Puck you, p.1
Puck You, page 1
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Three Months Later
Acknowledgments
About the Author
For all the older sisters, but especially mine.
Prologue
Sebastian
Two minutes and one goal were all that stood between me and the national championship. I’d imagined this moment to the point of obsession, but never once had it played out like this: a tied score with only one hundred and twenty seconds on the clock, triggering a wild scramble to win in the final moments of the game.
The only person I could blame was myself. For the first time in my hockey career, I’d allowed something outside the rink to follow me onto the ice. It was a mistake that had cost us an early lead, a mistake I couldn’t afford to make in the NCAA Frozen Four national championship. As the clock continued to wind down, it was all I could do to remind myself that nothing else mattered in this moment, not even the woman I loved.
From the bench, I watched as our third line fumbled the puck straight into the waiting sticks of Minnesota’s defense. My gloved fingers tightened around the edge of the metal beneath me. This game was never going to be easy. The Bulldogs were a powerful force on the rink, a seasoned team with years of experience under their belts, but we had an edge—me—and I was going to do whatever it took to make sure our team was celebrating when the confetti rained down.
Ninety seconds left.
My pulse skyrocketed as Rowling intercepted a slapshot from the Bulldog’s right winger. The junior had barely gained control of the puck when number six from the opposing team landed a nasty cross-check. An uproar swept through the arena as the referee blew his whistle, and number six was sent off to wait out his time in the sin bin.
Go time.
Back in possession following the face-off, and with added advantage of outnumbering the opposing team, we moved the puck around in quick passes, keeping Minnesota at bay as we soared into enemy territory. I concentrated my energy on finding the perfect gap: a brief opening that would cement my name and the Dallard University Ravens in history forever. But Kent jumped the gun: his snap shot went high, bouncing off the plexiglass and tangling in the back of the net. There was a momentary scramble before the referee blew his whistle to signal the play was dead. I glanced at the game clock. Forty seconds was more than enough time.
Focus, Sebastian. All you need to do is focus.
All I could hear was the sound of my own rushing blood as I fell into place at the perimeter of the red circle. I was on the puck less than a second after it dropped, backhanding it to Devon as he shot off from the board side into position behind me. He caught it with the very tip of his stick and pushed out for a quick-release shot, one that I knew would inevitably be blocked. I drove toward the net as the puck flew by and ricocheted off the goalie’s kneepads. The rebound met my stick with a satisfying crack, hurtling the puck back toward the goal just as a massive form descended on me. There was no mistaking the sickening pop that tore through my knee as I was struck from the side, or the burning agony that followed. The ice rushed toward me as the horn blared. A furious pain overwhelmed my senses, drowning out the roar of the crowd and the clash of celebrating bodies above me. As the exhilarated faces of my teammates swarmed above, I knew something was terribly wrong. I’d won us the game, but at what cost?
Chapter 1
Sebastian
“You won’t get any second chances this year, Sebastian. I made allowances for your poor grades while you recovered from your injury, but that won’t continue.”
I gritted my teeth and forced myself to remain silent in the wake of Dean Adler’s scolding. His weathered face was not a kind sight, and there was a tiny piece of unidentifiable food hanging from his overgrown mustache. It moved up and down as he berated me about my academic performance last semester. Apparently, this school had only been willing to make exceptions for me when I was their star athlete. Now that I was damaged goods in their eyes, that special treatment no longer applied.
“I can assure you my grades won’t be a problem this semester,” I told him. “I’m recovered and well.”
Recovered—yes. Well? That was an entirely different matter.
“Your academic advisor will be checking in with me on a regular basis. If there are any issues, I will know.”
I nodded politely in response, but my eyes conveyed something entirely different. Fuck you, they said. Fuck you for treating me like a washout after everything I did for this school. If I wasn’t so practiced in my control, I might have let the words slip. But mouthing off wouldn’t do me any favors. I couldn’t afford to piss anyone off, not with my future on the line. Soon enough, the entire school—Dean Adler included—would realize how wrong they’d been to assume I was even close to finished.
“You’re free to go, Sebastian.”
I retreated from his stuffy office without so much as a goodbye. In the past, Dean Adler had gone out of his way to kiss my ass. After all, as the star of the hockey team, I was Dallard University’s golden boy. Even after I tore my ACL, everyone was hopeful I’d make a quick return to the ice. But my surgery had been more complicated than expected, which extended my physical therapy for several months, so I’d rushed back to the rink prematurely. I’d wanted to prove that I was still the same player. More importantly, I’d needed to show the Red Wings that I was ready for the big league. But even after ten months of recovering, I wasn’t in the same shape I’d been in the year before, and my attempted return to the ice had been nothing less than mortifying. After that, everyone was quick to forget my part in leading the men’s hockey team to their first national championship, as a sophomore no less. All it took was one terrible performance for the dean to lose interest in his favorite toy. It made me all the more determined to spend my final year proving everyone wrong.
