Page 12 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter nine

Jake

T he tape went around my stick blade in perfect spirals, black on black, each layer tight enough to strangle doubt.

I'd been sitting in my stall for twenty minutes, rewrapping the same piece of composite, hoping that it held the secrets to not fucking up. Third time was the charm, or the curse. I was never sure.

"Vegas, you planning to mummify that thing or play hockey with it?"

Hog's voice boomed across the locker room, cutting through my ritual like a foghorn blasting through lake mist. He lobbed a Gatorade bottle at my head—orange flavor, the good stuff—and I caught it without looking up from my tape job.

"Just making sure it's perfect. You know. Professional standards."

"Professional standards?" Hog's laugh ricocheted off the walls. "You look like a hockey player today. Should we be worried?"

I finally glanced up. The locker room buzzed with pre-game energy—guys pulling on jerseys, adjusting shoulder pads, and muttering whatever prayers they thought might help. Hog stared at me like I'd grown a second head.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Usually, you're cracking jokes or executing an interpretive dance to your warm-up playlist. Today you're..." He gestured vaguely at my face. "Focused. It's unsettling."

Before I could chirp back, footsteps approached my stall. I knew the sound—measured, purposeful, and no wasted strides.

Evan walked past, game jersey stretched across his shoulders, helmet tucked under one arm. He didn't stop. Didn't say anything. Only caught my eye for half a second and gave me the slightest nod.

My stomach clenched. It wasn't encouragement or good luck or any of the usual teammate bullshit. It was recognition. It said: I see you. I see you trying.

My hands trembled as I finished the tape job. I flexed my fingers around the shaft of my stick and tried to remember how to breathe.

It was another chance to prove myself, and it mattered. The team was starting to trust me. Evan saw me as more than a walking punchline.

It all scared the shit out of me.

"Riley!"

Coach Rusk bellowed my name. He stood in the doorway, wearing his backward cap and an expression that meant business.

"You listening, or you gonna keep making love to that stick all night?"

"Listening, Coach."

He stepped into the room, and the noise dissipated. Even the rookies stopped fidgeting with their gear.

"Gentlemen, tonight's not about pretty plays or highlight reels. It's about showing them what happens when you count us out."

He scanned the room, making eye contact with each of us with a gaze that burrowed into our hockey souls.

"They think they know what they're getting. Small market team. Minor league mess. Bunch of guys who couldn't cut it anywhere else." His gum snapped between his teeth. "Let's give them something they don't expect."

He looked at me on the phrase "don't expect," and every fuck-up I'd ever broadcast to the world came home to roost. There was something else, too—something like a dare.

The room stayed quiet for a beat after he left. Then Pickle broke the silence with a nervous laugh.

"Anyone else need to change their underwear, or is that just me?"

Several guys laughed, and it was enough to break the tension. Everyone started moving again, checking laces and adjusting chin straps.

I stood and caught my reflection in the mirror near the equipment bins. I looked different. Sharper. Like someone who belonged on a rink instead of someone who'd stumbled into the wrong story.

The tunnel stretched ahead like a throat waiting to swallow us whole. Our skates clicked against the rubber mats in rhythm—twenty guys breathing hard through nerves and adrenaline.

The ice hit me first. That sharp, clean smell that cut through everything else. The Fort William Barn wasn't much to look at, but when those lights hit the freshly Zambonied ice, it transformed into something holy.

My legs were loose and ready as I took my first stride. The crowd was already buzzing—maybe three hundred people who'd paid real money to watch us chase a piece of rubber around for sixty minutes.

"Let's fucking go!" Hog's voice boomed from center ice as we skated warm-up laps.

The first period started like a car accident in slow motion.

One of their defensemen—a brick wall named Kostner, who probably ate nails for breakfast—caught me at the blue line with a hit that rattled my teeth.

My helmet stayed on, barely, but my confidence scattered across the ice like shattered glass.

I picked myself up and skated back to the bench. Hog tapped my shoulder as I sat.

"Welcome to the show, pretty boy."

The next shift, I kept my head up. Kostner was hunting, but I was ready. When the puck came around the boards, I went into the corner like my life depended on it—shoulders down, stick active, feet moving.

Kostner met me there with the subtlety of a freight train.

We collided against the boards hard enough to rattle the glass. My helmet popped off and skittered across the ice, but I had the puck. Somehow, through Kostner's attempt to rearrange my ribs using his elbow, I had the fucking puck.

