Page 14 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter ten

Evan

T he Drop's sticky floor tugged at my sneakers as I entered.

I'd timed my arrival for nine-thirty, calculating that most of the initial celebration would have burned itself out by then.

Post-game euphoria typically peaked around the forty-five-minute mark before settling into manageable background noise.

I hadn't accounted for Hog's apparently infinite capacity for retelling the same goal sequence with escalating enthusiasm and even more creative profanity.

"—and then Vegas comes flying down the fucking ice like his ass is on fire, right? Kostner's breathing down his neck, but the kid doesn't flinch. Slides that puck between the goalie's legs like he's gonna… like he's threading a fucking needle!"

The malfunctioning Molson sign above the bar buzzed, casting flickering red light across a crowd that had started drinking before I'd finished organizing my post-game gear.

I ordered a ginger ale from the bartender—a woman with sleeve tattoos and the patience of someone who'd seen every variation of drunk hockey player Thunder Bay had to offer.

She slid the glass across the bar without comment.

From my position near the wall, I surveyed the entire scene without participating. If he were around, Coach would appreciate my gesture at team unity. He expected veteran team members to show support, particularly after close victories.

That's what I told myself, anyway.

The truth was more complicated. The truth involved Jake Riley standing near the dartboard, still wearing his game-day shirt with the sleeves pushed up, gesturing wildly while Pickle hung on every word. Jake was on a roll, having scored a goal for the second game in a row.

He looked happy—genuinely, unselfconsciously happy.

I sipped my ginger ale and tried to focus on anything else. I listened to the conversation at a nearby table about weekend fishing plans. Meanwhile, the couple by the jukebox argued over song selection.

None of it worked. I couldn't stop checking on Jake.

He threw his head back, laughing at something Pickle had said. It wasn't his performative laugh—the one he used when he wanted attention or needed to deflect uncomfortable moments. It was slightly smaller and a little more private.

I watched other people gravitate toward him. A couple of guys from the team who'd been deep in conversation at another table found reasons to wander over. The bartender smiled when she caught his eye, something warmer than the professional smile she gave me.

Jake Riley was an object with a gravitational pull. People got tugged into his orbit and appeared happy to be there.

I was staring. I realized it when Jake's attention shifted across the room and found me lurking by the bar like some antisocial researcher, studying post-game hockey celebrations.

Our eyes met.

He smiled—not the megawatt grin he deployed for crowds or cameras, but something quieter. I took it as an indication he'd been hoping I'd show up.

The expression lasted three seconds before Pickle reclaimed his attention. I drained the rest of my ginger ale and tried to convince myself I was only at the bar for team unity.

Twenty minutes later, karaoke kicked off and the emcee—a guy with a handlebar mustache—called out, "First up, we've got Jake Riley!"

Chairs scraped against the floor as people turned toward the small stage area. Someone wolf-whistled. Hog started a slow clap that built into genuine applause.

Jake froze mid-sentence, his beer bottle halfway to his mouth.

"I didn't—" He looked around the room, confusion shifting into resignation as Pickle bounced on his toes and nudged him toward the stage.

"Surprise!" Pickle grinned. "I may have put your name in the rotation. You know, for team morale."

"Kid, I'm going to murder you," Jake grumbled, and then he sheepishly smiled. He set down his beer and headed toward the stage with the loose-limbed confidence of someone who'd been performing his entire life.

The crowd parted for him, and I pressed closer for a better view. The bartender leaned across the counter, investing in what would take place.

Jake took the microphone with a theatrical bow that made several people cheer. The opening notes of "Mr. Brightside" by The Killers started up—not what I'd expected, but somehow perfect for the moment.

He started singing, and the room quieted. His voice was better than it had any right to be, considering I'd only ever heard it through bathroom walls during his morning shower concerts.

"I'm coming out of my cage, and I've been doing just fine..."

At first, it was pure performance. Jake worked the small crowd like he was playing Madison Square Garden, pointing at random people during certain lyrics, and encouraging sing-alongs during the chorus. The room ate it up.

Somewhere around the second verse, he changed things up.

