Page 19 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Our eye contact that said everything our mouths hadn't figured out how to say.

Be smart out there.

Find me on the ice.

Come back whole.

Pickle face-planted over his laces, shattering the moment.

"Move your asses!" Coach's bark launched us toward the tunnel—twenty armored bodies headed for the arena lights.

As we entered, I scanned the crowd—four hundred souls who'd exchanged real money for the privilege of watching us chase vulcanized rubber. Someone had crafted a glittery "RILEY'S REDEMPTION TOUR" sign.

While we lined up for the anthem, Kowalczyk eyed me. "Dialed in tonight?"

"We'll see."

Dialed in was an understatement. Electricity surged through my body. The anthem played, the lights dimmed, and the puck dropped.

We flew.

First shift: intercepted their breakout pass and threaded it through three bodies to Pickle. It was a five-hole finish before their goalie processed the threat. Pickle's collision hug nearly relocated my spine.

"Feed me all night!" he screamed over the noise. "I got fucking hands!"

Second period: back checked hard enough to murder a two-on-one, carried the puck coast-to-coast, and found Hog for a one-timer that kissed iron.

"Keep those dishes coming, pretty boy!" Hog bellowed. "Feeling dangerous!"

Third period, game knotted, five minutes remaining: their defense gambled wrong, leaving me alone with their goalie and forty feet of virgin ice.

My breakaway developed frame by frame. The goalie squared up and made himself fortress-wide. Every highlight reel humiliation flashed through my head in rapid-fire succession.

My training kicked in. I went low.

The puck threaded between his pads with surgical precision, and the goal horn came for me. Loud. Joyful. A little obscene. Four hundred people achieved collective transcendence.

With my arms up and grinning like someone had just told me the secret to life, I looked toward our bench and nearly forgot how to skate.

Evan was smiling. Not his usual measured approval or professional nod—vast, unguarded, and beautiful. He'd forgotten to protect himself from his feelings.

Twenty teammates buried me in a celebratory pile. Someone chanted my name. Someone else tried dehelmeting me. Hog lifted me off the ice and spun me around.

"That's my fucking boy! THAT'S MY BOY!"

As we slowly returned to the locker room, I heard measured words in the distance. "—development curve's impressive. Vision's caught up to his hands."

Another voice answered. "Riley? Been tracking him since that podcast hit. Character concerns feel manufactured."

Back to the original. "Rockford's sniffing around. More than a tryout if this trajectory holds."

It was a pair of scouts. Here. Watching me and thinking I might matter beyond Thunder Bay.

When we hit the locker room, Pickle bounced over. He leaned in close, whispering in a conspiratorial tone. "Vegas! Hear that? Scout in the house! Rockford!"

"Yeah." I forced a grin and tried to ignore the weird knot in my stomach. "Keep it to yourself."

Taken to its logical conclusion, it was supposed to be a victory. The call-up would prove I belonged somewhere bigger than Thunder Bay's beautiful, busted-down barn.

So why did it taste like a loss?

I sat in my stall, gear half-peeled. I should have been riding the chemical high of a perfect game.

Two goals, one assist, plus-three, and zero moments where I'd embarrassed myself or my bloodline.

It was the kind of night that made you believe in destiny and second chances, maybe even happy endings.

My phone buzzed with notifications I didn't want to read—probably screenshots of social media losing its collective mind over the breakaway goal, or worse, someone had already turned it into a TikTok with dubstep and sparkle effects.

I left it face-down and focused on the victory celebration happening around me.

"Riley."

Coach Rusk's voice cut through the noise. He stood in the doorway, still wearing that backward cap.

"Yeah, Coach?"

"My office. Two minutes."

The celebration continued without me as I followed him down the hallway, past team photos going back decades. His office was what you'd expect—cramped, cluttered, and smelling faintly of old coffee.

He closed the door and leaned against it. "Hell of a game tonight, kid."

"Thanks." I shifted my weight from foot to foot, still wearing skates that made me three inches taller. "The team played great. Pickle's been working on that shot, and Hog—"

"Sit down."

I sat. The chair creaked ominously.

Coach pulled off his cap and ran his fingers through disheveled gray hair.

"You didn't hear this from me yet, because it's not official and nothing's guaranteed." He leaned forward. "They're looking. Rockford. Might call. Could be more than a PTO if you keep playing like you did tonight."

I smiled automatically, the way you do when someone tells you good news and your face hasn't caught up to your brain yet. Then, my ribs started to ache.

"Rockford. Wow. That's... that's great, Coach. I mean, nothing's set, but..."

"You've got scouts talking. That podcast thing didn't hurt either. People are starting to see past the viral bullshit. Is this what you wanted?"

"Yeah. Of course. I mean, who doesn't want to move up?"

Maybe me.

Coach nodded once. "Keep your head on straight. Don't let it go to that pretty skull of yours. And Riley?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't tell the boys yet. Let them have tonight."

I nodded, stood on unsteady legs, and approached the door. Coach spoke again.

"You earned this. Don't forget that."

The walk through the hallway felt longer on the way back. The locker room noise grew louder with each step—celebration, brotherhood, and all the things I'd learned to accept, even want.

I leaned against the wall outside the door, listening to Hog's booming laugh and Pickle's off-key victory song. There was so much unbridled joy, but the best news of my hockey career had me reacting like someone had just told me my dog died.

Rockford. AHL affiliate, one step closer to the show. Real money and opportunity. Proof that Jake Riley wasn't merely a walking meme with decent hands.

It was supposed to be vindication. It was the point where the story shifted from cautionary tale to comeback narrative.

All I could think about was what I'd leave behind.

Thunder Bay. This broken-down barn full of guys who'd become family without me noticing. A city that had let me be more than my mistakes. Most of all, Evan, who alphabetized his spice rack and stress-baked cookies, while looking at me like I was worth saving from myself.

The locker room door opened and Kowalczyk stumbled out, half-dressed and grinning.

"There you are! Come on, man, Hog's buying shots at The Drop. Victory celebration!"

"Yeah, I'll catch up."

He disappeared back inside, leaving me alone with the industrial lighting and the growing realization that everything I'd thought I wanted was about to destroy everything I'd accidentally found.

I pulled out my phone, thumb hovering over Evan's contact. Started typing half a dozen messages that all sounded wrong.

Hey, might be leaving soon.

Hey, remember how I said I was bad at staying?

Hey, want to help me practice being terrified of good things?

Deleted them all.

Through the locker room door, I heard someone start singing "We Are The Champions" in a key that existed only in the imagination of very drunk hockey players. Hog's laugh boomed over the melody. Pickle's voice cracked on the high notes.

My family. My home. My life, though I'd been too stupid to recognize it as such until someone offered to take it away.

I'd wanted a second chance, so badly I forgot to ask what would come after I got it.