Despite the early hour, campus was buzzing with activity as I emerged from the administrative building. Over the last few days, students had trickled back into town as summer break came to an end. With classes set to begin on Monday, the last-minute scramble to get ready for the semester had begun. I set off for the hockey facility under the gaze of intrusive eyes, keeping to one of the tree-lined paths that cut through the school grounds. Everyone at Dallard knew who I was, and that notoriety couldn’t be avoided. Even before my injury, I’d never liked being goggled at. I could tune out the attention on the ice, but it wasn’t just when I was playing: it was media interviews, student newspaper features, and a heightened profile once NHL scouts were involved. After the initial story broke about my injury, the buzz had eventually quieted down. There were a few articles speculating about my return to hockey, but I wasn’t interested in publicly discussing my healing process. That didn’t curb the students’ interest in me, though. If anything, people stared more than before, but now they looked at me like I was someone to be pitied.
Once I ducked into the safety of DuLane Arena, the tension in my shoulders released. Since freshman year, the state-of-the-art training facility had served as my place of refuge. Within these walls, I felt a deep sense of belonging. On game days, the building was always packed with thousands of fans, but today the place was empty, and I gave myself a moment to bask in the solitude.
I spent most of my time in the lower levels of the DuLane. The locker room was just below the arena, but even further underground was an expansive training facility, recovery center, a second rink, and several offices for the coaching staff and head trainer. I took the set of elevators off the main entrance down to the locker room, holding my badge up to the sensor above the button panel and selecting B1. Even after five years, the place still had that new-construction smell, with the exception of the locker rooms. Fortunately, they were bleached in the offseason, so there were no foul odors to turn my nose as I slipped inside. Every inch of the room was bathed in Dallard blue and green, and a large, jet-black raven—the school mascot—was painted across the center of the floor.
After my miserable meeting with Dean Adler, I wanted nothing more than to lose myself on the ice. In a matter of minutes, I was changed into my gear and walking through the sloped tunnel leading up to the rink entrance. A burst of cool air hit my face as I entered the arena, and I was immediately met with the sound of blades carving through the ice.
An unfamiliar form flew over the recently zambonied rink, maneuvering through a long line of cones with a puck at the tip of his hockey stick. I allowed myself a moment to appreciate the sight of him cutting across the ice in clean, precise sweeps. He moved with a grace most guys spent years trying to perfect, as if the hockey stick was a natural extension of his arm. I inched closer to the rink, eager to get a better look. The player was slim, much smaller than the other guys on the team, and I wondered if he was a freshman. You didn’t have to
He didn’t notice me until I slipped inside the players’ bench. Ice shavings flew from beneath the blades of his skates as he came to an abrupt stop at the opposite end of the rink. He glanced around, as if to check if anyone else was watching, before pushing off and heading in my direction. When he was close enough that I could begin to make out his face behind the cage, he gripped underneath his helmet and pulled it off in one clean motion. A thick brown braid fell over his shoulder.
No, not his shoulder—her shoulder.
She was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, several strands of her dark hair clinging to the skin around her face. A pair of wide brown eyes fringed with thick lashes peered back at me in open curiosity. Slowly, my gaze traced the outline of her arched eyebrows, traveling down the slope of her freckled nose and settling on a pair of slightly parted lips. She had a dangerous mouth, one I was immediately tempted to taste. Lips with the power to make me forget all about my girlfriend.
“What, never seen a girl before?” Her words came out in a teasing rasp that caused the hair on my arms to rise.
In that moment, I felt as if the entire English language had abandoned me. She was a wet dream come to life, my perfect woman. Someone who, based on the way she skated so effortlessly, knew the ice as deeply as I did. But why was she here? Only the men's team practiced at DuLane.
“What are you doing here?” It wasn’t my intension to sound so accusatory. In truth, her appearance had caught me completely off guard. But before I could apologize, an unexpected thought struck me—don’t explain yourself. This girl was a stranger, one I didn’t owe anything. The mere sight of her had rendered me speechless, and for the first time in three years, I was unsettled—uncertain, even—within the walls of DuLane Arena; it was a feeling I didn’t like.
She raised a brow. “Isn’t that obvious?”
“You must be new, so I’m happy to clear up any confusion,” I said, trying not to sound as rattled as I felt. “DuLane Arena is the men’s hockey facility. The women have their own facility—McKinley Rink. You’re not supposed to practice here.”
The girl stilled at my response. If I hadn’t been watching her so closely, I would have missed the subtle movement of her fingers tightening around the hockey stick.
