Page 3 of Our Pucking Secret (2-Hour Quickies #4)

Logan

The Garden's alive tonight. Twenty thousand fans screaming, the ice gleaming under MSG's iconic lights, and the Detroit defense looking nervous. They should be.

I crouch for the face-off, muscles coiled. Sweat trickles down my neck despite the chill. Their center, Miller, has a tell—his right shoulder twitches before he moves. Amateur mistake.

The puck drops.

I win it clean, sweeping it back to Martinez while shouldering Miller off balance. He hits the ice hard. The crowd roars.

"That's how we do it in New York, pretty boy!" someone screams from the stands.

I'm already moving, cutting through center ice as Martinez feeds a perfect pass to Wilson. Detroit's trying to trap us in the neutral zone, but their positioning is sloppy. Tired legs in the third. I see the gap before it opens.

"LaRue!" Wilson barks. "Back door!"

The puck hits my tape like it belongs there. I explode down the left side, speed building. Their defenseman tries to angle me off—but he's got forty pounds on me and can't match my acceleration. I cut inside, then back out, making him cross his feet.

The crowd rises as he stumbles. Pure instinct takes over—years of practice making my hands faster than thought. I drag the puck between my legs, spin off a check, and find space behind the net.

"Get him! GET HIM!" Detroit's bench is screaming.

Their goalie's head swivels, trying to track me. Rookie mistake. I fake the wrap-around, watch him bite hard to his right post. Then I bank it off his left pad—right to Martinez's waiting stick.

The one-timer is perfect. Top shelf where mama hides the cookies. The Garden explodes.

"LaRue to Martinez! Goal Howlers!" The announcer's voice drowns in the roar. "The kind of vision that makes him one of the league's most exciting playmakers!"

My teammates mob Martinez, but he points at me. "That sauce was filthy, LaRue! Fucking beautiful!"

Coach is already barking lines for the final minutes. We're up 3-2, but Detroit's desperate. They pull their goalie with two minutes left, sending six attackers our way.

The next shift is pure warfare. Bodies flying, sticks battling. I block a slapshot with my shin—the pain immediate and familiar. But pain's just information. Years of training and natural athleticism make these instincts second nature now.

Thirty seconds left. Detroit's pressing hard.

A clearing attempt hits a skate and stays in. Their star forward winds up for a one-timer.

I dive .

The puck hits my ribs instead of the net. The air leaves my lungs, but I manage to sweep it out of the zone with my stick. The clock runs out as it slides past center ice.

Game over. Division clinched.

The celebration is pure chaos. Helmets flying, gloves scattered across the ice. Our goalie, Price, tackles me into the boards.

"You crazy bastard! That block saved my shutout!"

"Your shutout?" I wheeze, ribs screaming. "It was 3-2!"

"Minor details!"

The locker room is electric. Music blasting, guys hollering, reporters trying to get quotes through the mayhem.

Someone's spraying beer—probably Wilson, that showoff.

It smells like sweat and testosterone. Towels half-on, muscles on full display.

Price struts past completely naked, no shame whatsoever—as it should be.

"Put that thing away," Martinez groans.

"Jealous it’s longer than your stick?"

"Only thing long about you is your showers, man. What are you doing in there, romance novels?"

"LaRue's the romance novel cover. I’m the happy ending.”

Groans all around.

“That’s what you need, man,” I say. “Go back to the shower, cool that hard-on down—and slap a warning label on it. Contains small parts. May present a shocking hazard.”

Laughter explodes. Parker looks like he just witnessed a car crash and can’t decide whether to laugh or throw holy water.

Price just shrugs, still gloriously nude. “Not ‘shocking,’ asshole. Chocking? Fuck yeah.”

I chuck him a towel and turn to Parker. "Don’t worry, rookie. First time in a pro locker room is like baptism by dong."

“Hey LaRue!” he calls, recovering. “Your Instagram just hit two million followers!”

"Let me guess," Martinez grins. "Another thousand 'Marry me Logan!' comments?"

"More like five thousand," Parker says, scrolling through his phone. "Oh man, listen to this one—'Dear Logan, I'm a doctor and I can heal your bruises… with kisses.'"

"Don't encourage him," Wilson laughs, tossing a towel at my head. "His head’s big enough already."

I smirk. "If I had a dollar for every DM about my big head , I’d have enough to buy dinner. If we count the whole cock, not just the head? That’s yacht money, baby."

The room erupts.

"Says New York's most eligible bachelor," Ramirez chimes in, parading around in just a towel. "Mr. 'I'm too focused on hockey to date' while half the city's female population slides into his DMs."

Parker turns bright red as Ramirez’s towel slips dangerously low. "Dude, seriously?"

"What? Never seen a natural goal scorer before, rookie?"

The whole room cracks up as Parker tries to look anywhere else.

“But seriously LaRue, what about that model who keeps commenting on your posts? The one with the triple-D rack and the OnlyFans side hustle?" Price grins. "She’s perfect for you, man."

Parker coughs into his water bottle. "She said she wants to lick champagne off your abs. Publicly."

I smile. "I've got all the excitement I need right here on the ice."

These assholes. My favorite people on earth. We bust balls, block shots, and bleed together. That’s family .

After the media scrum, I finally get to shower and assess the damage. The ribs will be colorful tomorrow, but nothing serious. Just another day at the office.

"Party at O'Malley's!" Martinez announces. "Even Coach is coming!"

"Can't. Early practice."

"Come on!" Wilson throws a roll of tape at my head. "Like the rest of us don’t? You can't keep using that excuse.”

"You're too focused, man," Martinez adds.

My dad would say you can never be ‘too focused’—right before launching into another story about how he would've made it in hockey if he'd just had my natural talent.

Funny how his failed dreams turned into the best thing that ever happened to me.

The sport he pushed me into became my passion, my escape, my everything.

My phone buzzes with messages as I head out. Most from teammates' wives coordinating some charity event. One from Annalise about dinner next week. Nothing from the parents—they're probably still exploring whatever remote location caught their interest this month.

The city's still humming as I drive home. New York never really sleeps, just dozes between rushes. Kind of like hockey players.

My apartment's exactly how I like it—clean, organized, with a view of Central Park that reminds me every day why I love this life. My championship ring sits in its glass case beside my first All-Star jersey. Team photos, press clippings, and a signed stick from the final—every piece of this life I’ve built. Earned.

I grab an ice pack from the freezer and settle onto my couch, grinning as I scroll through the game highlights. Tomorrow's another practice. Another chance to do what I love.

Life is good. Simple. Focused. Just the way I like it.