Page 2 of For Pucking Keeps

I watch Lia as she scans the players. At five foot two, my petite neighbor is a force to behold. She’s adorable; black rimmed glasses, big blue eyes, and curly brunette hair frame her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing a blue, green, and silver jersey that practicallyswallows her entire body with the number twenty-two and the last name Masters on the back. Her brother, Ridley Masters, is why we are here. He is a forward for the Seattle Vipers, and I have no doubt she is looking out for him.

I look down at the jersey he provided me with tonight and notice that I have the number fifteen in the middle of my chest. I guess when Lia told him I was joining her tonight he grabbed whatever jersey he could find. The number means nothing to me, but at least I am blending in with the rest of the fans. ‘When in Rome’, as they say. I’ll wear some random’s jersey for the sake of remaining invisible. I already feel a little overwhelmed and out of place as it is.

I’m not a sports enthusiast of any kind, but I want to write a sports romance. Hockey has been getting mad attention lately and I want to jump on the band wagon. “Strike while the iron is hot.” My publisher’s words, not mine. I haven’t written anything in months, and I need my next bestseller. My readers are eager to get their hands on my next book and I don’t think I can keep using my excuse of moving as a reason for not putting words to paper any longer.

How can I write about romance when my own love life is a heaping pile of dog shit? Yep, I went there. The events that led me to move to Seattle four months ago shattered my muse into a million pieces, leaving my creative well as dry as the Sahara Desert;dried up and void of life. Or in my case, ideas. I’m not a big believer in chance, but what are the odds that I move next door to a very convincing neighbor who just so happens to have a brother who plays for the NHL? A win-win for me.

My near miss with my fiancé drained me of my very soul. I won’t lie and say I’m not still heartbroken and running away from the hurt and fallout of the breakup that sent me spiraling into darkness. I haven’t recovered, and at this rate, I never will. It’s been six months, and it still hurts; the wound is fresh, gaping open and raw. If I close my eyes I can still hear the sound of Shaun’s balls slapping against the ass of my supposed best friend, Mace. I shudder at the memory of them shielding their dicks with their hands as they chased me down the driveway of the home I shared with Shaun, both of them trying to convince me that it wasn’t what it looked like. Oh, it definitely was.

I sigh. Yep, that shit still stings. But there is only so much moping I can allow myself to do. Being here in my favorite city is a fresh start, a chance to begin again. A chance I need like my next breath.

I know. I’m a walking and talking cliché. I am running away from my life, seeking refuge and reinvention, while attempting to keep my readers happy in the process. Do I even believe in what I am writing anymore? Love, romance, and the struggles of seeking out a meaningful relationship, with myshattered heart—I don’t know. I need something new. Being here tonight is just the beginning. All the tropes line up perfectly, I am a plot line in the making. See, cliché.

“Looks like a cut chin but his nose doesn’t look broken.” Lia pulls me from my thoughts as she blows out her breath in relief. “That’s a typical Tuesday night for him. He will live.” I watch her squint her eyes, leaning forward, as if she can see directly over the shoulder of the team trainer who’s checking her brother over. He stands and heads back to join his teammates before the beginning of the third and final period of the match. He looks at the stands and offers her a salute, then he disappears out of sight. I watch the exchange and feel a pang of sadness. I miss my own siblings. The lack of communication these past few months is all on me.

I reach for my phone. Staring down at the screen I think about what I could possibly say to excuse my radio silence, when I feel the urge to look up. You know that feeling you get when someone is watching you? Well, I am definitely being watched. Lia elbows me in the side to get my attention. But I don’t acknowledge her right away. Nope, not going to look. Why am I refusing? Honestly, I don’t know. I have a feeling that when I do, there will be a shift in the tectonic plates that is my life. Don’t ask me how I know. It’s my intuition. But who am I kidding? Afterwhat Shaun and Mace did to me, I can’t trust myself to trust my gut either.

