Why the rink.* *Because it's not the house and we need to talk without cameras.* A pause. *Richard has cameras?* *Front door, back garden, driveway. No interior. But the garden is covered.*

“An occasional bunny here, a groupie there, maybe a fan or two in a hot tub … but never hoes.” “Bunny?” I echo. “Puck-bunnies … ” Mel snorts. “Girls who want to fuck professional hockey players. You do know that the black thingy they shoot into the goal is called a puck?” I nod. I’ve learned that from Lee. Recently. “Well, PUCK,” she swings her left hand in a feminine, gay flick so the palm shows up, “BUNNY,” then she does the same thing with her right hand.

Laughter ricocheted, voices tangled. In the middle of it, Tyler slipped me aside. Small, badly wrapped gift in hand. His eyes were intense, tracking me as I struggled with tape hands brushing mine in the kind of gentle, unintentional intimacy that makes blood race. I knew instantly what it was. A puck. Simple. Circular. Black rubber, about three inches across. But the signature stopped my breath. Smith. Williams. My hand shot to my mouth, eyes stinging. The ache in my throat wasn’t just from shock it was something darker, deeper, twisting. A memory. A history. A grief I thought I’d buried. And yet here it was, in my hands, impossible and undeniable.

I was already anticipating where it would go next when one of the guys suddenly slid into my path. I had to pull up and the puck disappeared around him. My brows knotted into frowns and I chased after it but another guy crossed in front of me. And then another. "What the fuck?" Veering left, I tried to find an opening but another set of skates appeared before me again. It took me a minute to understand what the hell was happening. They were boxing me out. Every time the puck drifted into open ice near my stick, one of the guys would intentionally cross my line, cutting off my momentum or stepping in front of my blade to sweep it away.

The puck dropped. I played like I was underwater. The first period, I missed a pass I’d made a thousand times. In the second, I lost the puck at the blue line, and the other team’s winger took it down the ice and nearly scored. The coach screamed my name from the bench. I hit the boards hard, hoping the pain would sharpen me, and it didn’t. Every shift, my eyes went to the stands. Every time, she was watching someone else. Tristan was everywhere.

They couldn't hold the puck once it entered our zone. They started rough play, bumping into everyone and trying hard to cause an injury. I knew what was coming. Derek's shoulder brushed against mine as he passed me and whispered, Be careful. I knew that, and I smiled. Violet was watching from the stands, and the last thing I wanted was for her to watch me fall or crumble in a pool of my own blood. like the last time. Marcus and Kingsgrove weren't going to let me off with just a broken rib or a concussion. They were angry, and beasts go for a chunk of meat, not just a bite.

“Thanks. Really needed that today.” “I’m serious. You’ve got a face like someone stole your dick.” He kicked his feet up onto my coffee table, which I hated, and he knew I hated, which was exactly why he did it every single time. “Also I watched the fight like six times already. Cane’s got a mean right hook for a guy who skates like he’s scared of the puck.” “He got lucky.” “He got you good is what he got.” Dex grinned, entirely too pleased with himself. “And then apparently you went full soap opera hero and claimed some mystery girl in front of half the internet. People are losing their minds trying to figure out who she is.”

“I’ll handle it.” The same answer. The same controlled voice. I looked at him for a long moment. “You always say that.” He didn’t respond. The silence between us stretched. I could still see the game in him—the discipline, the control, the instinct to shut down anything he couldn’t immediately solve. He’d stopped pucks tonight that would have gone past anyone else. But this wasn’t a puck. It wasn’t a bad headline he could bury before morning. It was me. And for the first time, I wasn’t sure he understood that.