Page 1 of My Pucked Up Neighbor (Detroit Acers #5)

Chapter one

Nate

“ L ittle Fields?”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

She turns, slow and sharp, one eyebrow already cocked. Her arms are full of a cardboard box and a canvas bag that’s halfway sliding off her shoulder, but she still manages to give me a look like I’ve just committed a felony.

“Don’t call me that.”

I lean against my apartment doorframe, take a sip from the coffee mug in my hand, and grin. “What? It’s a classic.”

“It’s outdated,” she says. “It’s Mandy.”

I hum, pretending to think. “Mandy Fields. Doesn’t have quite the same ring.”

“Yeah, well, neither does ‘Nate Jones: Professional Menace,’ but here we are.”

Okay. She's still got it.

Mandy Fields. Last time I saw her, she was sixteen, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and muttering sarcastic commentary from the backseat of her sister’s car.

Now she’s standing ten feet from my front door in leggings and a University of Michigan Law sweatshirt that’s falling off one shoulder like it was designed to drive men insane.

She’s not a kid anymore.

Definitely not.

Her hair’s longer. Her stare’s bolder. She looks like she walked straight out of a dream I didn’t know I’d had, and moved in next door.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, because apparently my brain still hasn’t caught up to the part where she’s real and standing in my hallway.

“I live here,” she says, like I’m the slow one. “Just moving in this morning.”

Next door.

Mandy Fields…Allison’s little sister. My ex’s little shadow.

Now a full-grown problem in black leggings and chapstick.

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” She shifts the box on her hip. “Apartment 1606. And you must be…”

“1604,” I say, still stuck on the visual of her in my hallway. “So… you’re seriously my new neighbor.”

She gives me a look. “Guess I seriously am.”

A second woman comes out of the apartment, shorter, brunette, balancing what looks like two giant coffee cups and a bag of cleaning supplies. She glances between us, then smirks.

“Kira,” Mandy says, tilting her head toward her. “My roommate. Kira, this is Nate. He dated my sister, Allison, back in high school."

Kira eyes me. “Wait a second… are you Nate Jones? Defenseman for the Acers?”

I blink. “The one and only.”

Kira's eyes light up. "My family is obsessed with the Acers," she says. "My dad still talks about the trade that brought you over. Said you were a steal."

"Sounds like my kind of fan."

Mandy groans. "This is going to inflate his ego for the entire season."

I glance back at her. "You sure you’ve got that box? I can grab it."

She shifts it slightly. "What, you think I can't carry a few books and a throw blanket?"

"Just trying to be a good neighbor, Little Fields."

"Mandy," she corrects again, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips.

She walks past me toward her apartment, the curve of her mouth daring me to keep up.

I do.

“You went to law school?” I ask, matching her pace as we head down the hallway.

“Yup. Working and studying for the bar now.”

"When is it?"

"July but there's a lot to know. And I work so I need months to prepare."

"Let me guess," I say, watching her adjust the box in her arms. "You’re the overachiever type who’s going to make the rest of us feel like slackers."

She scoffs. "If by 'overachiever' you mean I function like a normal adult while you live on muscle memory and protein powder, then yes."

"Two very important things for a pro hockey player. Essential, really."

"Oh, and let me guess, protein powder and peanut butter straight from the jar count as dinner?"

"Gourmet, if you drizzle some honey on it."

She lifts an eyebrow. "I honestly thought you'd have evolved by now."

"I have," I say, feigning offense. "I'm practically enlightened. I buy vegetables and everything."

She snorts. "You say that like buying vegetables automatically puts you on a higher plane of existence."

"It does if you pair them with quinoa and smug self-satisfaction," I say, giving her a lopsided grin.

She laughs, an actual surprised laugh that hits me dead center. "Wow. Look at you. Self-aware and still full of it. I'm almost impressed."

“Stick around. I have layers. Like an onion. See? A vegetable.”

She rolls her eyes but she’s smiling as she pushes her door open. "We’ll see about that, neighbor."

***

Mandy Fields.

Not “Little Fields.” Not Allison’s bratty sister.

Mandy. Law school grad. Future lawyer. Currently my neighbor.

And she looks like trouble.

The kind of trouble that walks right into your life without warning, flashes a smile, and turns everything sideways without touching a damn thing.

***

The cold air slaps me across the face as I step out of the elevator into the garage. I dig my keys out of my pocket and hit the unlock button on my car. It beeps once, loud and sharp.

I climb in, toss my coffee in the cupholder, and sit for a second, hands on the wheel.

I’ve played through injuries. I’ve skated into fights with men twice my size. I’ve handled press conferences, hat tricks, and a five-game losing streak in one of the most brutal markets in the league.

But that girl?

That smirk?

Those eyes?

Nope. No strategy for that.

And now she lives next door.