“Jaz.” She nudges me again, forcing me to look away from my phone and over at a pair of eyes staring back at me curiously. A mountain of a man stands there with his helmet and stick under his arm, head tilted as he looks from Lia to me, brows raised. Our eyes lock and we are both frozen in place, a neutral standoff is the best way to describe it. He studies me and I do the same. He’s far enough away that I can’t make out the finer details of his face, but I take in his light brown skin, slightly darker than my own, his hair is a dusty brown, shaved on the sides with short locs on top.

I stand slowly, wanting—no, that’s not right—needing, yes, that is a better word, I need to move closer, to see more of him. How do I describe the pull without sounding like a cliché yet again? Magnetism is the only word I can muster. It’s as if we are under a spell. Like there is a little invisible cupid waving its little wand, or cupid’s bow around, teasing us both. I’m picturing it, the little wings, cherub body. . .and then the bubble bursts, freeing us both. A ref skates by and claps him on the back. I watch him jolt in surprise; his eyes leave mine. He says something to the referee and skates away. But not before he stops, looks up at Lia then me, shakes his head, then skates off the ice.

“I guess Tor finally noticed you in his jersey,” Lia says, making me take my eyes from the door he just went through.

What just happened? I sit down slowly, wondering why the hell I felt the need to run to a strange man as if my life depended on it. That is the last thing I need!

“I’m sorry. What? His jersey?” In confusion I glance over at Lia who has an amused look on her face that makes my hackles raise. I am sure she didn’t miss our little tableau. I refuse to even entertain a conversation about what that was all about.

“Jaz, your jersey, number fifteen, is Tor’s number.” She gestures to the tight-fitting jersey I’ve tied off at the waist and chuckles. I look down and roll my eyes. Of course. I purse my lips and give Lia the stink eye. Alright Lia, you are about to lose your new friend status if you keep this up.

I narrow my eyes and pop my shoulder. “So. I am not the only person in this crowd who’s wearing his jersey number, Lia, surely.” I cross my arms over my chest, hiding the number from view, suddenly feeling insecure. What did he see when he looked up at me? Before I can let myself go there, I stop. I couldn’t care less what he or anyone else thinks about my appearance. I am all kinds of comfortable in my skin. It took me years to accept me and damn it— Nope, not going there.

“Well, he definitely noticed you, and he never notices anything other than his hockey stick and puck.” She winks. I don’t know what her wink means, and I won’t try to decipher its meaning any time soon. I didn’t come here to scope out hockey players. Okay, full disclosure, who wouldn’t admire a sexy as sin man when he’s right in front of you? I raise my hands high and admit it. But I wasn’t scoping out anyone, and I am not looking for attention from the opposite sex. There’s no room in my life or my heart anymore.

The rest of the game goes by in a blur. I keep my head down, pretending to make notes on my phone, determined to focus on the reason why I am here. In the end, the Vipers pick up their first win of the season and the fans celebrate in the aisles. My first ever hockey game, and I made a promise to Lia that it wouldn’t be my last. As much as I want to detach myself from the moment, I can’t help but get swept away in the excitement. Before I know it, Lia and I are surrounded by reporters as we wait for her brother outside his locker room. It’s not until I hear the reporters screaming his name that I look up and find hazel eyes looking right at me. Eyes that have me falling into their depths. Eyes that I never want to look away from me again. Well, fuck.

TWO

TOR

“Tor! You were on fire out there tonight.” Devan pats me on my back a little too enthusiastically, causing me to almost lose the grip on the towel as I leave the shower. He hoots excitedly as a chorus of shouts rings out around the locker room. I don’t even have the heart to give him shit about almost exposing my dick. I smile instead. The high of the first win of the season is thick and heavy in the air. With the near win of last season, we all skated on the ice determined to redeem ourselves. This is the first step of many, but the team morale for the rest of this series will be high, and I plan on capitalizing on it for us to win the next three games. As team captain, I have to keep it that way. Everything is riding on me to carry us through to theStanley Cup final, no distractions, my focus will be absolute. Not that I have much in the way of distractions these days as I live and breathe hockey.

