Page 34 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Chapter twenty-four

Evan

M y hamstrings were still singing from Coach's suicide drills when I pushed through the apartment door, gear bag heavy on my shoulder. I dropped the bag with a satisfying thud and headed straight for the kitchen, remembering what lived in the fridge.

Leftover stir-fry. Half a container of Greek yogurt. The emergency protein bars I kept for when Jake inevitably ate everything else and looked at me with those ridiculous puppy-dog eyes.

The fridge door hung open by about three inches.

Not unusual—Jake treated appliance instructions like suggestions rather than functional requirements. As I reached to close it properly, something caught my eye—yellow squares. Dozens of them were stuck to every available surface like some organizational explosion had happened while I was gone.

I pulled the door open wider.

What the hell.

Jake had labeled everything. I mean everything.

The milk carton wore a crooked sticky note that read "Calcium Delivery System - Handle With Care.

" The leftover Chinese takeout had been christened "Questionable Life Choices - Day 3.

" Even the condiment shelf had acquired a sign: "Fancy Sauce Collection - No Ketchup Allowed. "

Each label was written in Jake's distinctively disastrous handwriting—letters tilted at impossible angles, some words squeezed together when he'd run out of room, others spread wide. Someone gave a drunk kindergartener administrative duties.

The last label made my pulse pound.

There, stuck to a dented store-bought apple pie that hadn't been there before practice, were eight words in Jake's chaotic scrawl: "Carter's Boyfriend's Pie - Hands Off."

I stared at it.

Carter's Boyfriend's Pie.

Not "Jake's pie" or "roommate's pie," or even "don't touch or die."

Boyfriend's.

We were sleeping in the same bed and trading morning kisses that tasted like toothpaste. We'd fought for each other, chosen each other, built something real in the gaps between hockey practice and games.

He acted like I was that when he clocked the guy in Rockford, but we'd never said the word to each other.

"Organized in my signature style."

Jake's voice cut through my spiral. I turned to find him leaning against the counter, shirtless and still damp from what had to be the world's longest shower.

"This handwriting looks like you had a seizure while holding a pen."

"That's very hurtful, Spreadsheet. I prefer to think of it as rustic branding.

" He pushed off the counter and moved into my space, close enough for me to smell his soap and the faint trace of whatever product he used to make his hair defy the laws of physics.

"It's very authentic and very artisanal. "

"Very illegible."

"You read it fine."

He had me there. I gestured at the fridge, flooded with a weird cocktail of affection and panic. "What is this? A hostile takeover of my system?"

"I prefer to think of it as collaborative enhancement." Jake reached past me for the flour canister on the counter, his hip brushing mine in the process. "Someone had to improve the pie situation around here."

"What are you doing with that?"

"Relax. I'm just going to—"

The flour hit me square in the chest before I realized he'd even removed the lid. A white puff exploded across my practice shirt, and Jake stepped back, with a mischievous grin spreading across his face.

"Did you just—"

"Improve your aesthetic? Yes." He dusted his hands off like he'd accomplished something meaningful. "You're welcome."

I looked down at the flour coating my shirt, then back up at Jake's stupidly pleased expression. "You realize this means war."

"Does it?"

I grabbed a handful of flour from the counter and launched it at his chest—direct hit. Jake looked down at the white pattern now decorating his abs.

"Nice accuracy, Carter."

"I don't miss."

"Noted, but I think you missed the point." He scooped up a significantly larger handful. "The point being that you started it."

"I absolutely did not—"

The flour explosion cut off whatever protest I attempted. He'd gone for volume over precision, and white powder erupted across us like a baking-themed bomb detonated in our kitchen.

What followed could generously be called a tactical flour deployment and more accurately be described as two grown men losing their collective minds in a kitchen transformed into a war zone.

"Surrender now, and I'll consider mercy," I said, trying to sound threatening even though I was probably grinning like an idiot.

"Mercy's overrated."

He feinted left, then dove right, somehow managing to get behind me and wrap his arms around my waist in what was either the world's most aggressive hug or a very unconventional takedown attempt.

We wrestled for control of the flour canister, laughing too hard to be effective, white powder flying everywhere as we spun around the kitchen.

"We're going to have to clean this up," I said. It was the most Evan Carter thing I could have said in that moment.

"Later, after we properly assess the damage."

