Page 1 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter one

Jake

T hey say you can't escape your past, but I was praying Thunder Bay hadn't binged Love on Ice or blasted "Puck Life" on repeat.

My duffel bag slammed against my hip as I jogged through the parking lot, still sweaty from sprinting through Toronto Pearson airport like some discount Jason Bourne.

Red-eye flights were supposed to be cheaper, not a cardiovascular event.

The October air bit at my face, sharp enough to make my eyes water, and I tugged my hoodie lower.

Just another guy in gray fleece, nothing to see here.

The Fort William Barn squatted ahead of me, smaller than I'd imagined.

It was older than the photos suggested and painted that particular shade of municipal beige that screamed, "We renovated in 1987 and called it good.

" A hand-painted sign near the door read "Home of the Thunder Bay Storm" in fading blue letters.

It was the bottom of the barrel of the minor leagues, but beggars…

I pushed through the main doors and immediately hit a wall of stench—bleach, wet tape, and maybe burnt coffee?

A hallway stretched before me, lined with team photos going back decades.

Guys with mustaches and mullets, others with buzz cuts and bad attitudes.

They had the gravitas of statues carved out of lake granite.

I found the locker room by following the noise—sticks clacking against concrete, tape ripping, a random yell for a better energy drink. The noise landed first, and then the heat. Twenty-something bodies were getting ready to sweat.

Slipping inside, I hoped to blend into the chaos. Find my stall, drop my bag, and get through five minutes without anyone recognizing—

"Yo, is this you? No fucking way. Is this you on one knee like you're proposing to the Zamboni?"

Fuck.

A kid with a mullet and an eager grin held up his phone.

The screen glowed with me frozen in a scene I knew by heart: wearing a sequined jersey, down on one knee, holding a single red rose like I was proposing to the entire rink.

Stylists gave me perfectly tousled hair—the kind that read, "I woke up like this and didn't need a curling iron.

" The caption read "Love on Ice: Jake Riley's Most Dramatic Rose Ceremony Yet! "

Quiet reigned in the locker room—not dead silence. Someone was still taping a stick in the corner, and the coffee machine gurgled like it was dying, but quiet enough for me to hear my pulse in my ears.

"That's definitely you, right? Sequins, bro. Out there doing The Bachelor on skates." The kid—had to be the rookie, Travis something—held the phone closer to my face like he needed a side-by-side comparison. "Same jaw. Same... uh, eyebrows?"

I forced my mouth into a lopsided grin. "Guilty as charged. Streaming royalties are welcome, by the way."

A few guys chuckled. Someone wolf-whistled. Before I could figure out if I were being mocked or welcomed, a voice boomed from the back of the room.

"Everybody shut the hell up—we're not honoring this icon properly."

Connor "Hog" Hawkins unfolded himself from a bench like a bearded mountain coming to life. He was bigger than his photos suggested and broader than seemed physically possible. A tornado roaring in off the plains must have styled his auburn hair. He pulled out his own phone and started tapping.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. Siri, cue the banger. You know the one, 'Puck Life.'"

No.

A Bluetooth speaker on the equipment shelf crackled to life. Next was the opening synth line—three notes that had haunted my nightmares for two years. Above it was my voice autotuned into oblivion:

"Puck life chose meeee, stick in my hand like destiny..."

I wanted to die. Actually die. Right there on the rubber floor mats, surrounded by the smell of old sweat, writhing in fresh humiliation.

Hog wasn't done. He started moving. Calling what he did a dance was generous. It was more like interpretive disarray, complete with an invisible puck drop and what I assumed was his impression of a bedazzled jersey. His arms windmilled, and his hips defied the laws of physics.

"Can't stop the game, can't stop the flow, Thunder Bay Storm, here we gooo!"

That last line wasn't even from my song. He'd remixed it and made it worse, somehow. And better, definitely better.

The room erupted. Not cruel laughter—though there was some of that—but twenty guys discovering a new favorite thing to yell during warm-ups. Someone started clapping. Another guy joined Hog's dance, adding what looked like a combination of the Macarena and a slapshot motion.

I took a bow. Full theatrical sweep, one hand behind my back as if I were accepting the fucking Hart trophy. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all season. Tip your bartenders."

Inside, I bled out all over the concrete floor.

The song finally ended, and Hog took a bow to scattered applause. He caught my eye and grinned, all teeth and mischief. "That was entertaining."

I began registering faces, how I always did in new locker rooms—survival instinct. Figure out the peckers from the pack, and the jokers from the genuine threats.

Hog was obviously the latter—6'3" of beard and good intentions, probably knitted his own mittens and could bench press a Zamboni. He was the kind of guy who'd fight three men for calling his teammate a name and then buy them all a beer afterward to short-circuit any hard feelings.

He was dangerous in a positive way. Danger that made you feel safer, somehow.

Travis "Pickle" Picarelli, the mullet kid, was still watching Love on Ice clips on his phone, completely absorbed. He was a human energy drink in skate socks. Looked about twelve. Talked like a TikTok algorithm. The kind of rookie who brought glitter glue to gear labeling and somehow made it work.

The trainers—Luka and Jamie, according to the name tags on their polo shirts—whispered behind a clipboard, glanced at me, and laughed. Not malicious, good humor—I think. I figured they were placing bets on how long I'd last before having another public breakdown.

There were others—guys stretching hamstrings and adjusting shoulder pads, a goalie in the corner having what looked like a spiritual crisis with his mask, and someone arguing quietly with his stick. Normal hockey nonsense. Comforting, almost.

