Page 28 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

"Get the fuck off me, psycho."

"Not until you tell me who you shared that private conversation with." I leaned close enough to smell the coffee on his breath. "I know it was you. Same words, same fucking attitude."

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

"Bullshit. You leaked it to that gossip account. Made him into a goddamn punchline for what? Internet points?"

Around us, the locker room was entirely silent. Twenty pairs of eyes watched and waited to see what would happen.

Part of me considered backing down, walking away, and handling it like an adult. It would keep my spot on the team, my shot at moving up.

More of me didn't give a fuck about my hockey future.

Klondike's voice rose. "Even if I did, what's the big deal? It's not like it's a secret. Everyone knows you're fucking the cookie fairy."

Cookie fairy.

My right fist connected with Klondike's jaw before my brain caught up to what I was doing.

The sound was clean. Satisfying. Like a perfect one-timer finding the back of the net.

Klondike's head snapped back, blood immediately flowing from his split lip.

For half a second, his face went blank—genuine confusion, unable to process why locker room banter had earned him a split lip.

Then, his expression hardened, and his fist flew toward my face, catching me high on the cheekbone.

Pain exploded across my skull. It was a clean hit, too. Honest. None of the messy emotional bullshit I'd been drowning in since last night. Only action and reaction.

We crashed into the equipment bins, sending sticks and helmets scattering across the rubber mats. I got another shot in—one to his ribs—before hands grabbed my shoulders, hauling me backward.

"That's enough!" Coach Monroe's voice cut through the room like a fire alarm. "Separate them! Now!"

Kennedy had one of my arms. Lambert had the other. Two other guys restrained Klondike, who was calling me every name in the book.

Adrenaline surged through my bloodstream. I had split knuckles, blood running down my fingers to drip on the floor, but my head was clear.

"He started it!" Klondike yelled, struggling against his handlers. "Fucking lunatic attacked me!"

"I don't give a shit who started it!" Coach's face was red, veins popping in his neck. "You're both done. Off the ice. Both of you."

I let Kennedy and Lambert guide me toward the door. The rage was still there, simmering under my skin, but it was different. Purposeful. Clean.

He'd deserved it.

And I'd do it again.

Even if it cost me everything.

Monroe's office was what you'd expect from a minor league coach—cramped, cluttered, and smelling faintly of old coffee. Team photos covered one wall, going back decades.

He sat behind his desk, fingers steepled, studying my injured face. My knuckles had stopped bleeding, but they were starting to swell. Purple bruises bloomed across the back of my right hand.

"Less than a week, Riley, and you're throwing punches in my locker room."

I stared at my hands, seeing the split skin and dried blood under my nails. "Yes, sir."

"You want to tell me what that was about?"

The honest answer would've taken an hour or more.

I'd have to explain how Evan organized his spice rack alphabetically because it made him feel safe.

How he'd given me an unmarked game puck because some things were too important to label.

How hearing him reduced to a punchline made something protective and feral rise up in my chest.

I said, "Personal disagreement."

Monroe leaned back in his chair. "Personal disagreement."

"He said some things, and I responded."

"With your fists."

"Yes, sir."

Through the office's thin walls, I heard the team taking the ice for practice—the scrape of blades and pop of pucks against the boards.

"You know what kills me about this?" Monroe's voice was softer, more tired than angry. "Yesterday, you looked like you belonged out there. Mature. Composed. Like maybe you'd figured something out."

"Maybe I had."

"So, what changed? What was so damn important that you were willing to throw it all away for a locker room scrap?"

I looked up at him for the first time since sitting down. He was younger than Coach Rusk, maybe in his mid-forties, and had tired eyes.

"Someone I care about got hurt. It was someone who didn't deserve it."

Coach rubbed his stubbled chin. "The defenseman from Thunder Bay? The one Klondike was running his mouth about?"

I nodded.

"And you figured the best way to handle that was assault?"

"I figured it was the only way that would make him stop."

Monroe sighed and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his palm. "Riley, I've been coaching for fifteen years. I've seen kids throw away everything for stupider reasons than defending someone they love."

Love. I didn't argue.

"But the organization can't have this kind of conduct. You know that, right? I've got a locker room full of guys who need to trust each other, and you just showed them that you'll snap at the first sign of pressure."

I knew. Of course, I knew. Hockey was a business; businesses didn't keep liabilities around out of good intentions.

"You're benched for the rest of the week," Monroe continued. "Fined five hundred. And at the end of your stint, you're going back to Thunder Bay."

The words didn't hit as hard as I thought they might. There was no surprise or shock.

"I understand."

"Do you?" Monroe leaned forward. "You had something here, kid. Real potential. The kind of hands and hockey sense that don't come around often at this level."

