Page 8 of Puck Me Daddy

I took a sharp breath, my mind spinning with the possibility. I couldn't deny the undercurrent of Dom energy I had felt from Demian, the way his gaze had seemed to pierce right through me, the quiet command in his voice. The idea that he might be a Daddy Dom sent a quiver of excitement and nerves through me, my stomach fluttering with butterflies.

“I don’t know, Ally. It’s probably a bad idea. Doing anything with him.” I murmured the reasons, ticking them off on my fingers. "Conflict of interest, potential heartbreak, and he's got a 'bad boy' rep, Alana. I couldn't just . . . I couldn't just ignore all that."

“No-one’s saying you have to marry him! It’s just a bit of fun. You wanted to see him in his element, see what was beneath all that ice and stoicism."

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "Yeah, I did. But that didn't make it a good idea. I do silly things all the time!"

Alana reached out, grabbing my hand and squeezing it tightly. "Tilly, come on. Take a risk for once. Isn't that what being a Little is all about? Letting go, exploring, feeling?"

Alana was right, I knew she was. But taking that risk, stepping into Demian's world, was terrifying.

She reached up, squeezed my shoulder. Her touch was reassuring. “What’s your heart telling you?”

I closed my eyes, trying to listen to that inner voice. It was screaming at me, loud and clear, drowning out the doubts and fears. I wanted this. I wanted to see him, to explore this connection, to dive into the unknown.

I opened my eyes and looked at Alana. Determination surged through me, hot and fierce. “I’m doing it,” I said, my voice steady.

She grinned wider, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “Atta girl.”

I turned back to my phone, my fingers hovering over the keys. I typed out a reply, my heart pounding with each letter. “I’d love to see you in action. Count me in.” I hit send before I could second-guess myself, adrenaline coursing through my veins.

Alana let out a whoop, drawing a few curious glances from the other Littles nearby. I couldn’t help but laugh, the soundbubbling up from deep within me. It was done. I had taken the plunge.

I just hoped I wouldn’t get in too deep.

Chapter 3

The hockey game wasnot like what I expected.

Stepping into the arena was like being swallowed whole by a beast made of sound and color. Neon lights pulsed along the corridors, guiding the human blood cells flowing through its veins to their designated seats. The air was thick with the scent of popcorn and hot dogs, laced with an underlying note of excitement that made my heart race. I clutched my bag strap with one hand, the other hidden inside, grasping my phone, which was already recording.

When I’d mentioned to my editor that I was meeting Demian after a hockey match, he’d gone berserk, and practically ordered me to record it so that I could write an article about it. My editor's voice echoed in my mind, "Capture the evening, Tilly. That way, if that weirdo says anything bizarre, you’ve got it on record." Easy for him to say, he wasn't the one standing here, jittery as a cat on a hot tin roof.

I found my seat among the roaring fans, their cheers a physical force pushing against me. I fumbled with my phone, trying tokeep my head straight, to balance the journalist hat with the . . . other hat. The one that had my adrenaline spiking.

Then, the players skated out. Spotlights swept across the ice, illuminating him. Demian. Number 19. Even in full gear, he stood out—a sleek panther ready to pounce. My breath hitched as he glided with that effortless grace, his tall, broad form commanding attention.

"Jesus, he's something else, isn't he?" The guy next to me leaned in, nudging my arm. I just nodded, my gaze locked onto Demian as he took his position.

A surge of adrenaline rushed through me, the magnetic pull from our interview flooding back. My phone shook slightly in my hand as I started recording notes, but my eyes? They were glued to him. Pierce, his name emblazoned on his jersey.

"You a Pierce fan?" The guy asked, his eyes on the ice but his attention clearly on me.

I nodded again, my mouth dry. "Something like that."

He chuckled, "Well, he's got a hell of a slapshot. I bet we’re in for a treat today."

A treat indeed.

I took out a notebook, determined to make some notes.

“You writing something?” the fan next to me asked.

“Just something for the paper.”

He nodded in acknowledgement.

My mind flashed back to our interview, his intense gray eyes, the way his presence filled the room. The way he filled . . . other things. I shifted in my seat, heat coursing through me.

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