A glove hit the back of my head. Not hard.

"Hey, Vegas," a voice grunted. "You gonna sit there lookin' sad, or you gonna play?"

Coach Donny Rusk.

He stood in the doorway, chewing gum. Hat backwards, hoodie zipped halfway over a polo.

"Planning on dazzling you with my stickhandling after the interviews." I offered a salute.

He didn't blink. "Dazzle me with punctuality next time."

The room fell quiet in that twitchy way it does when the alpha dog enters. Even Hog straightened up a little.

Coach's eyes swept the room. "Media hits in fifteen. If they approach you, smile, lie, and don't say anything that'll get us fined."

He looked back at me. "Save the sparkle, Vegas. Prove you’re not just a Hollywood highlight reel."

Then he was gone, gum cracking in his wake.

"Yes, sir."

I grabbed my duffel and looked for my assigned stall, checking the name tags taped above each cubby. HAWKINS. PICARELLI. KOWALCZYK. And then, wedged between a water-stained MURPHY and a suspiciously pristine CARTER: RILEY.

My nameplate was new and clean, added at the last minute.

My stall neighbor was already suited up, sitting on the bench near me with perfect posture—dark hair, close-cropped and neat.

Evan "Cereal" Carter. I'd googled the whole roster on the plane.

He had his space clean, quiet, and immaculately arranged. Water bottles with color-coded stickers. A pair of extra laces looped neatly over the hook, and a small, rectangular Tupperware container sat on the bench beside him, labeled in black Sharpie:

Carter – Thursday – Do Not Touch

I was tempted. Immediately. Even if it was poison, it was probably neatly organized.

I dropped my duffel on the floor between our stalls. It landed with a loud thud.

Evan didn't look up.

I tried my best at a casual introduction. "Hey, looks like we're neighbors."

Nothing. He started unlacing his left skate, fingers working with mechanical precision. Each loop got the same amount of attention, like he was defusing a bomb instead of loosening footwear.

I tried again. "I'm Jake, by the way. Though I'm guessing you already know that, given the whole..." I waved vaguely toward where the "Puck Life" dance party had happened.

Still nothing. Then, a slight pause on the laces. He was listening but ignoring.

I sat on the bench and started pulling gear out of my bag. The zipper sounded like a chainsaw. My shoulder pads hit the floor like a thunderclap. Even my breathing was loud.

Evan finished with his skates and started re-lacing them. Same methodical approach. I watched his hands move, steady and sure, like they'd performed the sequence a thousand times before.

He looked up.

Our eyes met across the three feet of space between us, and for a second—only a second—I thought he saw me. Not the memes or headlines. Just me.

And fuck, of course he had to be hot. Not movie-star hot. Not Instagram-filtered hot. The hot that sneaks up on you—clean lines, tired eyes, and veins popping out on those forearms.

Then he went back to his laces.

I forced a grin and tried one more time. "Well, this is cozy. Hope you don't mind a messy neighbor. I'm not the label-maker type."

This time, he looked up with a sharp expression.

"I noticed."

His voice was quieter than I'd expected, but he had perfect diction.

I noticed.

Was it only the lack of labels? What else did he notice? How I was trying too hard? The fact that I was twenty-six years old and sitting in a minor league locker room, still explaining myself to people who'd already made up their minds?

The shoulder injury flashed through my head—that split second when I'd hit the boards wrong and something tore apart inside the joint. Months of rehab, watching other people take the ice time that should have been mine.

Then, I relived the moment I'd watched "Puck Life" hit a million views and understood that a million people were laughing at me, not with me.

At that moment, I accepted that I'd already missed my window.

I was one of those guys who peaked at twenty-three and spent the rest of their lives telling stories about what could have been.

I heard my heartbeat over the locker room's background noise.

Keep it light. Keep it moving. Don't let them see the cracks.

I cleared my throat and went for the save. "Well, at least I wasn't the one who threw up on a Zamboni during junior camp."

A few guys chuckled. Someone behind me—sounded like Pickle—let out a sympathetic "Oof." Hog's booming laugh echoed from across the room.

Evan? He stared at me with his gray-blue eyes, and I had the uncomfortable sensation he saw precisely what I was doing. The deflection, performance, and desperate scramble to turn every moment of genuine emotion into a punchline before someone else could use it against me.

He didn't laugh. He didn't smile. He looked at me, waiting for something real to happen.

The moment passed. He went back to organizing his gear.

As I started pulling on my equipment, I heard a low voice from the corner.

"—fucker better not meme our asses viral."

I kept my head down and kept adjusting my gear.

"I mean, what's next? TikTok cellys during warmies?"

Someone joined the conversation. "Nah, man. Rusk wouldn't let that shit fly."

"Still, we finally start getting some decent coverage from the Tribune , and now we're gonna be the team with the reality TV guy. You know they're gonna ask about him in every interview."

I wanted to turn around and see who was talking so I could file their faces away for later. Everyone would see that. And they weren't wrong, were they? I was the reality TV guy. I was the walking punchline who somehow convinced management I still had enough game left to be worth a roster spot.

Evan started watching me again. I imagined him taking notes to write a report later.

Subject appears agitated when confronted with an accurate assessment of his impact on team dynamics.

I risked a glance in his direction. He didn't look away immediately. For a second, we stared at each other across that three-foot gap.

And then, with maddening precision, he reached into his duffel and pulled out another container. Same shape. Same label. Friday.

He set it next to Thursday like it was a chess move. Then he looked away.

The message was clear.

He was watching.

And he expected me to be more than a meme.