Page 1 of Puck Me Daddy

Chapter 1

It was the biggestday of my life.

I was a grinder. Someone who worked hard, never took anything for granted. For the past five years I’d been working non-stop towards today.

“Don’t fuck this up, Tilly,” I said to myself, checking my makeup in the car mirror. I’d done my normal “pretend to be a normal human” trick this morning. Somehow, I still managed to look a little unusual. I couldn’t help go a little more powder pink with the lip-gloss than was strictly normal.

Still. No time to worry right now. I had a once-in-a-lifetime interview to conduct.

The glass doors slid open with a whoosh, releasing a blast of frigid air that raised goosebumps on my skin. I stepped inside the Colorado Avalanche training facility, my heart beating like a drum solo in my chest. Glass trophy cases sparkled under the fluorescent glare. The click-clack of my heels echoed down the minimalist hallway, bouncing off motivational posters that looked more sparse than inspiring. I wasn’t used to wearing heels, and I felt a little unsteady on my feet.

I hugged my notepad tight, like a life preserver keeping me afloat. This was the assignment of a lifetime. A one-on-one with NHL bad boy Demian Pierce, the six-foot-something hockey prodigy who'd ghosted every reporter for the past four years. And somehow, he'd agreed to talk. To me. Little ol' Tilly Jameson, ink-stained cub reporter.

Why me? The question sizzled in my brain as a security guard ushered me deeper into the labyrinth of concrete and steel. Before I could ponder for long, a man in a charcoal suit intercepted me. He had the chiseled face of an action figure and the blank stare to match.

"Miss Jameson? I'm Mr. Pierce's handler," he said, pumping my hand in a vise grip. "Let's go over the ground rules. No personal questions, no off-ice photos, and his family is strictly off-limits. Capiche?"

"Got it," I said, bristling at his patronizing tone. Who did this stuffed suit think he was, telling me how to do my job? I snuck a glance at my notepad, where I'd scrawled potential questions in my loopy shorthand. What drives your perfectionism, Demian? How do you handle pressure on the ice? And the million-dollar stumper: Why start giving interviews now, after stonewalling for so long?

The handler droned on, but my mind wandered to the upcoming interview. Demian Pierce, in the flesh. My stomach did a flip-flop at the thought. I'd seen him on TV, all rippling muscles and brooding stares as he sliced across the ice. But in person? I had no idea what to expect.

I took a breath and plastered on my best professional smile. The handler might be a grade-A jerk, but I was determined to make the most of this chance. To dig deep and uncover the man behind the mask. The real Demian Pierce.

Nerves jangled through me as we approached a set of double doors. This was it. The moment of truth. I clutched my pen tight and sent up a silent prayer to the journalism gods.

Please, let me get something good out of him.

The handler swung open the door and ushered me inside. A windowless conference room greeted me, its steel gray walls seeming to close in under the buzz of fluorescent lights.

I was surprised by how clinical this place was. Most of the other teams I’d visited had facilities that were full of personality. Not here though.

I made my way to the rectangular table in the center of the room. Black leather chairs ringed it like sentinels. I chose one at random and sat, feeling the chill of the seat through my skirt.

With slightly shaky hands, I set up my recorder and checked the angle. The red light blinked at me accusingly. Get it together, Tilly. You've interviewed senators and CEOs. You got this.

Yeah but none of those bozos had the looks of a supermodel and the talent of a super-genius.

Plus, Demian had mega Daddy energy.

But I wasn’t going to let myself think dangerous thoughts like that. No way.

As I arranged my notes, I couldn't quiet the butterflies in my stomach. Demian Pierce wasn't just any subject. He'd burst onto the scene like a supernova four years ago and had dominated the NHL ever since, leading his team to back-to-back Stanley Cup victories. His on-ice moves were pure genius - even a sports illiterate like me could see that.

Off the ice though? That's where things got murky. Rumors swirled about his volatile temper, his clashes with teammates and coaches. He'd been spotted stumbling out of more than a few bars and clubs, a different clinging brunette on his arm each time.

All of which begged the question—why had he agreed to this interview? And why me, of all people?

The door clicked open and I sat up straighter, pulse thrumming. This was it. My eyes widened as Demian himself strode in, seeming to suck all the air from the room with his presence.

Even though I knew he was tall, his sheer physical presence surprised me. He was broad, too, his suit jacket straining against his muscular shoulders. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow, a souvenir from some on-ice battle. But it was his eyes that made me catch my breath. A stormy, intense gray that seemed to look right through me as they scanned the room.

For a split second, I swore I saw surprise flicker across his chiseled features as his gaze landed on me. Like he'd expected someone else. Someone older, probably. More seasoned.

The thought made me sit up even straighter, a flush warming my cheeks. I would show him I could play with the big boys.

"Mr. Pierce," I said, rising and extending my hand. "Tilly Jameson. National Post. It's a pleasure to meet you."

His eyes met mine as he clasped my hand in his much larger one. An electric zing shot up my arm at the contact. His skin was surprisingly warm, the calluses on his palm scraping my own soft skin. I caught a whiff of his cologne, something dark and spicy, with an undercurrent of . . . cold? Like he'd stepped straight off the rink.

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