Page 43 of Wrong Pucking Player

All I know is that whatever happened in the past had something to do with Wyatt Cyrus.

Coach Cyrus’ eldest son, Wyatt Cyrus, who I heard was going to be our equipment manager for the teams being formed at Strattonville Stadium. You’d think the destined all-star player would have been chosen to be on either of the new teams, but no. Instead, he’d be ensuring our laundry is cleaned, our sticks taped, and our skates sharpened enough to withstand our ruthless play on the ice.

Why though?

That was something I couldn’t figure out.

Wyatt Cyrus had been the top player in the Junior league and was Strattonville’s all-star for the longest time. He had so many scholarship offers, organizations were fighting against each other to claim him long before he reached sixteen. In fact, if he’d really wanted, he could have been the youngest drafted NHL hockey player the league had ever seen.

Then suddenly, it all went like a puff of smoke.

That was the only reason Jayce stood a chance of becoming Strattonville’s latest hockey obsession.

The mere thought of that man makes my lips frown in a sour expression while I’m lost in the mental image of him. Jayce Winchester is Strattonville’s golden boy. Stunning blue eyes, striking blonde hair not a tattoo in sight, and super attractive. The puck bunnies throw themselves at him while many are ready to pounce at the shot of claiming him on their team.

This new initiative may be some sort of trial, but I’m sure Jayce wants to use this chance to strike a deal with joining the Toronto Maple Leaf’s, his dream team. He thinks by doing so, he can ‘easily’ carry them through the playoffs all the way to the Stanley Cup finals.

Honestly, I bet you he thinks he has a shot at going the full mile and holding that very trophy in his possession.

As much as this small town believes in him, I know better.

In fact, I’d rather see Cyrus, Jr. get a chance at such an honor than Jayce.

Winchester is supposed to be my best friend, the guy you know always has your back. In reality, our ‘friendship’ is nothing like that. In fact, I’m not sure I can even call it a friendship.

A one-sided connection filled with blackmail and broken promises is what it really is.

“So, are you thinking about a really bad ex or something?”

I manage to keep my pace while my eyes slowly peer over to my left to see the woman who’s been giving my cock a twitching storm.

Fuck.

Seeing her keep up my pace so casually while sweat dripping along her flawless flesh—and bouncing plump breasts—is only giving me content to jack off to.

I can’t fall for this woman.

“‘Cause that sour expression makes me feel as though your ass got dumped, and you’re putting all your frustration and misery into keeping this pace for your own emotional sanity.”

“I see your need to imagine how one’s life is going without context is still a vibrant quality of yours,” I huff in reply and begin to run faster. I don’t want to deal with her right now.

Especially when she always seems to figure out what’s troubling me without even trying.

My long strides don’t stop this woman from keeping up with me in the slightest.

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No.” I hate talking and running. It’s hard enough trying to breathe without sounding like you’re dying. Cardio isn’t my strong suit, but I keep up with it because the thought of losing to Andrews ignites a sense of spite that grinds my fucking gears to my very core.

Another quality we shared was our competitiveness.

I hated losing to her, and I bet she was no different.

This was another tick on the box revolving around our incompatibility, but my cock wasn’t getting the memo.

“Having girl problems?” she questions as though she’s ready to offer me all the advice I need to succeed in scoring the girl of my dreams.

All she has to do is look in the mirror and see exactly what I wa—

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