Page 5 of Suck My Puck

“Well, some of us have to be up earlier than nine in the morning,” he fires back.

I bite down, annoyed at how he’s implying I’m lazy for sleeping later than he does.

The urge to tell him that I worked until five in the morning hits, but I stop myself. I don’t need to explain myself to this jackass.

I narrow my gaze at him. “Gotta keep up with those early morning gym bro sessions, huh?”

His smirk fades. “I’m not a gym bro. I’m a hockey player. I have practice early sometimes.”

That annoyance inside of me turns bitter. I glance down at the Denver Bashers logo on his hoodie.

I let out a tired laugh. “Of course you’re a hockey player.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” He’s clearly offended.

I glance off to the side before looking at him. “Nothing. Just be quiet, okay?”

“Fine,” he mutters.

I walk back to my apartment, shut the door behind me, then stumble back into bed.

I close my eyes and try to fall back asleep despite the annoyance and adrenaline spiking through me. My neighbor is a loud, obnoxious hockey player. Just fucking great.

Chapter 3

Braden

Sweat trickles down my face as I stand guard in the net. My heart hammers in my chest as I track the puck on the ice.

The left winger from the Dallas Commanders has possession and speeds toward me. All the muscles in my body tighten.

We’re six minutes from the end of the first period, and already I’ve let in three goals. My team is losing because of me. I can’t let another one in.

The winger zeroes in on me and winds up for a shot. He shoots and I dive, blocking it. Relief washes over me. But it only lasts for a split second.

Because then a Dallas defenseman appears from behind the winger and takes a shot. Panic rockets through me as I scramble to cover the other side of the net.

I kick my leg up, hoping I block the shot. But I’m a half-second too late. The puck lands in the net. The Dallas players scream and celebrate. The home crowd groans.

I yell out a curse, anger and frustration pummeling through me like a tidal wave. Then dread.

I know what’s coming next.

Coach Porter calls a time-out. I take a moment to guzzle water before I look at him. Anything to delay the inevitable.

When I finally make eye contact with Porter, he’s already looking at me. He gives the head nod, and that’s it. I’m out of the game.

The dread settles like razor blades in my stomach. I haven’t been pulled for a shitty performance like this in over a year.

As I skate to the bench, my body is rigid with frustration. What the fuck is wrong with me?

When I make it to the bench, Ritchie Fox, the other goalie on the team, hops out. He taps me with his stick and offers a pitying stare.

We don’t exchange words. We don’t have to. We both know how much it sucks to have a bad night in the net.

When I sit down at the team bench, a restless wave of energy courses through me.

I didn’t use to be like this, diving all over the net, scrambling to make a save.

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