Page 27 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter nineteen

Jake

M y assist probably slipped past most fans.

I'd threaded the puck between two defenders to Kennedy, who buried it top shelf like it was nothing.

Clean. Simple. The kind of play that didn't make highlight reels but won games in the margins—how Evan would execute if he'd been wearing an IceHogs jersey instead of watching from Thunder Bay.

"Riley!" Kennedy rattled the back of my helmet with his glove as we skated to the bench. "Fucking beautiful dish, man!"

In the locker room afterward, someone had taped a nameplate above my temporary stall: RILEY #47 . Black letters on white tape, crooked as hell, but real. Permanent-looking, even though we all knew better.

"Mature play out there tonight." Coach Monroe stood in the doorway, arms crossed, and staring at me—fuck, was that approval? "Keep that up, and we'll talk."

We'll talk. In hockey-speak, that was practically a marriage proposal.

I pulled off my gloves, trying not to grin like an idiot. My phone buzzed against the bench, and I glanced down to see Evan's name on the screen.

Evan: Proud of you. Don't let it go to your head. (You're still bad at laundry)

He'd watched. In his perfectly organized apartment ten hours away, Evan Carter had found time to stream a random AHL game and send me a text that plastered a massive smile on my face.

I typed back quickly:

Jake: Laundry's overrated. A jersey's smell is better when it's earned.

Evan: That's disgusting. Also true.

I was still smiling when a reporter appeared.

She was young, probably fresh out of journalism school, with a digital recorder that looked older than she was. "Jake Riley? Lindsay Scoggins, Rockford Register Star . Got a minute?"

"Sure." I straightened up. Time to show the charm. I needed to deliver the carefully crafted soundbites that would—

"How'd it feel out there tonight? That assist was textbook."

Wait. She wanted to talk about hockey. The actual game of hockey.

"It was good. Kennedy made it easy—he was in the perfect position, and I only had to find him. Credit to the system Coach has us running."

Measured. Professional. They couldn't twist my quote into clickbait or a meme template. Was I speaking a new language?

"Thanks, Jake. Good luck with the rest of your stint."

She was already walking away when I figured it out. It was my first interview I didn't turn into a performance. I didn't deflect or tell a joke. Maybe playing for Rockford was good for me after all.

I was still riding the post-game high when Eggars, one of the veteran wingers, called out, "Heard you room with some defensive wizard up in Thunder Bay. Kid's got hands, right?"

I responded with another neutral statement. "Evan's solid. Best defensive read I've ever played with."

"That's the queer one, right?" It was a voice from across the room—Klondike, a defenseman who'd been in Rockford for two seasons and acted like he owned the place. "Little guy? Makes cookies?"

I swallowed hard. "He's my teammate."

Klondike laughed, but it wasn't mean-spirited. It was only casual and thoughtless. He thought he was being friendly instead of making my skin crawl.

"Didn't know you were into spreadsheets and twinks."

A few conversations in the locker room paused, but then they quickly moved on. Someone started talking about tomorrow's practice. Klondike asked if anyone wanted to grab dinner.

I'd kept my mouth shut, but the echo in my head didn't sound right. Evan wasn't a punchline. He wasn't a fucking stereotype to be tossed around a locker room.

He was the guy who left notes on my protein bars and stress-baked when I had important games. He was careful, brilliant, and brave beyond most human beings. He'd looked at my mess of a life and decided it was worth organizing, not fixing.

I'd let some dickhead reduce him to a cheap laugh because I was too chickenshit to risk the good thing I had going.

The hotel room, my temporary Rockford home, was standard road-trip fare—two beds, a TV bolted to the wall, and a mini-fridge that coughed instead of hummed. I'd claimed the bed by the window, gear bag spilled open on the floor.

My phone was hot against my palm, thumb working on autopilot through the usual scroll. Instagram first—a few teammates had posted stories from dinner and a photo of Kennedy flexing with his game puck. X next, checking mentions, seeing if anyone had clipped the assist. Old habits.

Most of it was background noise until I hit @MinorLeaksMajorTea.

The account was garbage—amateur gossip, trade rumors that never panned out, and screenshots of players' DMs that were probably fake half the time. I should've kept scrolling. I almost did.

Then I saw my name.

The post was timestamped forty-seven minutes ago. A screenshot of what looked like a group chat, names blacked out but the IceHogs logo watermarked in the corner. The message was short:

Jake Riley's banging that neurotic cookie gay from Thunder Bay, right? No wonder he's skating faster—boy's got incentive.

