Pucking Around Book Novels & Stories

I turn the puck over one more time, slower now, and something cold and strange moves through my chest. Caspian carries a lucky puck. Has for years, apparently I overheard Riven mention it once in passing, something about how Beckett sleeps with it under his pillow, how no one's ever supposed to touch it or even acknowledge it exists because that's the kind of superstition that runs so deep it's become structural, load-bearing, the kind of thing you can't remove without something else collapsing. Under his pillow. I look down at the puck in my hand. Look at my bed. Look at the pillow I just pulled it out from under.

That was the main difference. I had three finals. Pack Leadership Theory—that one actually felt real this year because the inquiry had turned pack governance from some abstract textbook thing into the exact mess I was living through. Advanced Territorial Law was thick and slow and needed real concentration. And then the hockey program's Sports Psychology requirement, which was basically a freebie. I knocked that one out in the first week because I'd been living the material all semester anyway.

It's interesting is all I know. Opening the book, I begin to delve into it. I read for a long time, and somebody turns on the radio. More people come into the pool, but not a lot. I sit and concentrate on my book, completely wrapped up by the contents of a story written by a now-dead person. Sometime after eleven, the other four decide to start playing in the water. Pike included. I just nod and keep reading. They jump in and giggle and thrash about. Sometimes the ball they play with rolls over to me, but I kick it back each time.

Hawk has an arm around mine which is in full punch mode. “Go fuck your mother.” I yell at the asshole who has cornered me, the puck was mine, it was mine for the taking and it would have been a good shot. Sometimes, it can pretty mean and nasty on the ice like today. The guys we’re playing are total fuckers.

The lines around his eyes let Lu know that he was smirking behind his coffee cup. “If we are?” Merrow asked, brushing back his white blonde hair as he studied the book in his hands. Flipping back to the cover, he looked at the models with a sigh of boredom. “It says it’s about mer-folk, but he does not look like one of ours.” “I think it’s supposed to be the girl.” Puca said, his grin deepening. “She has a tail.” “That’s not what we look like either,” Merrow said with a frown.

I had laughed then and received my first punch to the stomach. I tried not to laugh at the thought of the book I had reread a few weeks ago by Pippa Grant where the girl made dick cookies and had thousands of a deformed penises to someone, that someone was in another book with one of my favorite book boyfriends, Ares. I try to think back on the storyline of the book, so I don’t have to think about what is about to happen.

Hawk I settled Lily in the playroom and nodded to Ellie who was watching the kids along with another young club whore… I didn’t know her name. Didn’t really care to. All I knew was she was good with kids. I stepped out and almost ran into Booker. “What?” “She’s not a whore.” I scowled. “I know she’s not a whore.” Booker crossed his arms. “Probably isn’t into your warped kind of sex either.” “Fuck off, Booker.”

"You're doing it again. You're watching me. You're not even pretending to read. You're just staring at me. You haven't looked at your book once. Not once. You don't even know what page you're on." "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I know it's distracting. I know it's a lot. I know it's intense. I know it's overwhelming. I know it's too much. I know it's probably weird." "Don't be sorry. Just tell me why. What are you looking for? What are you hoping to find? What are you seeing when you look at me? What's going on in your head?"

_*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> Neither of them looked away first. _*]:min-w-0 gap-3"> The puck dropped.

POV: KAI The press box smells like musty coffee and old popcorn. I sit in the back row, laptop balanced on my knees, hoodie zipped to my chin. The collar still hides most of the mark, but I feel it every time I swallow. Like a reminder I can't delete. Game starts fast. Puck drops. The crowd roars. I type without looking down much—habit now. The Ice Hawks are up early, but it's not the score I'm watching.