Pickle screamed my name from the slot. I barely saw him through the sweat stinging my eyes, but I heard him. I delivered a desperation pass—a blind shove toward where I hoped he'd be.

The puck found Pickle's blade. He buried it five-hole before their goalie could blink.

"GREASY VEGAS STRIKES AGAIN!" We heard Hog's roar over the goal horn and crowd noise.

I skated toward the team's celebration, helmet tucked under my arm, grinning like an idiot. Pickle crashed into me with enough force to knock us both sideways, and for a second, I forgot about the ache in my ribs.

I was playing for the fun of the game. Not for the cameras, the headlines, or the viral moments.

Late in the game, Coach called me into a short shift change. "Riley! You're up!"

I vaulted over the boards on tired legs. The puck was in our defensive zone, bouncing around like a pinball while both teams hacked at it.

It squirted free.

Somehow—with the help of whatever hockey gods were paying attention—the puck slid directly onto my blade. I looked up and saw nothing but open ice stretching toward their net.

Breakaway.

My brain immediately tried to register every way this could go wrong. I was tired. Their goalie was good. Breakaways were for highly skilled players, not reformed reality TV disasters who rapped about puck life.

My legs kept moving anyway.

I hit the red line with Kostner breathing down my neck. Center ice with their goalie squaring up, making himself big. The crowd noise faded to static.

Don't think. Play.

The five-hole opened for half a second. I didn't plan the shot—it just happened.

The puck slid between the goalie's pads like it belonged there.

The goal horn blared. The crowd erupted. My teammates poured off the bench like they were fleeing a burning building.

I coasted toward the glass, arms raised, trying to process what had just happened. The scoreboard blinked: STORM 2, RAPTORS 1 . And underneath, in smaller letters that made me blink: GOAL: J. RILEY (1) .

My first goal as a member of the Thunder Bay Storm. Ugly as hell, but it counted.

Back on the bench, guys tapped my helmet. Someone handed me a water bottle. Then, Evan sat beside me.

He didn't say anything. It was unnecessary. As he settled onto the bench, adjusting his gloves, he rapped his knuckles twice against my shin pad.

Quick. Casual. Anyone watching would've missed it.

For me, it was electric.

Two game minutes later, it was all over.

When we reached the locker room, it exploded like a shaken beer can.

We'd won. My goal gave us the victory.

I sat in my stall, still in full gear except for my gloves, watching the party unfold around me. Pickle was doing a victory dance involving hip thrusts and stick twirling. Hog had stripped down to his underwear and socks, flexing his massive shoulders while someone took photos.

The air was thick with steam, celebration, and joy, making grown men act like teenagers who'd just turned legal.

Still, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

That's what happened when good things found me—they lasted long enough for me to believe in them before exploding in my face. The goal was real enough, but my sense of belonging…

It was dangerous.

"YO, VEGAS!" Pickle's voice cut through my internal spiral. He'd climbed onto the bench in front of his stall, using it as a makeshift stage. He gave off manic post-game energy like lightning had struck him.

"Speech time!" he announced to the room. "Big ups to Vegas—big-time goal tonight, and we didn't even get a TikTok dance!"

A chorus of cheers and laughter erupted. Someone threw a towel at Pickle's head.

"DON'T GIVE HIM IDEAS!" Hog roared, pointing at me with a protein bar. "Kid's got enough viral content for one lifetime!"

I opened my mouth to chirp back, but then I thought a little celly dance could be fun. Something stupid and self-aware that would get the guys laughing and trending on social media for the right reasons this time.

The thought lasted precisely two seconds before I shoved it down. That was the old Jake, who turned every moment into viral content. This Jake—sweaty, tired, floating on the aftertaste of his first real goal—deserved better than a punchline.

"Thanks, Pickle, but I'm saving my moves for when I score a hat trick."

"When, not if," someone called out. "Confidence!"

The celebration continued around me—guys comparing battle scars, rehashing plays, and planning whatever ruckus they'd cause at The Drop later. I started peeling off my gear methodically, shoulder pads first, then shin guards, each piece hitting the floor with a satisfying thunk.

That's when Coach Rusk reappeared.

He held the game puck like it was a precious stone. "Gentlemen, hell of a game tonight. Hell of a team effort."

He paused, scanning the room with his sharp eyes.