Page 51 of Puck Struck (Dirty Puck #3)

TATE

CHAPTER ONE

Tate

Some people say you know instantly when you meet the person who's going to destroy your life. Right now, watching my teammates celebrate our latest win, I have no idea I'm about to meet mine.

The Oakland Raptors just crushed Vegas four to one, and my teammates are acting like we won the fucking Stanley Cup. Barnes slams his beer bottle on the high-top table at the Baccarat Bar in the Bellagio. Foam spills over the rim and drips down the side of the glass.

"Did you see that backhand in the second period?" he shouts over the music. "The Vegas goalie didn't even know what hit him."

Masterson laughs, clapping Barnes on the back. "You mean when you whiffed on that pass from Carter and nearly took out the ref?"

"Hey, that was a very strategic move, dick," Barnes shoots back, grinning like an idiot.

The hotel bar is packed with tourists and locals, but our corner table feels like its own universe. Loud, obnoxious, and exactly what you'd expect from a bunch of twenty-something NHL players who just dominated one of the best teams in the league.

I take a sip of my beer, trying to focus on the conversation while my phone burns a hole in my pocket. The call from my agent, Rex Ashton, came right before I headed down here. Rex's voice keeps echoing in my head, using that damn diplomatic tone that always seems to deliver bad news.

"Team management's asking questions, Tate. Your save percentage has dropped three points since last season. They're not panicking yet, but..."

But they're watching. Evaluating. Wondering if their investment in me was a mistake. Maybe even wondering if they’re going to re-up my contract now that my four years are up.

"Earth to Barnes," Cam Foster says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. "You celebrating with us or just here for the free drinks that Masterson is buying?"

“Hey,” Masterson grunts after draining the last of his beer. “I got the drinks last time. Let one of the rookies get them this time.”

I force a smile and drum my fingertips against my glass. "Just thinking about that save in the third period. Thought for sure that shot was going in."

"Bullshit," Carter van Kleef says, leaning back in his chair and raising his arms above his head. "That was pure instinct. You read that play perfectly."

Carter should know. He's been solid as a rock since he and Jack got together last year. Watching them together now, seeing how settled they both are after their past rivalry turned bromantic, makes something twist in my chest that I really don't want to dig into.

"Speaking of perfect," Masterson says, waggling his eyebrows, "did you guys see the blonde at the blackjack table? She's been checking me out all night."

"Dude, she's looking at the exit sign behind you," Jack laughs.

The conversation flows around me, familiar and comfortable, but I can't shake Rex's words.

Or the call from my mom yesterday, asking when I'm going to bring home a nice girl to meet the family. They’ve been asking that question a lot more often lately, probably because my brother Mark is getting serious with his girlfriend Tessa, and each time it gets harder to deflect.

"What about you, Tate?" Jack asks, and I realize everyone's looking at me. "Anyone catching your eye out here?"

My throat goes dry. "Nah, I'm good."

"Come on," Jaren pushes. "You've been single since Amanda, right? That was like six months ago."

Eight months, but I'm not gonna correct him. Amanda was nice, pretty, and smart…pretty much everything my family would approve of. But being with her felt wrong, like I was acting all the time. I never really…connected. She did, though. And that’s when I knew I needed to break it off.

I didn’t want to be the asshole who led her on and gave her false hope for a future that was never gonna be.

"Maybe she didn’t check off all his boxes," Carter says, giving me an out.

"Or maybe he's finally figured out what the rest of us already know," Jaren grins. "Hockey's easier than relationships."

Everyone laughs, including me, but the sound feels empty.

She definitely didn’t check off all my boxes, but nobody actually knows what my checklist looks like.

Hell, I’ve had enough trouble finally admitting it to myself.

My eyes go from Cam to Jack and then Carter.

Jack and Carter have been together for a couple of years, pretty much since they were drafted to the Raptors.

And Cam's been with Logan for about a year now, and even though Logan retired last season, they're solid.

Real. They all have it. The kind of partnership that makes sense.

The kind I've never had with anyone, if I’m being honest.

I sit back and look around the bar, a deep sigh expelling from my lips.

That's when I see him.

He sits alone at the far end of the bar, longish dark hair falling over his forehead as he stares down at his whiskey.

Everything about him screams control, from his perfectly pressed shirt to the way he holds himself on that stool.

But there's something else there too. Something that makes my pulse rocket into my throat and panic flare in my chest.

Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and the noise around me fades to a dull, muted roar.

Fuck.

I've spent months snuffing out thoughts like this, convincing myself they don't mean anything. That the way I sometimes notice other guys is just curiosity. Normal shit.

But the way my body reacts to this stranger's heated gaze tells me I’m a fucking liar.

"You okay, man?" Carter asks, snapping his fingers in front of my face to get my attention. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

I tear my gaze away from the bar, my heart hammering against my ribs. "Yeah, just tired. Long game. "

Jaren drains his beer and stands up. "All right, boys, I'm hitting the casino. Who's in?"

"Count me in," Masterson says, pulling out his wallet. He tosses a bunch of cash on the table and points at Bryce, one of the rookies. “You got next, kid.”

Bryce smirks and downs the rest of his beer. “You got it, boss.”

Chairs scrape against the floor as the guys all stand up and make plans for their next party stop. This is my chance to escape, to go back to my room and pretend this familiar feeling isn't clawing through my chest.

"You coming, Tate?" Cam asks.

I glance back toward the bar. The stranger is still there, still watching me with those intense eyes.

"Actually, I think I'm going to finish my beer first," I say, trying to sound casual as I hold up my half-full glass. "Rex called before I came down. Told me I need to think through some contract stuff so I’m gonna hang for a little bit longer."