Devan Scott, one of my lifelong friends and one of the best defensemen in the league, jumps up on the bench near his locker and turns the music up on his phone. All of us stand around in various states of dress, knowing that we won’t leave the room without his celebratory song and dance. It’s a post-win tradition Devan took upon himself to start. I’m smiling so hard my jaw aches, because Devan is nothing if not a showman both on and off the ice. He has no problem with ‘dropping it low’, the show-off. Originally from Dallas, he trained as a figure skater until he was approached by a local hockey coach who took one look at his footwork and convinced him to try hockey. It didn’t take him long to climb the ranks once he left college. He played for the Dallas Galaxies as a first-round draft pick. He was traded to Seattle four years ago, and the rest is history.

“This fool.” I chuckle, gesturing to Devan over my shoulder with my thumb as I make my way over to my locker next to my best friend and forward, Ridley Masters. The beginning beats of Rhianna’s,Bitch Better Have my Moneyhas the team going wild. Devan begins to pump his hands in the air as he mimes the song, ass shaking in a slow twerk. I laughat his antics, finding myself bobbing my head right along with everyone else. My teammates whistle, egging him on as they all shout the chorus. Uncoordinated dancing ensues; everyone’s hyped and genuinely enjoying themselves. This is what it feels like to win. To bask in the giddiness of our team’s success. I know it’s one win, but this is the level of confidence we need to maintain to get through to the playoffs and eventually the cup. Before I know it, some of the coaching staff join in, everyone getting swept away by Devan’s theatrics.

“You did that, Tor. You came out on the ice swinging tonight. I expected nothing less. You haven’t stopped. While the rest of us took a break during the off season, you kept training, and it shows. The rest of us are just trying to get on your level,” Ridley says as he continues to check out his bruised and cut face in the mirror on his locker.

As a defensemen, hits, cuts, and bruises are something he is used to, but that asshole on Toronto’s team was gunning for him tonight. I blow out a breath. I feel physically and mentally at the top of my game. When the playoffs slipped between our fingers last season, I made a vow to work harder for myself and my team. This is my seventh season with the Seattle Vipers. How can I call myself the team’s leader and not deliver the cup this year? How can I justify mysalary after all this time if we continue to hit and miss?

Ridley presses the swollen bruise on his cheek and winces. “Foster was goading me all night. I don’t usually let it get to me, but when he started talking shit about Lia, I lost it.” He blows out a breath in frustration, running his hands through his still wet hair.

Ridley was signed up straight out of college and joined Seattle at the same time as I did. He and his sister, Lia, moved here together six years ago, having lost their parents in a car accident during Ridley’s senior year of college. Hence his uber protectiveness of his younger sister. She is all he has left, I get it.

I nudge his shoulder in support of his actions. As team captain, I don’t condone dropping gloves, but sometimes a throw down can’t be helped. Plus, Lia is like a little sister to me as well, she is my family, just like her brother. I protect what’s mine, including the man sitting next to me. He is my ride or die. Hell, if Foster hadn’t finally shut up from his beatdown I probably would have joined Rid in the sin bin. At the mention of Lia’s name my thoughts turn to earlier and the woman wearing my jersey. “Speaking of Lia, who was the?—”

“Bailey!” My head flies up at the sound of the head coach’s voice and I immediately snap to attention. All thoughts of the woman I saw sitting next toLia go flying out the window. “The circus awaits outside, and the mob is getting restless,” he says with an annoyed smirk as the music dies at his arrival. The team hustles to get dressed and leave the locker room. I am not a fan of the press but most nights the duty falls to me to face the media. Or the firing squad, depending on whether we’ve played well or like shit on the ice. Tonight, it should be quick and painless.

“On it, coach!” I shout as I hurry to finish dressing. The sooner I get this over with the better.

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