“I know,” she said, the playful note in her tone vanishing.
Then why the hell was she here carving up my ice?
Before I could voice my question, she continued, “The women’s facility is on the other side of campus, and I don’t have a car to get my equipment over there. This rink was closer.”
“I don’t see how that’s my problem,” I said with a shrug. “You’re chewing up my ice.”
“Your ice?”
“Male hockey player”—I pointed to myself, then to the rink—“men’s ice.”
“Is it illegal for someone with boobs to skate here? I didn’t think guys your age were still afraid of getting cooties. Or maybe you’re just scared of being shown up by a girl?”
“Scared of what, exactly? You might be good for a girl, but you have nothing on me. In fact, you couldn’t keep up with anyone on the men’s team. We’re bigger than you, faster than you, and more competitive. The women have their own facility for a reason,” I explained, a smug grin on my face. “Use it next time.”
Her lip curled up in an expression that could only be described as contempt before she sidestepped me to enter the player’s bench. She started removing her gear in haste, eventually stripping down to a dry-fit long sleeve and leggings. With a mind of their own, my eyes tracked her movements, taking in the shape of her toned body beneath the skintight clothing, lingering over her muscular legs and the distracting curve of her ass. When she glanced over at me again, her eyes were narrowed. “Don’t ogle me after that response. Assholes don’t get the right to look.”
I scoffed. “I wasn’t ogling you. Don’t think so highly of yourself.”
“Oh, my apologies,” she said, pulling her braid out from under the sweatshirt she’d tugged on. “I must have imagined you eye-fucking me.”
“Look, there’s no need for you to be snippy with me. I’m trying to be helpful by explaining the rules around here.”
She gave me a saccharine-looking smile that somehow felt as far away from sweet as possible. “Then understand I’m trying to be helpful when I say this—removing the stick lodged up your ass might make you a more bearable human being.”
My jaw clenched, but I chose to ignore her comment. “The women don’t play here, that’s a fact. You should learn it before your first day of school.”
“I’m not setting up camp here,” she hissed, cheeks turning a deep shade of red. “I only needed a little ice time.”
“Again, not my problem.”
Her eyes filled with a glimmer of something I couldn’t decipher, and the sight triggered a warning bell inside my head. Her next words made my muscles tense.
“I’m happy to make it your problem.”
Was this girl threatening me on my own ice? I searched my brain for an adequate response, but nothing came to mind; I was too caught off guard by her audacity.
“As delightful as this conversation has been,” she said, gathering her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, “I’d rather eat shit than spend one more second in your presence.”
I moved to stop her before I could even think about the implications, my fingers curling around the sliver of bared skin at her wrist. Unexpected heat surged up my arm and through my body when our skin met, and I dropped her hand as if I’d been scalded. The girl stared down at the spot where I’d touched her as if she’d experienced the same strange sensation.
“What’s your name?” I asked after a beat of stunned silence.
Her brows pulled together at my question. Gone was the animosity behind her stare. In its place, something entirely foreign had taken root. I had no idea what to make of the expression.
“Please, tell me,” I commanded in a soft whisper. I couldn’t hide the desperation in my voice. Knowing her name was more important than my own pride. For whatever reason, I was convinced that the sound of it would put an end to this fiery feeling inside me. But rather than concede, she shook off her shock and offered up another vexing threat.
“You’ll know soon enough, asshole.”
>> <<
Grace
The promise left my lips before I even knew what it meant. In my anger, I would have threatened just about anything for the chance to wipe the smug expression from his face. So long, douchebag. I refused to waste another second of my life speaking to this guy, even if he was outrageously attractive. No one with eyes that green and hair so perfectly disheveled should be allowed to exist. Without another word (and there were several choice words I would have loved to use), I stepped around his annoyingly tall frame and made for the exit. Hockey was a relatively small world. I’d met guys like him before, players who thought that good looks and talent on the ice meant they were superior to everyone else. There was no shortage of arrogance within college athletics, but this guy really took the cake. I wouldn’t have been shocked to learn he was nothing more than a cherry-picking bender.
With my morning now thoroughly ruined, I made the short trek back to my on-campus housing. The sun was peeking over the buildings as I stepped outside DuLane Arena. Burning light bathed the grounds in yellow-orange hues and cast tree-shaped shadows across the grass. Several students shot me strange looks as I struggled down the path with my equipment bag in tow, muttering vague threats under my breath. When I caught a glimpse of the ivy-veiled stone structure at the end of the road, I let out a sigh of relief. After three flights of killer stairs, I slipped inside the apartment, dumped my bag on the floor, and let out a huff of frustration.
“Did you bring your hockey gear with you for a morning stroll?” My roommate’s voice carried from the kitchen.
