Page 40 of Puck Wild
I held the puck against my chest and tried not to think about how many ways I could ruin the beautiful, terrifying thing growing between Evan and me.
But I couldn't stop thinking about it.
And I couldn't stop wanting it anyway.
Chapter ten
Evan
The Drop's sticky floor tugged at my sneakers as I entered.
I'd timed my arrival for nine-thirty, calculating that most of the initial celebration would have burned itself out by then. Post-game euphoria typically peaked around the forty-five-minute mark before settling into manageable background noise. I hadn't accounted for Hog's apparently infinite capacity for retelling the same goal sequence with escalating enthusiasm and even more creative profanity.
"—and then Vegas comes flying down the fucking ice like his ass is on fire, right? Kostner's breathing down his neck, but the kid doesn't flinch. Slides that puck between the goalie's legs like he's gonna… like he's threading a fucking needle!"
The malfunctioning Molson sign above the bar buzzed, casting flickering red light across a crowd that had started drinking before I'd finished organizing my post-game gear. I ordered a ginger ale from the bartender—a woman with sleeve tattoos and the patience of someone who'd seen every variation of drunk hockey player Thunder Bay had to offer. She slid the glass across the bar without comment.
From my position near the wall, I surveyed the entire scene without participating. If he were around, Coach would appreciate my gesture at team unity. He expected veteran team members to show support, particularly after close victories.
That's what I told myself, anyway.
The truth was more complicated. The truth involved Jake Riley standing near the dartboard, still wearing his game-day shirt with the sleeves pushed up, gesturing wildly while Pickle hung on every word. Jake was on a roll, having scored a goal for the second game in a row.
He looked happy—genuinely, unselfconsciously happy.
I sipped my ginger ale and tried to focus on anything else. I listened to the conversation at a nearby table about weekend fishing plans. Meanwhile, the couple by the jukebox argued over song selection.
None of it worked. I couldn't stop checking on Jake.
He threw his head back, laughing at something Pickle had said. It wasn't his performative laugh—the one he used when he wanted attention or needed to deflect uncomfortable moments. It was slightly smaller and a little more private.
I watched other people gravitate toward him. A couple of guys from the team who'd been deep in conversation at another table found reasons to wander over. The bartender smiled when she caught his eye, something warmer than the professional smile she gave me.
Jake Riley was an object with a gravitational pull. People got tugged into his orbit and appeared happy to be there.
I was staring. I realized it when Jake's attention shifted across the room and found me lurking by the bar like some antisocial researcher, studying post-game hockey celebrations.
Our eyes met.
He smiled—not the megawatt grin he deployed for crowds or cameras, but something quieter. I took it as an indication he'd been hoping I'd show up.
The expression lasted three seconds before Pickle reclaimed his attention. I drained the rest of my ginger ale and tried to convince myself I was only at the bar for team unity.
Twenty minutes later, karaoke kicked off and the emcee—a guy with a handlebar mustache—called out, "First up, we've got Jake Riley!"
Chairs scraped against the floor as people turned toward the small stage area. Someone wolf-whistled. Hog started a slow clap that built into genuine applause.
Jake froze mid-sentence, his beer bottle halfway to his mouth.
"I didn't—" He looked around the room, confusion shifting into resignation as Pickle bounced on his toes and nudged him toward the stage.
"Surprise!" Pickle grinned. "I may have put your name in the rotation. You know, for team morale."
"Kid, I'm going to murder you," Jake grumbled, and then he sheepishly smiled. He set down his beer and headed toward the stage with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who'd been performing his entire life.
The crowd parted for him, and I pressed closer for a better view. The bartender leaned across the counter, investing in what would take place.
Jake took the microphone with a theatrical bow that made several people cheer. The opening notes of "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers started up—not what I'd expected, but somehow perfect for the moment.