***

I pull out of the garage and head toward the arena, heart still thumping like I just took a puck to the ribs.

Because something about Mandy Fields is different.

And if I’m not careful, she’s going to be the one thing this season I can’t defend against.

***

The Acers facility smells like sweat, tape, and overpriced cologne, and coffee. Burnt, arena-style coffee in a paper cup someone left on top of the skate dryer.

I walk into the team conference room just as Coach is setting down his clipboard. Right on time, but not late enough to dodge the incoming chirps.

“Well, well, look who decided to join us,” James says, drumming a pen against the table. “What happened, high-rise Nate? Got stuck signing autographs for the neighbors?”

“He was probably admiring his own reflection,” Ethan adds, spinning backward in his chair. “Guy’s cheekbones are sharper than his slapshot.”

“Careful,” Mikey chimes in. “He’ll flex and crack the projector screen.”

I slide into my seat between Parker and Connor, deadpan. “You boys rehearse this, or is it all-natural talent?”

Parker chuckles, always the calm center of chaos. “They’ve been warming up since you were going to be the last to arrive.”

“It’s not my fault I live somewhere that requires an elevator and manners,” I shoot back.

Connor smirks. “Manners, huh? Didn’t peg you for the hold-the-door type.”

“Only when it’s for a law student who can carry a box like she’s auditioning for a moving company,” I mutter before I can stop myself.

James pounces. “Law student? Whoa. Who’s this?”

“Someone,” I say.

“Oh, it’s definitely someone,” Ethan says, grinning. “And judging by the smile you’re trying to hide, she’s hot.”

Parker raises a brow. “Wait. This wouldn’t happen to be someone you’re actually talking about without flinching?”

I blink. “Seriously?”

“Which means,” James says, “she’s someone. And you’re already in too deep.”

Before I can dig myself out, Coach Stephens clears his throat. Conversation dies instantly. The room shifts from chirps to focused silence with one look from the man.

“Alright, listen up,” he says, slapping his clipboard against the whiteboard. “Dallas is hungry. They’re coming off two losses and they’ll be skating pissed.”

He circles two names on the game sheet.

“We shut them down by playing smart on transitions and keeping the D tight. Jones, expect more minutes. You’re defending your zone with control and confidence.”

I nod, keeping it simple. “Yes, Coach.”

“We’ll run reps after this, then hit the ice at noon. No passengers. Got it?”

“Got it,” we echo.

Coach steps aside and Nina, our sports psychologist, stands next. She’s all business with calm eyes, tight ponytail, and a clipboard that could double as a shield.

“Quick reset strategy today,” she says. “I want everyone to grab a card.”

We each take one from the stack she passes around.

Mine says ‘Block’.

Fitting.

“Use it however you want,” she explains. “Mid-game, during a shift, when you feel things slipping. Mental reset is everything. We don’t wait for chaos. We get ahead of it.”

I nod, slipping mine into my gear bag.

Nina’s eyes linger on me a second too long.

Yeah. She knows I’m preoccupied today. Not enough to call me out. But enough.

The meeting breaks. Guys file out, heading toward the locker room or grabbing snacks before the skate.

James tosses a towel at Mikey. “You still owe me twenty bucks from that beer pong disaster last weekend.”

“That was a setup. The cups were too close together.”

“You elbowed two into your own lap.”

Parker laughs. “You boys ever do anything quietly?”

“Not when there’s money and pride involved,” Ethan says.

Connor nudges me. “So, really, who’s the girl?”

I open my locker. “Just a neighbor.”

“Does your ‘neighbor’ know you stare like you’ve seen a ghost?”

“She’s... familiar. That’s all.”

James whistles. “Familiar like a hookup? Or familiar like ‘Oops, I went out with her sister in high school’?”

"Not a hookup." Then my silence does the talking.

“Oh shit.” Ethan’s eyes go wide. “You dated her sister, for real?”

“Senior year,” I say flatly, pulling on my thermal layer.

Connor nearly chokes on his water. “This gets better by the second.”

James leans against the stall beside mine. “So what’s the issue? Too much baggage, still not over the sister or just worried she remembers your teenage haircut?”

“Okay,” I say, lacing up my skates. “You clowns done?”

“Not even close,” Ethan says. “But I gotta ask… is she single?”

“I have no idea. I literally just saw her in the hallway moving in.”

They quiet, just for a second. Then James grins.

"They're always single unless there's a ring on the finger. Dude, are you hot for her?"

I don’t answer.

Because I am.

She’s off-limits.

She’s Allison’s little sister.

She’s studying for the bar, probably buried in flashcards and outlines and five-year plans.

She’s also gorgeous. Sharp. Way too quick with comebacks.

And she smiled like she remembered exactly who I used to be… and didn’t hold it against me.

I shake my head as we head to the ice.

New team. New apartment. New season.

And now, a walking, talking complication lives ten feet from my front door.