Past tense. Had.

"But raw talent doesn't mean shit if you can't control yourself when it matters. If you can't separate your personal life from your professional one."

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it.

"Nothing to say for yourself?"

"No, sir."

"Get cleaned up. Go back to the hotel. Stay out of trouble for the next week; maybe this won't follow you when you return to Thunder Bay."

I stood, legs steadier than I'd expected. At the door, I paused.

"Coach?"

"Yeah?"

"For what it's worth, I'm not sorry."

Monroe's laugh was sharp and humorless. "Yeah, Riley. That's your problem."

As I headed down the hallway outside of the office, I knew I'd fucked up, yeah. Lost my temper, threw away an opportunity, and proved that Jake Riley couldn't be trusted when things got complicated.

That wasn't all. I'd also done something I'd never done before. I'd put someone else first. Not the crowd, the cameras, or my desperate need for approval.

Evan.

I'd chosen him over my second chance and didn't know what that said about me.

It may have said I was growing up. Maybe it said I was an idiot.

Both could be true.

What I knew for sure was that in a week, I'd be back in Thunder Bay, explaining to Coach Rusk why his faith in me had been misplaced. I'd be sitting in our apartment, trying to find words for what Evan meant to me and why I'd been willing to throw away everything else to defend him.

The cold air outside hit my face like a slap, but I didn't flinch.

The hotel room looked like a crime scene where the victim was my hockey career.

I sat on the edge of the bed closest to the window, staring at the Rockford IceHogs practice jersey in my hands. Number 47. The nameplate that had looked so permanent yesterday was a temporary tattoo—something that was always meant to wash off.

My gear bag lay open on the floor, half-packed. I'd done this dance before. Pack light, pack fast, and don't get attached to spaces that were never really yours. I'd learned that lesson in juniors, bouncing between billet families who treated me like a temporary houseguest with a bedtime.

Sitting there with the jersey in my hands, I thought about the first goal I'd ever scored in organized hockey. Twelve years old, house league in Calgary, wearing a hand-me-down jersey that was two sizes too big and smelled like someone else's sweat.

The shot had been ugly. It had bounced off my skate and somehow found its way past the goalie.

I'd raised my arms anyway and skated around like I'd won the Stanley Cup instead of scoring a garbage goal in a game that didn't matter to anyone except the parents keeping score in the stands.

My dad was there. Mom, too, with her thermos of coffee that was mostly Bailey's. They'd cheered like I'd won the Hart trophy instead of accidentally redirecting vulcanized rubber past a ten-year-old in oversized pads.

I was twelve years old, and I'd decided hockey would save me.

Now I was twenty-six, trying to figure out what the hell would save me next.

My phone buzzed against the nightstand.

I almost ignored it, but picking it up was automatic. I glanced at the screen before I could stop myself.

Juno: You finally stopped performing.

I stared at the message for a long time. Finally, I responded.

Jake: Not sure that's a good thing.

Juno: Depends on what comes next.

What comes next? Right. Like I had any fucking clue.

Thunder Bay? The Fort William Barn with its suspicious plumbing and scoreboard that worked only when it felt like it?

The more immediate matter was explaining to Evan why I'd thrown away everything we'd both worked toward for a locker room fight. Why I'd let my temper override my brain, again, and prove that Jake Riley was the kind of liability everyone said he was.

I set the phone aside and reached for the rest of my gear. I nested my shin pads into my elbow pads. Tucked the gloves into the spaces between. Everything was in its place, organized with the efficiency Evan would appreciate.

The last thing I packed was my stick. Custom curve, perfect weight, taped the way I liked it.

I'd probably have to buy a new one when I got back to Thunder Bay—the professional sticks were expensive as hell, and minor league budgets didn't stretch far enough to waste money on equipment for players who couldn't control their tempers.

My phone buzzed again. This time it was an X notification—someone had tagged me in a thread about the fight, complete with amateur lip-reading analysis and speculation about what had set me off. I turned off notifications without reading it.

Sitting in the quiet hotel room that would forget I existed the moment I checked out, I realized something that surprised me. I wasn't sorry.

Not about defending Evan and choosing him over my second chance. Not about finally, for once in my fucking life, putting someone else's dignity before my desperate need to be wanted.

Maybe Juno was right. Perhaps I had finally stopped performing.

I picked up my phone one more time and started typing. I had no reason to stick out another week in a hotel room in Rockford.

Jake: Flying back to Thunder Bay tomorrow. Got some things to figure out.

Juno: Good. It's about time.

I turned the phone off and finished packing, humming something under my breath that might've been "Puck Life."

A week to figure out what came next.

I was looking forward to finding out.