Page 12 of They All Puck Me

My instinct is to refuse, to keep my distance from anything that involves being buddy-buddy with these guys. But her enthusiasm is infectious, and before I know it, I'm nodding.

"Alright," I say reluctantly, "but I'm not promising to play nice."

She chuckles, a sound that feels like warm honey in this cold arena. "I wouldn't expect you to. Come on, let's go find the others."

We walk through the corridors of the Howl Center, the echo of our footsteps filling the space between us. Olivia's presence is oddly calming, her confidence radiating in every step she takes. The same confidence I used to possess before I was thrown to the fucking wolves, literally.

5

OLIVIA

The rink hums with activity as I make my way through the corridors, my notebook a comforting weight in my hand. The ice opens up before me, the chill in the air a stark contrast to the warmth of the bustling hallways. My eyes immediately find Liam on the ice, his presence commanding as he leads drills with an intensity that’s hard to ignore. Something else that's hard to ignore is his ass in his uniform pants, but I digress.

Our eyes meet for a brief moment, and I feel that familiar flutter in my stomach. Memories of our tour and that unexpected, electrifying moment on the ice come rushing back. I quickly look away, focusing on my notes.

I step closer to the boards, watching the practice unfold. The players move with precision, executing drills under Liam’s watchful eye. His voice cuts through the noise, authoritative and sure.

"Reynolds, keep your head up!" he shouts. Ethan adjusts his stance, shooting a glare at Liam before following his direction.

I scribble down observations, trying to capture the dynamics at play. Ethan’s struggle to fit in is palpable; it’s clear he’s still finding his footing with the team.

I spend the next half our analyzing move after move, play after play, trying to nail down what makes these guys tick.

The shrill sound of Coach's whistle grates against my ears, signaling for a water break.

Noah skates over to the boards, his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin plastered on his face. He’s breathing hard, sweat trickling down his temple, but he still manages to look annoyingly handsome. He leans casually against the boards, eyes twinkling with mischief.

"Coach Bergman really outdid himself today, huh?" he says, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. "I swear he's trying to kill us before the playoffs."

I laugh, the sound cutting through the chilly air. "Well, it looked pretty gnarley from here. I half expected someone to drop dead on the ice."

Noah chuckles, shaking his head. "Nah, we’re tougher than we look. But I wouldn't mind if someone 'accidentally' spilled coffee on Bergman's playbook."

"Sounds like a solid plan," I say, still grinning. "Maybe you can get Liam on board with that."

He snorts. "Liam? He's more likely to memorize the whole thing and recite it back to Bergman in his sleep."

Our banter flows easily, reminding me of when him, Liam, and I had lunch together. Noah’s warmth and humor are infectious, making it hard not to be drawn to him.

"So," he continues, leaning in a bit closer, "how's the article coming along? Got any juicy secrets yet?"

I smirk, tapping my pen against my notebook. "Oh, you know... just the usual stuff about pre-game rituals and locker room gossip. Nothing groundbreaking. Oh, except for the fact that I've been told some of your brethren here purchase a larger sized jock strap to make themselves look more endowed."

He spits the sip of water he just took from his bottle out of his mouth, painting the glass. "Hey," he says, mid cough, or laugh, I'm not real sure at this point. "Our pre-game rituals are sacred. Especially Colt's ridiculous sock superstition."

"Ridiculous?" I arch an eyebrow. "You mean color-coded socks aren't crucial for game day success?"

He laughs again, and it's impossible not to join him. "You'd be surprised how many games those socks have won us."

"Right," I say dryly. "I'll be sure to give them their own section in the article."

"And just for clarification," he says with a smirk. "I can't discredit the jock strap theory, as I've had my own concerns seeing what some people are working with in the communal showers…" he bends down, his mouth inches from mine. "But I can confirm that I am not one of those subjects in question."

Who knew talking about jock straps could get me flustered?

The sound of Coach Bergman’s whistle cuts through our conversation. Noah straightens up reluctantly.

"Guess that's my cue," he says with a wink.

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