Puck Novels & Stories

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 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.*

I need to find the hall, get a seat, and not run into anyone who wants to talk about the match. Should be pretty easy. I duck into the corridor near the east entrance, most people are already moving in the direction of the lecture hall. I push into the men's restroom, run cold water over my wrists then checking my arm. I had a welt where I'd been hit by the puck earlier. Gritting my teeth, I swallow the wave of frustration that builds up in my throat. Then I look at myself in the mirror, fixing my expression. Get it together, I tell myself. It's just a game.

“You always this charming?” “Only when it’s working.” “It is,” she says easily. Of course it is. Puck bunnies are always too easy. I catch how the gym doors open behind her. I don’t turn, I don’t need to. Instead, I feel her. That sharp, instinctive pull hits before my brain even catches up. My grip tightens slightly around the water bottle before I glance up, catching her passing by in the mirror. Madison. Her hair is pulled back into a high ponytail and she has an oversized hoodie and leggings on. Even with no make up, she’s the most distracting thing in the room.

Eva just looks at us and says, “We jump.” “Jump? This isn’t the Olympics. This is Cheese Puff, not a warhorse!” I protest. Cheese Puff clears the log like a champion. I nearly fall off and eat moss. Parker’s horse, Doom Bringer, grazes dramatically for ten minutes before even considering movement. “Majestic,” Eva deadpans as Parker scrambles to remount. Hours pass with more teasing, more chocolate theft, and more proof that Parker’s singing voice should be considered a violation of international law.

Sicca was doing everything he could to calm my nerves, but they were stubborn, refusing to bend. “Ready for a little magic?” His ice-blue eyes sparkled at me, playful and teasing. I nodded at him, then turned my gaze forward. He produced a small object from his pocket, almost like a miniature hockey puck. It was a vivid green. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it skimming across the gravel. As it landed, a green light shimmered upward from it. Sicca placed a steadying hand on my waist, guiding me toward the glowing patch. It shaped itself into an oval, like a massive mirror one could walk through.

"They don't have memories or scars. They have only the Equations of Victory." The Origin SixArchetypeThe Feral Counterpart EntropyThe Void-CenterElara (Absolute Zero) FusionThe Plasma-WingKael (Primal Fire) GravityThe AnchorZane (Tectonic Bond) VectorThe Dual-StrikersJax & Cole (Kinetic Pulse) LogicThe TacticianRhys (Data/Logic) The Puck of Destiny In the center of the dark-matter rink, a sphere of compressed neutronium materialized. It was the "Puck"—a dying star condensed into a three-foot shell. It emitted a gravitational pull so intense it warped the light around it.

Just as I leaned in to strip it from his blade, he flicked a pass off to another teammate. “Too slow,” Tristan taunted, a smug grin flashing across his face. I pivoted hard, spraying ice, and charged toward the other player. I managed to poke the puck free and regain control, but before I could turn up ice, Tristan materialized out of nowhere. He lifted my stick, stole the puck, and snapped a wrist shot clean into the back of the net. The coach’s sharp whistle echoed through the arena. “What’s with you, Kings? You feeling okay?” Coach barked, his brow furrowed with irritation rather than concern.

“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.”

A short dry sound, more exhale than amusement. Then he looked at her. Not quickly. Actually looked, the way people do when they think they won't get caught doing it. The jersey hit her mid-thigh. His number. His name stretched across the back of it in block letters. She was swimming in it, arms crossed defensively over her chest and still radiating the specific energy of someone prepared to die on every hill available to her this morning. He didn't let the thought sit long. That was his first jersey. His first hat trick. Fifteen years old and certain the world was ending every time he touched the ice. He hadn't thought twice last night—Just handed it over.