It's not entirely a lie. The call from my agent is definitely weighing on me like a damn cinderblock, even if it's not the real reason I want to stay.

"All right, man. Don't overthink it," Carter says, clapping me on the back. "You played great tonight."

I nod and watch them go, the group of guys who've become like brothers to me. A nagging voice chews on my brain.

Wonder what they'd think if they knew the truth about what's going through my head right now.

When they finally disappear around the corner, I take a shaky breath and sneak a look back toward the bar.

Shit. He’s gone.

Disappointment hits me like a junk punch, which is fucking crazy. I mean, I don't know anything about the guy except that looking at him made me feel more alive than I have in months.

I raise the glass to my lips and finish my beer as the conversation with Danny loops through my head, interrupted only by my mom's hopeful voice asking about grandchildren she's afraid she’ll never get from me.

Jesus. Now I definitely need another drink.

I walk toward the bar and sink onto a stool while I wait for the bartender to look my way. Seconds later, I catch a whiff of a spicy cologne scent. I sweep a hand through my hair and turn. My eyes meet his and my breath hitches.

Fuck me.

“What can I get for you?” the pretty brunette asks me.

I whip my head around. “Ah, another Stella, please.”

Swallowing hard, I look again at the gorgeous man sitting to my left. Something electric shoots through my chest as our eyes tangle. His gaze is intense and calculating, like he's trying to figure out what I’m thinking.

Shit, if he only knew…

"You're with the hockey team," he says. His voice is low, gravelly, and makes my entire body hum.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Up close, he's even more devastating. Sharp jaw, eyes such a clear blue they're almost gray, and the kind of mouth that makes me think things I definitely shouldn't be thinking.

"Good game tonight." He takes a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. "You made some impressive saves."

"You were there?"

"Hard to miss when the whole bar boos every time you stop a puck."

My lips lift into a half-smirk as I try desperately to play it cool.

The bartender puts my beer down and I wrap my fingers tight around the cold glass, gripping it like it’s a lifeline. "You know hockey?"

Something flickers across his face, too quick for me to read. "I know enough."

The non-answer should bother me, but it doesn't. If anything, it makes him more mysterious. I'm used to people wanting to know everything about my life, my stats, my plans for the future. My anonymity feels like relief.

"You're not much of a talker," I say, surprising myself with the comment.

His mouth quirks up at one corner. "Neither are you, apparently. Most players would still be soaking up the win with their teammates.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "Maybe I don't feel like celebrating."

"Bad night?"

"Not bad. Just..." I trail off, not sure how to explain the restlessness, the feeling like I'm waiting for something I can't put my finger on. "Different."

He studies me for a long minute, and I feel too exposed…too raw and vulnerable. It’s like he can see right through all the bullshit I spew to keep people at arm's length. And it scares the shit out of me.

"Different can be good," he says finally.

The words bounce between my temples. I take a long pull from my beer, using the seconds to calm the pulse punching a hole in my throat. When I put down the glass, he's still watching me, and the intensity in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

"What's your name?" I ask, even though part of me likes this anonymity.

"Does it matter?"

The question should piss me off. Instead, it sends a thrill through my chest. He's right. Names complicate things and makes them real.

And whatever this is, I'm not ready for it to be real.

"No," I say. "I guess not. "

He shifts around on his stool, turning to face me, and I catch a hint of his scent again. And God help me, it makes me want to move in closer.

"You're tense," he says.

"Yeah, well, it’s been a long season."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Is that all?"

My heart stutters to a stop at his knowing look, and for a second, the urge to tell him the truth grabs hold…

that I'm twenty-three years old, and I don't know what the hell I want.

That I've spent my entire life focused on hockey because it was easier than dealing with everything else.

That lately I've been having thoughts that I’m afraid to acknowledge.

But I can't say any of that. Not to a stranger. Not to anyone.

"Yeah," I say. "That's all."

He doesn't believe me. I can see it in his expression. But he doesn't push, thank fuck.

The bartender moves away from us to serve other customers, leaving us staring at each other, a silent challenge hanging in the stilted air.

"You want to get some air?" he asks.

My heart batters my ribs. "What?"

"It's loud in here. Crowded." He doesn’t look away. "Sometimes it's easier to think when you can actually hear yourself, you know?"

He's offering me an out. A way to leave without making it about anything more than needing space. But the way his heated look scorches my skin, the way my body responds to his nearness, the way my breath hitches at his unspoken invitation tells me it would be about a lot more than that.

I should say no. Should finish my beer, find the guys, pretend this conversation never happened.

Instead, I find myself nodding wordlessly, the lump in my throat making it impossible to speak.

"Come with me," he says, and it's not really a question.

I should say no. Should finish my beer, go back to my room, pretend this never happened.

Instead, I find myself nodding.

We don't talk as we walk through the casino, past the slot machines and card tables, past crowds of strangers who have no idea that my entire world just shifted on its axis. The elevator ride to his floor is silent, the air so thick with tension that I can barely choke down a breath.

When we stop in front of his door, he pauses with the key card in his hand.

"You sure about this?" he asks.

I look at him, really look at him, and see something that mirrors the confusion I've been carrying for months. The want I've been trying to ignore.

"No," I say honestly. "I'm not sure about anything anymore."

He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "We don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

The softness in his voice nearly unravels me. When was the last time someone offered me that kind of choice? That kind of safety?

"What if I don't know what I want?"

"Then we figure it out together."

He holds the card against the lock and the door clicks. The sound is amplified in the quiet hallway, reverberating between my ears.

I follow him inside, my heart pounding so hard I'm pretty damn sure he can hear it. The door closes behind us, and suddenly we're alone in the dim light of his hotel room.

And for the first time in my life, I stop running from who I might really be.