Natural movements took over. He dropped his voice an octave to something more raw and honest. He wasn't singing to the room anymore—he was singing through it, embracing the words as a message he needed to deliver.

"But she's touching his chest now, he takes off her dress now..."

His gaze found me across the room.

For the next sixty seconds, he didn't break eye contact to scan the crowd or play to another section of the audience. He looked at me like I was the only person worth singing to, and suddenly the lyrics were like a conversation I didn't prepare to have in public.

My ginger ale glass was empty, but I gripped it anyway, needing something solid to anchor me. The rational part of my brain couldn't believe what was happening. We were in a crowded bar, surrounded by teammates, and Jake was performing karaoke, not speaking directly to me.

Despite my internal protests, Jake systematically dismantled my resistance when his voice caught slightly on the word "jealousy," and his free hand had stopped gesturing entirely, hanging loose at his side like he'd forgotten how to do anything except look at me.

The crowd sang along, voices blending into the kind of messy harmony that only happened when people were drunk enough to stop caring about pitch.

I barely heard them. All I could focus on was Jake's voice threading through the noise, steady and sure and aimed directly at the walls I'd spent years building around my heart.

"It was only a kiss, it was only a kiss..."

The memory of our actual kiss roared up in my head. Jake's hands in my hair. The taste of beer and something sweeter on his tongue. I'd wanted more and wanted to shove him against the refrigerator, tear his shirt off, and…

I took a deep breath and held it. Wanting something that much scared the hell out of me.

Jake was still singing, still looking at me. The song built toward its climax, and something in my chest rose to match it.

The final chorus erupted around us, and Jake finally broke eye contact to acknowledge the crowd's enthusiasm. It didn't matter. Something changed, and I couldn't file it away or pretend it hadn't happened.

He returned the microphone to the emcee and headed toward the bar, accepting congratulations and back-slaps along the way. I watched him navigate the crowd, part of me hoping he'd get distracted by other conversations, and part of me holding my breath, waiting for him to reach me.

I needed more ginger ale. Or something stronger.

While I processed Jake's performance, a massive presence appeared beside me at the bar. Hog was a friendly mountain, radiating warmth fueled by three beers and a decisive game victory.

"Spreadsheet." He leaned against the bar. "Hell of a show, right?"

"He's got a good voice."

"Kid's got more than that." Hog signaled the bartender, who appeared with the efficiency of someone who recognized a reliable tipper. "Another Molson, and whatever Evan's drinking."

"Ginger ale. I'm fine."

"Nobody's fine after that kind of eye-fucking in public." Hog's laugh was loud enough to turn heads, but he didn't care. "Relax, nobody else caught it. Too busy singing along to pay attention to the real show."

My face flushed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure, you don't. That's why you're all red." The bartender slid the drinks across the bar, and Hog raised his beer in a mock toast. "To not knowing. I'll let you pretend."

I sipped my ginger ale and tried to find something else to focus on. The couple by the jukebox had turned their attention to the karaoke show. Behind us, someone was telling an increasingly elaborate story about a fishing trip that probably hadn't happened as they described it.

"You know what your problem is, Spreadsheet?"

"No, but I'm sure you'll enlighten me."

"You think everything's gotta make sense before it's allowed to exist." Hog's voice was gentler than I'd expected. He wasn't only spreading drunk wisdom. "Like if you can't file it under the right category, it's not real."

I started to protest, but he held up one massive hand.

"I've watched you two dance around each other since Jake arrived. Hell, probably since the moment you saw each other. You look at him like he's a puzzle you can't solve, and he looks at you like you're the answer to a question he's been afraid to ask."

The ginger ale tasted flat on my tongue. "It's complicated."

"Nah, it's not. You like him. He likes you. Everything else is noise."

"You don't understand—"

"I understand plenty." Hog's expression turned more serious without losing its warmth. "I understand what it's like to think you don't deserve good things. I understand being scared that if you reach for something, it'll disappear."

His words slithered past my defenses.

"You're a good guy, Spreadsheet." Something in Hog's tone made me focus on his words. "Better than you think you are. And you deserve to be happy. Don't look at me like that—it's true."

"Hog—"