He spun me around, and suddenly I was close enough to count the freckles that dusted his nose and see the flour caught in his eyelashes. His hands settled on my waist, thumbs pressing just above my hipbones, and the kitchen was suddenly very quiet.

"Damage assessment. You've got—" He reached up, thumb brushing along my jaw. "Right there."

"Better?" I asked, though I was pretty sure we both knew the flour was beside the point.

"Getting there."

When he kissed me, I tasted laughter on his lips.

I kissed him back, one hand tangled in his hair, the other gripping the edge of the counter for something solid to anchor me. Jake Riley kissing me in our flour-dusted kitchen was the kind of thing that could knock a person completely off their axis if they weren't careful.

His hands slid up my back, flour-dusty palms warm through my practice shirt, and suddenly the counter wasn't only something to lean against. It was something to sit on.

Jake's hands settled on my hips, lifting without effort, and then I was perched on the marble edge with Jake standing between my knees, both of us breathing a little harder.

The marble was cold through my shorts, contrasting with Jake's warm hands as they settled back on my waist.

"This is definitely going to require some cleanup."

"Worth it," he said, and kissed me again, deeper this time.

The front door slammed open with the subtlety of a freight train crashing into a building. Hog's booming voice erupted: "—don't care what your nutritionist sister says, Pickle. Banana bread is bread. Bread with fruit. That makes it basically a salad."

"That's not how nutrition works!" Pickle protested Hog's reasoning. "You can't just add bananas to sugar and flour and call it—oh."

They were suddenly silent.

I froze, Jake's hands still gripping my waist, with my legs still wrapped around his hips. They caught us in a flour-dusted compromising position.

Hog stood in the kitchen doorway, massive frame filling the entire space, holding what appeared to be a grocery bag full of baking supplies. His mouth hung open slightly as he took in the scene.

Behind him, Pickle bounced on his toes, trying to see over Hog's shoulder.

"What happened? Did something explode? Why does everything smell like—" His eyes landed on the pie, and his entire face lit up like Christmas morning.

"Ooh, pie! Why does it say Carter's Boyfriend's Pie?

And more importantly, am I allowed to have some? "

Jake didn't change position. He turned his head just enough to meet Pickle's eager gaze. "Read the label, buddy."

Pickle blinked. "But it says—" Understanding dawned across his face like sunrise over Lake Superior. "Oh. OH. Carter's boyfriend. That's... that's you?"

"That would be me," Jake traced a firm circle with his thumb against my hip. It sent heat shooting up my spine.

"So the pie is..."

"Off limits. Yes."

Hog cleared his throat, a sound like a diesel engine turning over. "Right. Well. Kitchen's... occupied." He grabbed Pickle by the shoulder, steering him back toward the door. "Some of us have boundaries, Junior."

"But I want to know about the boyfriend thing!" Pickle continued his protests as Hog dragged him away. "When did that happen? Why didn't anyone tell me? Are you going to get matching jerseys?"

"Pickle."

"What? I'm just saying, this explains so much about—"

The door closed with a decisive click, cutting off whatever revelation Pickle was about to share.

Jake looked at me, flour in his eyelashes, mischief in his eyes. "Well. That went better than expected." He was smiling. It was the full Jake Riley grin: reckless, unrepentant, halfway to stealing a police cruiser for a joyride and inviting me to ride shotgun with him.

I couldn't look away.

He thumbed more flour off my cheekbone, then let both hands rest on my thighs, spread wide around his hips. "You realize, you're gonna have to do something about this." He gestured at the powdery mess, but the line of his gaze made it clear the real danger zone was south of my waist.

I tried to play it cool, but my mouth was dry. Sweat prickled under the flour on my neck. "I've seen you do worse."

Jake's hands slipped higher, skating up to the hem of my shorts. "You want to see worse?" His voice was low. "I can escalate."

"If you escalate, you're cleaning up, including the grout."

He kissed me hard, hands digging into the muscles above my knees. I held on because Jake Riley on open ice was a one-man breakaway, and I needed leverage.

He pressed forward, and I wound up splayed back against the counter, elbows bracing me. He tugged at my waistband and I helped, hips lifting, shorts and boxers sliding down together in a single, practiced motion.

Jake licked a stripe from my navel down to where my cock curved up, hard and already leaking. He sucked me in, deep, no warning, and I choked on a moan—loud enough that Pickle could have heard it through the fucking door.