Novelas y relatos de Puck Puckerman

Me: “Damn. Jackpot.” I laughed and shook my head. Amara: “Right? But then Parker came flying in like a madman to change clothes. Doorbell rings—guess who? Big Tuck and Patrick.” Me: “Okay, that doesn’t sound bad. Big Tuck’s a sweetheart outside of business.” Amara: “He was very sweet. Jade made me sit down, and Big Tuck didn’t even know I was pregnant yet.” Me: “And?”

DOMINIC’S POV My footsteps echoed through their pathetic excuse of a home as I stormed in, my jaw clenched so tight I could feel a vein pulsing in my temple. The air reeked of desperation and fear—exactly what I expected from someone who owed my family money. "Jimmy Pierce." I didn't ask. I stated his name like the verdict it was. The man who stumbled forward looked nothing like the confident businessman who'd approached my father six months ago. His eyes darted around the room like a cornered animal, hands trembling as he attempted to straighten his wrinkled shirt.

Harrison asked, writing down the address Mike gave him. He heard Mike tapping on a computer keyboard. “Someone by the name of Alan Parker. He founded the organization about five years ago. They’re listed as grief counselors. No complaints against them in the years they’ve been operating. No profit, either. They’re not on anyone’s watch list-officially.” “Officially?”

His voice cracked under the weight of desperation, his body trembling even before the next wave of pain hit. I raised my hands to pause the executioner. “I think he’s still not willing to spill. Let’s make this fun, okay? Stop with electrical shock and let’s go with the limbs.” I crossed my hands across my chest, tapping a finger on my chin. “Which limb, hmmm. You know what, pick your favorite.” The executioner heeded my words and worked on Puckett as his scream echoed through the whole wall. Much to my displeasure, only his fingernails were being removed.

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?”

They had three hundred thousand followers and a record of stories that could only have come from people inside facilities, inside locker rooms, inside the specific quiet corners of arenas where cameras did not reach. I set the file down on my desk. I pressed my palms flat against the surface and looked at the wall and breathed through the thing moving in my chest, which was not panic, I did not panic, but which sat in the same neighborhood. A twenty-three-year-old who needed money. A gossip account that paid for access. A tunnel at eleven forty-three at night and two men standing closer than rivals stand. I picked up my phone. I held it for a long time.

There's a Liam-shaped hole in it that I've been pretending isn't there, and now that I've seen him again, the pretending isn't working anymore. My phone buzzes. I look at it without thinking. Derek: ur not gonna like this but i googled him Derek: Liam Hart. played in the minors, he actually stooped playing in order to pursue a medical degree, he's an urologist, although idk where that degree went. Derek: u sure u dont know him? I stare at the screen. The minors, that makes sense, even though Liam has never mentioned it, he had experience.

The shock from the diner has faded. As we drive back to the cabin, he looks out the window at the snow-covered trees. "Do you think it's possible?" he asks suddenly. "What?" "To have both. Hockey and... this." He gestures between us. "Everything." I'm quiet for a moment, choosing my words carefully. "I think some people manage it. Like Elijah Ward, apparently." "But not everyone." "Nope, obviously not everyone." Julian nods slowly, accepting this. "My dad would never understand."