Page 10 of Puck Me Daddy

It wasn’t just me waiting. Other reporters clustered around the exit, a swarm of hungry vultures waiting for their pound of flesh. I hung back, fingering the puck Demian had given me in my bag, next to my phone. My heart pounded in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears like a drumroll.

I snuck a glance at my reflection in the metal door. Cheeks flushed, hair a frizzy mess from the arena’s heat. I looked like I’d been riding a rollercoaster—half exhilarated, half terrified. “Calm down, Tilly,” I muttered to myself, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “This is not a date. This is work. He just wants to open up more, for his public image.”

But my body wasn’t buying it. My nerves hummed like live wires, every inch of me tingling with anticipation. I could still feel his gaze on me, like a phantom touch. I could still see that commanding presence, the way he owned the ice. The way he might own me, if I let him.

A commotion at the door snapped me back to reality. The players were starting to emerge, laughing and shouting, highon adrenaline and victory. I took a deep breath, forcing my professional mask into place. But my heart wouldn’t stop pounding. And my hand wouldn’t stop clutching that damn puck.

I was in trouble. Big, big trouble.

Finally, the very last player to emerge was Demian. Still dressed in his under-armor top, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder like it was no big deal. His eyes swept the area, and when they landed on me, everything else faded into background noise. He walked towards me, all slow and steady, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Damn. You look gorgeous," he said, his voice low.

I almost passed out.

“Ex-excuse me?”

“Sorry, is that out of line?”

My heart kicked into overdrive, pounding so hard I could feel it in my fingertips. I was aware of the phone in my hand, still recording, but I couldn't form a single word. He looked at me, really looked, and it was like we were the only two people in the world.

“No. Not out of line,” I managed.

“Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to say that. I just—instinct took over.”

I could feel my cheeks getting redder and redder.

“It’s fine. Thank you. Thank you for the friendly compliment.”

He tilted his head towards a quieter spot in the hallway, and I followed him, my heels clicking on the polished floor. The air was cooler here, but I could feel the heat radiating off him. He was still amped up from the game, every line of his body taut and ready.

He turned to face me, his voice softer than I'd ever heard it. "I don’t usually do this, Tilly. Give people tickets to games. Meetthem afterward. I can’t explain it. I just have this feeling about you."

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the record button on my phone. I didn't know what to say, what to do. I was here for a story, but this . . . this felt like something else entirely.

He leaned in, his voice barely a whisper. "I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since the interview. It’s kind of annoying, honestly. But the fact is . . . I think I might like you, Tilly. I hope that’s not too forward."

I flicked off the recorder, my breath hitching. This moment was too raw, too real, to be turned into a soundbite. I looked up at him, my heart hammering in my chest. His eyes were intense, but there was a softness there too, like he was laying down his cards, waiting for me to show my hand.

“You might like me?”

He shrugged. “Romantically. I know it’s a lot. I just, uh, find it hard not to be honest. Part of the reason coach doesn’t let me do interviews. I’m a little impulsive.”

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry. This was uncharted territory, a blurred line between professional and personal. But in that moment, I didn’t care. I was drawn to him, to the intensity in his eyes, to the promise of something more. And I was ready to dive in, consequences be damned.

Frankly, I found his confidence to be really damn attractive. He knew what he wanted, and he wasn’t afraid to try to get it.

Demian's hand, still warm from the game, slipped around my wrist. His fingers, strong and sure, circled it easily. He didn't tug or rush, just guided, his touch sparking a trail of goosebumps up my arm. I looked around, half-expecting flashbulbs or eager fans, but the hallway was empty save for the distant echo of slamming lockers.

"Come with me? For a bite to eat? We can talk," he murmured, his voice low and steady. It wasn't a command, but a suggestion, one that sent a thrill through me.

There was no way on Earth I could say no. “Okay. That sounds good.”

He led me out and I found myself matching his stride, his pace confident but never hurried. My heart still pounded from his earlier words, a rhythm that seemed to echo in the quiet corridor.

I expected him to lead us to some VIP lounge, all sleek leather and hushed tones. Instead, we pushed through a side door, the cool night air biting at my cheeks. Across the street, a neon sign flickered, the letters "Patty's Place" blinking in and out. A burger joint. My surprise must have shown because Demian chuckled, a soft rumble that sent a shiver down my spine.

"I'm not big on fancy," he admitted, his voice wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “But I am big on burgers.” He shot me a playful smile, a side of him I hadn't seen before. It made my cheeks flush, my stomach flipping in a way that had nothing to do with hunger.

---