Below it, another message:

Dude's got a type. Weird and organized

And another:

Nothing wrong with a good luck fuck.

I started to seethe.

The post had 847 likes. 312 retweets. The comments were a sewer of speculation, slurs I wouldn't repeat to my worst enemy, and a dozen variations of "I knew it" from people who'd probably never heard of Thunder Bay before I arrived in Rockford.

neurotic cookie gay

They'd turned Evan into a fucking meme. Reduced him to three words that didn't capture a single thing about who he was.

My hands shook as I scrolled through the comments.

Bet he bakes victory cookies

Power bottom vibes for sure

Riley's only using him for stress relief

Each one was a new punch to the gut. They weren't strangers making jokes about my reality TV past or my rap disasters. They were talking about Evan, handling him as public property, fair game for speculation and humor because he'd had the misfortune of sharing an apartment with me.

I started typing a response to the original post, then deleted it. Started again. Deleted again. What could I say? That they'd gotten it wrong? That Evan deserved better than being reduced to a punchline? That some asshole in my locker room had violated our privacy for the sake of cheap laughs?

All true. None of it would matter. The internet didn't care about truth, only salacious stories.

I dug out Evan's contact and started typing.

They're talking about you online. It's bullshit. I'm going to find out who—

I deleted that and started over.

Evan, I'm so sorry. Some dickhead leaked—

Delete.

I lowered my head into my hands. I didn't want to type. I wanted to throw a punch.

Finally, I typed:

Jake: Ignore X tonight. Please.

I hit send before I could delete that, too.

Three dots appeared immediately. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Evan: What happened?

I stared at the message for a full minute. The truth would hurt him. Lying would hurt worse if he found out. I was drowning in the space between the two.

Jake: Just hockey bullshit. I'll explain tomorrow.

Evan: Jake.

One word. My name. I heard it in his voice—the tone he used when he knew I was deflecting.

Jake: Tomorrow. I promise.

The three dots appeared and disappeared twice more before I saw his reply.

Evan: Okay. Only because you said please.

I set the phone down and pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to push back the white-hot rage building inside.

neurotic cookie gay

It made Evan small. Anonymous. A type instead of a person.

I was ten hours away, powerless to do anything about it except watch the comments multiply and hope he'd listen when I told him to stay offline.

Tomorrow, I'd find out who did this.

Tonight, I had to live with the fact that I'd let it happen.

When I walked into the Rockford arena the following morning, I tensed. For the moment, it was enemy territory.

I'd been awake since five, scrolling through the continued dumpster fire on social media.

The post had hit twelve hundred likes overnight.

Someone had found Evan's private Instagram, with exactly thirty-seven followers and pictures of perfectly arranged cookies.

They posted screenshots of his bio: Storm #23.

Bakes when stressed. Alphabetizes for fun.

The comments on that were worse than the original post.

Around me, the usual morning routine played out—guys stretching, joking, and complaining about the early ice time.

"Riley looks focused this morning." Kennedy's voice drifted over from two stalls down. "Must've gotten some good news from home last night."

A few scattered chuckles. My jaw clenched.

"Yeah, bet his roommate sends the sweetest motivational texts." It was Klondike. Casual as fuck.

I looked up.

"All those cookies probably give him extra energy, you know?" It was a different voice—Lambert? "Lucky bastard's got his own personal chef."

More laughter. Klondikes's the loudest of all.

I walked up to his stall. He was lacing his skates, grinning, probably thinking he was an A-level comedian.

"Something funny, Klondike?"

He held up his hands in mock innocence. "Only appreciating the perks of domestic bliss, you know? Must be nice having someone waiting at home with fresh-baked cookies."

I fumed.

"You got something you want to say to me?"

The locker room held its breath. Twenty hockey players sensed blood in the water. Conversations died mid-sentence. Someone's music cut off.

Klondike straightened up. "Jesus fuck, Riley. Relax. I'm saying it's sweet. The whole domestic thing."

"Domestic thing?"

"Yeah. You know." His grin widened. "Cookie boy's got you whipped, huh? Skating faster, playing smarter. Maybe we should all get ourselves a—"

I was on him before he finished the sentence. I gripped his practice jersey, bunching the fabric in my fists as I drove him back against the lockers. Metal clanged.

"Say it again." My voice was low and controlled. "I fucking dare you."

Klondike's eyes opened wide. He shoved back, palms flat against my chest.