Puck Up Lines Novels & Stories

*Chapter 1: Two Pink Lines* _Two pink lines._ I blinked. Rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palm until I saw stars. Counted again. Still two. The plastic stick shook in my hand like it was mocking me. Like the universe had decided twenty-five years of bad luck wasn’t enough, and I needed a boss-level disaster. The date stamped on the wrapper said _Exp: 12/2027_. So the test wasn’t faulty. I was.

"The entire chat is gone. What happened?" Ivy hurried over from Mrs. Carver's side, pressed her hands together, and smiled at Simon in apology. "Sim, I'm sorry. "I used your phone to play a game last night and accidentally deleted Maren's chat. It shouldn't matter, right?" Simon laughed helplessly. "If it's deleted, it's deleted. What's the big deal? "You accidentally formatted my whole phone before, and I didn't say anything then either."

I threw my arms up, angled myself toward the photo pit for an extra second just to be an asshole about it. And so the photographers can take pictures of my winning pose from every angle. Plus I wanted her to see me. The second period was mine too, now we are two to nothing. My line ran over theirs every shift. Leo looked more pissed every time the puck crossed their blue line and I liked it. Every celebration still pulled my eyes toward that same corner where she sat pretending she was just another camera girl. She wasn’t. I already knew that and I already knew what her mouth tasted like.

“Aye, cankerblossom? Does the uncle of carbuncles have a duty for me?” “Safeguard the maggot. I have filth to dispose of.” Puck looked at me with wary eyes. “A maggot the maiden? I'd nary call her that. But beneath bonnie looks doth subterfuge often lie. Hark, Horney- you're bidding I'll do, with nay a shiny pence in the matter.” Puck paused, nostrils flaring. “Verily! I heard some nuggin matter.”

"Yeah?" Knox looked up at me with the expression I had categorized as his most dangerous — the one that was casual on the surface and completely deliberate underneath, the one that knew exactly what it was doing and was doing it anyway. He bounced the object in his hand once, then raised his stick and batted it up toward the bleachers in a clean, arcing shot. It landed on the bench two feet from me with a sharp crack. A puck. I picked it up. In black marker, in handwriting I recognized from a note passed in AP Lit approximately eleven days ago, it said: Formal?

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.

The company looked much better, at least on the surface. However, some things could never be covered up. The clients arrived on Wednesday morning. As soon as they arrived at the entrance, the investor's group was shocked by the result of the broken smart lock. Due to the broken lock, Vivienne bought a U-lock meant for bicycles and used it to lock up the glass door. As a result, anyone who went through the door would cause a loud commotion as they undid the U-lock. A flicker of doubt appeared in the investor's eyes as he stared at the rusty lock on the door.

I knew he could not take twenty more minutes of being a battering ram against a solid wall of steel. "Fine," Lucian said. He took a sip of water, his cage clicking against the plastic nozzle. "We dump it. We dump the puck." The second line climbed over the boards as the gate slammed shut, a crack of wood on metal. The game moved with that agonizing rhythm. The minutes ticked away on the jumbotron. Five minutes left in the second. Two minutes.

SAGE MONTERO. @puckmedaddy: ‘Gah, I understand why he’s the captain; he looks like he handles a puck the same way he does a woman. Rough.’ Yeah, until he chokes you to death. @rookslapmepls: ‘I volunteer. I volunteer. I volunteer as tribute…sorry I meant puck.’ If desperate had a label, it’d be you, sweetheart. @rookmehard: ‘I know they call him the Angel cause he’s a devil in the sheets. Argue with the wall, everyone.’

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.