Page 1 of Pucking Christmas Triplets Surprise

CHAPTER 1

CHRISTOPHER

Don’t tell ESPN, but Josie Richards is the real reason I left the Mississippi Titans after an award-winning season: to come to this small town in Maine to coach a subpar hockey team. I did this not because I was humble or knew my prime was over, which isn’t true. I am a beast driven by my obsession. If I wanted to be in my prime, I could be so for as long as I wanted.

No, it was for Josie Richards, Northbrook University darling with a smart mouth, killer legs and no fucking respect.

I remember watching her when I was at the top of my game last season. She looked like an angel, lost in the flurry of snow. She was Olympic-bound, a future gold medalist, and the icon everyone had their eye on. I mean, how could you not keep your eyes on her?

Her loose, wavy blonde hair with honey highlights looked effortlessly perfect even when tossed into a messy bun on her head. Up close, her tan freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, and her lips were a dusted baby pink. But the best part aboutbeing this close to her are those ivy-green eyes that remind me of the trees around my home in Michigan.

She is stunning, but she's still a student, even if she's a senior in college. This doesn't make my attraction to her any less inappropriate or complicated, but she is the reason I took this job below my status.

See, my obsession with the game consumed me daily: the sound of skates scraping against the ice, the roar of the fans, and the grunts of my opponents. But nothing compared to the adrenaline rush I felt when I stepped onto the ice for a game. Or so I thought until I saw her in her proper form.

Suddenly, the ice and the game didn't hold the same appeal for me anymore. Hockey felt dull, my contract was up, and Josie was ripe for the taking. It didn't matter that I spent my life dedicated to hockey when there was someone more compelling than hockey ever was.

The moment I laid eyes on Josie Richards, she caught me in her spell. It was during the Northbrook Winter Showcase, where I had been sent for good publicity after my team caused a drunken brawl at a local bar with some students from Northbrook.

I attended to show that not all of the Mississippi Titans are assholes, especially not their very own golden boy Christopher Jackson— killer on the ice, sweetheart in the city. I was to smile, wave, take pictures, and congratulate the performers.

I never would have guessed that a girl with blonde hair, wearing a sparkling lavender bodysuit and tutu, could capture my attention for the entire evening. The light from the stadium made her outfit look like a second layer of sparkling skin, hiding not a single curve from my imagination. Hertoned legs curved in arches for tricks, making me wonder how many positions I could put her in.

But it wasn't just her physical prowess that held me captive. There was a fire in her eyes, a determination that burned brighter than the spotlight that followed her every move.

She was a goddess, and the ice was her altar. I’ve never been big on prayer, but I’ve always believed in devotion and worship. Josie Richards’ tight little body deserved to be worshiped in the most primal and passionate of ways, as a true believer would offer themselves to their goddess.

She was flawless on the ice—graceful, precise, and only making one minor mistake on a spin that no one noticed but me. She seemed perfect, living up to being the Olympic-bound gold medal star everyone had hyped her up to be. If it weren’t for the tightness in her jaw, I’d think she was perfect, just like everyone else, but that’s the thing about goddesses—they’re just as human as us.

Off the ice at the afterparty in the president's house, she was polite, respectable, and stiff, giving everyone a plastered-on smile as she rolled her jaw over and over again. She had changed into a short, body-con, champagne dress that blended so well with her complexion that I had to remind myself over and over again that she had clothes on. When she was mine, and trust me, she would be, I would never allow her to wear that color again.

I watched from across the room at her performance, not knowing if this one or the one on the ice was better.

Every Tom, Dick, and Harry congratulated her, took a picture with her, and touched her. That's what really pissed me off; the number of men that found a reason to touch her, whether it was a hand on the small ofher back during a photo, pinching her elbow to get her attention, moving a rogue curl behind her ear while they chatted; every man had tried to steal a piece of my little ice princess.

Lucky for their limbs, she was too cold to let any of that get to her. She excused herself halfway through the night, making an excuse about homework, and steadily exited the house.

After taking one last sip of my drink and flashing a few more polite smiles, I signed an autograph for the son of someone from Human Resources. But let's be honest: from the way she gripped my arm and licked her lips, little Johnny probably doesn’t even exist. I winked in her direction and excused myself to the bathroom, but as soon as I saw my ice princess leave, I snuck out of the presidential house and followed her discreetly to wherever she was going.

I had seen the irritation in her face all night long. She absentmindedly twirled a lock of her golden hair around her finger that she tugged from her bun, the same curl men kept tucking behind her ear. She was too annoyed to notice the romantic gesture.

When she felt no eyes on her, she would furrow her brows and chew on the corner of her pinked glossed lips, frankly driving me mad all night. It only made me want to pull her lip between my teeth and bite it properly, kiss her properly.

The crisp air nipped at my cheeks as I entered the ice rink. I could see her slender figure already lacing up her skates, hidden beneath the bleachers. She seemed to be muttering to herself with a sense of urgency. Gone was the image of the ice princess I had once been fascinated with.

Instead, I watched as she angrily yanked her hair out of its perfect bun and marched onto the glistening ice. The blades of her skates cut through the smooth surface, leaving behinddeep grooves in their wake. Her movements were powerful and determined, like a warrior preparing for battle on a frozen battlefield.

She glided across the ice with fierce grace, like a predator honing in on its prey. My little hellion drilled her blades into the ice, carving a path with precision and determination. She repeated the same combination relentlessly, her eyes blazing with the intensity of an obsessive athlete on a mission to perfect her craft.

As I watched from the shadows, hidden behind the bleachers, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. Josie wasn’t performing for an audience now and wasn’t giving the polite, rehearsed routine that had the crowd eating out of her hand at the showcase. This was raw, unfiltered. She wasn’t skating to dazzle; she was skating to destroy.

Her anger made her movements sharper and more aggressive. She dug her blades into the ice with purpose, spinning and leaping in a furious ballet that looked more like an attack than an art form. Before, I had been intrigued. I wanted to see if the ice princess cracked, but now with this fire blazing off of her,fuck,I wanted to feed off of her; if this is the real her, I want all of it.

The girl everyone saw at the parties, smiling and perfect in her champagne dress, wasn’t the real her. No, this was. The tension in her jaw, the way she slammed down after each jump, the rage radiating from her every movement—that was the Josie Richards I was drawn to. Not the ice princess, but the warrior who fought her battles on the frozen stage. My little hellion.

I stepped closer, the sound of her skatescutting through the ice echoing in the empty rink. She didn't know I was there and didn't need to.

I liked that this moment was mine. She was skating for me, and I soaked up every moment, from her face, flushed from exertion, to her loose hair stuck to the sweat on her neck, to the snarl permanently on her face.

---