Puck Up Lines Novels & Stories

Henry said with a darker tone. "She's just getting back on her feet, cut her some slack. People change, you know." Cindy pouts. "Do they?"

“He’s been waiting for this one.” I shift slightly in my seat, pulling my attention from the window as his words settle. I almost roll my eyes because this is exactly where his mind always goes. He has strategy, performance and outcomes already mapped out before the puck even drops. “He always shows up when it matters,” Adrian adds, one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting loosely on my thigh. “First game with Mercer in the lineup… the pressure’s on, but he’ll handle it.” My heart skips a beat when his name slips from Adrian’s mouth. I keep my gaze forward, but I can’t deny how something tightens low in my chest, the way my focus slips without permission.

We’ll fucking show them. I glide forward and receive the puck from Atlas and take a shot towards my left where Calli manages to get it. He’s burled out of the way upon contact and being slammed by a huge fella from the opposing team. Nice to see we’re only a few minutes in and already the play is turning dirty.

It unshackled us. Julian and I learned early: power isn’t taken. It’s given. Willingly. Desperately. “Speaking of,” he says, nodding toward the bar. “Pick one. Or two. I’m in the mood for something messy.” “Me too,” I say, flat. We move through the room like wolves among show ponies. Suits cut sharp. Glasses half-full. A drunk socialite bumps into me, tits first, heels wobbling. “Fuck me like I’m nothing,” she breathes.

“Then I’m a bad liar and so are you.” --- The puck bunny appeared at 11:07. She materialized the way puck bunnies always materialized at hockey-house parties—not walking, not approaching, just *arriving*, as if the building had a ventilation system that pumped them in through the ducts when the alcohol level reached a certain threshold. Blonde. Tight black dress that was more suggestion than garment. Heels that made no sense in a basement with a piss pool. Eyes that moved across the room with the practiced efficiency of a scanner looking for the highest-value target.

Even when she made a post and every comment underneath talked about nothing but the breakup, Violet neither responded nor liked a single one. Everyone was ready to hit the ice, but before they left, I looked at them. "Today's game won't be easy. Derek needs backing, and you all have to step up." My words were meant for everyone, but my eyes stayed fixed on Marcus. He understood exactly who they were for. Showing off today wasn't the ideal strategy, and I wasn't the only one who'd said it. Hendricks had repeated it more times than I could count, but every warning landed the same way. Marcus ignored defense entirely, concentrating only on scoring. As the whistle sounded through the arena, Marc

A puck. I sit up slowly. Turn it over in my hands. It's regulation size and weight, no different from the hundreds of pucks I've handled in my life, except for the fact that it is clearly old worn at the edges in a way that speaks to years of handling, the rubber surface smooth in places from contact, the NAHL stamp on the face so faded it's barely legible anymore. Not mine.

Then widened instantly. “Oh my God.” Maya sighed tiredly. “Why does everybody keep saying that?” Jessie looked between them in complete horror while more phones lifted around the bar. “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.” “He punched Derek,” Maya informed her immediately. “I can see that.” “And now he’s bleeding,” Maya added, still holding Hunter’s wrist like she’d personally taken responsibility for it. Jessie looked like she was physically fighting for her life trying to process the situation.

It was in his custody. I had to attack and get it from him to go further. The pressure on me was already too much. The crowd were going ballistic behind my back, each one eager to find out what was going to happen. I skated forward and when I finally got to the other end of the line, I started feeling a constricting feeling in my throat and that was when it hit me. I eyed them for a while. Then attacked. I came swiftly, coming for the puck but he whipped it before I could even get a hold of it. The wave of tension that followed was heavy. I clenched my fists tighter against the hockey stick before coming at him again.

Then someone crashed into the frame. Number 17. The Falcons’ captain came out of nowhere. His stick snapped forward, and with one clean, ruthless move, he stole the puck right from Marvel’s control. One second Marvel had it. The next, he was stumbling, off-balance, as number 17 blew past him. I lowered my phone, my breath catching in my throat. He moved like a storm. Aggressive. Unstoppable. His own teammates seemed to clear a path for him as he charged the Eagles’ goal. The goalie crouched, but it was too late.