Page 3 of Puck Me Daddy

"I’m fine with being called crazy. My editor called me crazy for putting all the work I did into getting the interview. He told me you’d never agree to it. That I was—what did he call me?—bonkers. And yet, here we are, and here you are. And I’ve got a feeling that you’re about to answer some questions that go a little bit deeper than just softballs about your nutrition regime.”

He studied me intently, his eyes probing my own like he was searching for a hidden agenda. "I don't know if I can trust you," he said at last.

"Trust is a two-way street, Mr. Pierce. And I'm willing to take the first step, if you are."

He seemed to mull it over for a moment before reaching a decision. "Fine. Ask me some questions. I’ll answer.”

"Listen," I said, abandoning my notes entirely. "Your fans want to know the real you—not the carefully-curated image you—and your handlers—let them see. I'm not here to pry into your private life. I just want to understand what drives Demian Pierce, the man, not just the hockey player."

For a long, tense moment, he stared at me. I could almost see the wheels turning in that formidable head of his. Then, to my surprise, he huffed out a short, humorless laugh.

"I don’t know if I’ve ever met anyone quite like you before, Tilly," he said, with a grudging respect in his voice.

Gently, as if I were made of glass, he reached out and tucked an errant strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light, but it sent shivers cascading down my spine. I told myself it was just the thrill of the chase, but deep down, I knew it was more.

"Fine," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'll give you five minutes. But after that, we're done, understood?"

"Understood," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The weight of his gaze held me captive, and I fought the urge to fidget under the intensity of it.

"Alright then." I cleared my throat, forcing myself to focus. "What do you do off the ice to center yourself?"

He shifted in his chair, those storm-gray eyes narrowing slightly as he turned to me. “Solitude is important. I value privacy.” His tone was measured, each word deliberate. It felt like he was offering me a tiny glimpse into a world he kept tightly closed.

"Privacy," I echoed, intrigued. There was something heavy in that single word, like it carried layers of meaning. My fingers brushed over the stickers on my notepad, feeling the playful designs beneath my fingertips. Did he even notice?

“What about you, Tilly?”

“Me?”

He fixed me with those steely eyes. “You said trust was a two-way street. You have a stressful job. I’m interested in how you unwind.”

My heart raced.

I couldn’t tell him, of course. Couldn’t let him know that my favorite way to unwind was to get out my stuffies, pull out the coloring books, and spend a couple of hours in Little Space.

“You know,” I said, blinking. “I like watching Netflix. True crime stuff.”

His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Y-yes.”

For a moment, I thought he was going to push me more. “Fair enough.”

If he knew I was a Little, I’m sure he’d laugh me out of the interview room.

Our eyes locked, and time slowed. My heart raced, thumping loudly in my chest. I caught a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe?—in his gaze before it disappeared behind that familiar mask.

"So, do you ever have any fun routines or rituals before a big game?" I pressed, hoping to extract more from him. “Superstitions, perhaps?”

A hint of amusement danced across his lips, but it was gone in an instant. “I have routines,” he said cryptically, his voice dropping to a softer timbre. “Things that help me focus.”

In that moment, I could feel the tension shift, something warm sparking between us. I wanted to reach out, to close the distance, but his handler’s rigid posture reminded me of where we were.

"Like what?" I asked, leaning forward slightly, drawn in by the intimacy of his tone.

"Specific thins," he said, catching himself, the walls around him rising once again. “I’m a member of some private clubs—”

The handler cleared his throat, a sharp reminder of the boundaries we were skirting. I could see the discomfort etched on his face, but I wasn't ready to back down. Not yet. “Private clubs?”

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