Page 2 of Pucking the Team

This glitzy, fast-paced world is so far removed from my usual homebody routine it may as well be another planet. Most weekends, you can find me snuggled up in my coziest flannel PJs, working my way through pints of cookie dough ice cream while I catch up on my favorite YouTubers.

Selena, of course, thrives in settings like this. It’s like she feeds off the collective energy of the crowd. I envy her easy confidence, the way she seems to float above the noise and chaos, completely at ease.

As we approach The Gilded Lily, the upscale bar where DJ is having his birthday, I can’t help but gawk at the massive line snaking out the front door.

Girls with perfectly tousled beach waves and guys in crisp button-downs wait impatiently behind a velvet rope, eyeing the stone-faced bouncer.

“Whoa, this place is intense,” I murmur to Selena, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “Are you sure we can even get in?”

She shoots me a sly wink. “Oh, we’re getting in. Just follow my lead.”

With a toss of her glossy hair, she saunters right up to the bouncer, a huge guy with biceps the size of tree trunks. I scurry after her, trying my best to mimic her self-assured stride.

The bouncer cocks an eyebrow, surveying us with blatant skepticism. But Selena just smiles up at him, cool as a cucumber.

“We’re on the list. Selena Nelson, plus one.”

My jaw nearly hits the floor as he checks his clipboard, gives a curt nod, and unhooks the velvet rope to let us pass. I shoot Selena an awed glance as we breeze by the line of waiting clubgoers.

“Since when do you have that kind of pull?” I ask.

“Since I made it my mission to get us into this party. You only start a new job with a pro hockey team once.” Her expression softens into something that sees straight through me. “I’m proud of you, Emma. You’re crushing it and you deserve to celebrate.”

Okay, I am not going to cry at a bar!

Ever since Nana passed away last year, it’s just been me and Selena against the world. She’s been my rock, my port in the storm, and my partner in wine-fueled Netflix binges. She was the one who encouraged me to apply for this new job in the first place, who believed that I could get it.

I honestly don’t know how I would have made it through the grief and upheaval without Selena’s help.

I bat my feelings away with a wave of my hand and follow Selena inside.

The interior of the bar takes my breath away. Plush velvet booths line the walls, their rich jewel tones a striking contrast against the gleaming marble surfaces. The soft, ambient lighting casts a warm glow over the space, making everyone look just a little more beautiful, a little more untouchable.

As Selena and I make our way towards the bar, I can feel the weight of curious gazes on us. It’s like they can smell the newcomers, sense that we don’t quite belong. But I refuse to cower.

I straighten my spine, squaring my shoulders as I channel every ounce of Selena’s effortless confidence. Fake it ’til you make it, right?

“Two gin and tonics, please,” Selena calls out to the bartender, a devastatingly handsome man with artfully tousled hair and a jawline that could cut glass.

I shake my head, feeling a sudden urge to break out of my comfort zone. “Actually, make mine a cosmo.”

Selena raises an eyebrow, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Look at you, branching out. I like it.”

Drinks in hand, we stake out a spot near the edge of the room, the perfect vantage point to take in the scene. I scan the crowd, searching for a glimpse of the Blizzards players.

I know they’re here somewhere, and the thought of seeing them in the flesh sends a thrill racing down my spine.

And then, I spot them. Across the room, in a roped-off VIP section, sits a group of tall, athletic men. Even from a distance, they exude an aura of power and magnetism. They’re dressed casually—designer jeans, fitted t-shirts, expensive watches glinting on their wrists—but there’s no mistaking their status.

My breath catches in my throat as I take them in, recognizing a few familiar faces from my late-night research sessions.

Vincent Marquez, the tough-as-nails defenseman with the brooding eyes and the jagged scar above his left eyebrow. Adam Weiss, the starting goalie, all easy smiles and boyish charm that belies his killer instincts on the ice. And Marcus LeBlanc, the power forward with the panty-dropping grin and the reputation for scoring clutch goals, on and off the ice.

“Holy hell,” I breathe, unable to tear my gaze away. “It’s really them.”

Selena follows my line of sight, her eyes widening appreciatively. “Damn. I mean, I knew they were hot, but seeing them in person is a whole different ball game.”

“They don’t use balls in hockey,” I quip back at her, trying not to let my brain short-circuit as I reconcile the larger-than-life figures I’ve seen on TV with the flesh-and-blood men mere feet away.

---