Page 37 of Good Pucking Luck

“Jesus, Mom. Do you want me to make friends or not? I don’t have them, and you say I need them. When I make them, you tell me to be careful, but two minutes ago you told me I keep people at arm’s length!” My pulse beats against my skin. I don’t want to get so frustrated, but it’s difficult. My right leg bounces, making it hard to sit, so I shove to my feet.

“You’re upset. I didn’t mean to upset you, Hayes. I just want what’s best for you.”

The thing is, I know she does. And I know I don’t always make it easy either. I sigh. “It’s fine. I’m just on edge today.”

“Is everything okay?”

Is everything okay? The only friends I have, I’ve just met in the last few weeks, and I don’t even know if I can consider them friends. I’m a bit of a mess, and I’m not sure if I’ve ever realized it until now. Fuck Malcolm and this whole journey he’s put me on.

But it’s not like I can say any of that to Mom, so I make up some BS excuse about work, talk to her for a few more minutes, and then end the call.

I’m surprised I haven’t worn a hole through the carpet with my pacing. I’m irritated, stressed, and…I willnotturn on the hockey game.Will not.

I hurry back to my chair and log in to a site that streams the game. No one has to know I’m watching. Rylan will definitely never know. It’ll be my secret. Truthfully, I don’t even understand why I’m watching other than how I’ve been obsessing about him all day and then Mom’s call got me all up in my head. I want to feel…well, the way Rylan makes me feel. Wanted. Good. Even if it is just because we have amazing sex.

They’re playing in North Carolina, then Florida and Nashville. I ignore the fact that I know his schedule by heart.

It’s the third period, and of course the first thing I see is Rylan. He’s ramming some guy into the board thingies. They’re fighting over the puck, Rylan using his big, muscular body tomanhandle the other player and… “What the fuck?” I look down at my dick, which is totally plumping up. Why in the hell do I think this is hot?

My gaze snaps to the computer again when I hear the announcer say that Rylan is getting put in the penalty box. I have no idea what he did since I was preoccupied with my cock, but as he skates over, I notice his lip is bleeding.

Well, this can’t be good, can it? Clearly our sex didn’t work, and now he’s never going to want to have it with me again while I spend my life with a hockey-player kink.

There’s a small chance I’m overreacting.

The camera pans the game, announcers talking about North Carolina going for a power-play goal, whatever the fuck that means. Our goalie blocks it, and there is absolutely no reason I should be calling himouranything, but all I want is for them to show Rylan again. Is he mad? Is he sitting there bleeding and thinking about how my cum ruined his game?

But then, the Rebels are still leading. That has to be a good sign.

He’s out of the game for what feels like five hours, and how the fuck long are hockey games? It’s not like I was paying attention to the one and only game I’ve ever been at.

Rylan has a huge smile on his face when he skates back onto the ice. North Carolina didn’t score while he was out, and Rylan jumps right back into the action.

“It looks like Pierce is playing a little extra special again tonight,” one of the announcers says.

“Something has lit a fire in him these last two games,” another adds, and then…wait…it’s me who is smiling because I’m the one who lit something inside him. At least, according to Rylan. And apparently, the penalty situation didn’t matter.

I don’t even try to pretend I’m not riveted on this dumb, annoying game until the final buzzer sounds and the Rebelsare congratulating each other on their win. A strange giddiness flutters in my chest.

Are they going to talk to Rylan after the game? They usually do that, right? It’s not my finest moment, but I keep my ass in the chair until the after-game press conference starts and Rylan Pierce is coming to sit in front of a microphone. He’s wearing a Dominating Athletics T-shirt and holding the company’s water bottle, which he places just right so the name is showing. His hair is wet like he jumped into a quick shower before he came out.

“Another good game for you tonight, Pierce,” a reporter says.

His scruffy jawline catches my attention, and when he grins, I nearly melt. “Just good? I was thinking more along the line of phenomenal.”

The reporters laugh.

I roll my eyes, though a small part of me finds his confidence charming.

“Really, though, like always, it was a team effort. Mads was a monster in the net. Volkov’s shot was on point. Stevens and I were in sync. It’s a team sport, and we can’t win without each other.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t think you’re King Hockey,” I tell Rylan through the computer.

“That’s true,” the reporter says, “but you have to admit, you’ve been playing like a man on a mission lately.”

“I’m always on a mission—the Stanley Cup,” Rylan replies.

Sports culture is so strange to me, but I do understand the urge to win, to be the best. It’s what my parents set out to do with the Rockwell, and I continue to fight for their vision for our brand.

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