Page 4 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

Instead, I lit a match under the remaining shreds of my credibility and livestreamed the blaze.

A blog titled Goalie Gags called it "the worst thing to happen to hockey since the glowing puck."

One scout who used to respond to my agent's emails wrote back: "Hard pass. Good luck with your… music career."

So, I stopped calling. I stopped expecting calls back. And eventually, I stopped pretending I had a plan.

Back in the locker room, I opened my eyes. Evan walked past me, silent, skates unlaced, and a towel slung over one shoulder.

Coach Rusk cornered me by the Gatorade cooler. He had his arms crossed, wearing that ridiculous backwards cap. He chewed his gum like a cow with its cud.

"You think this is cute?" His voice was low and sharp enough to cut glass.

I blinked. "Uh. My face?"

He didn't flinch. "The chirps. The dancing. The press clippings you pretend you don't read."

I held up my hands. "Look, I'm only trying to lighten—"

"Shut it, Vegas. You want to stay in my locker room? You stop floating. I'm putting you on the third line next scrimmage. If your plus-minus isn't in the black, or you don't make a play that matters, you're out of the rotation."

"Benched?"

"Scratched. Sent packing. Like we ran out of fuckin' tape and couldn't make a name tag for you."

I swallowed. "That's a wicked try at motivation for a guy who only just learned my name."

He looked me dead in the eye. "I knew your name the second that stupid video dropped. I wasn't sure you knew it anymore."

He turned and walked away, gum snapping like a starter pistol.

I was still processing the emotional whiplash when Pickle slid into the stall next to mine, full of rookie energy.

"Dude. That was epic."

"What was?"

He lowered his voice. "That whole Coach thing. The threat. The speech. You didn't even flinch. You're like… a legend, man."

I stared. "Are you twelve?"

"Almost twenty-one."

I raised an eyebrow.

"In December."

I sighed and pulled off my practice socks, hoping that would end the conversation.

"I watched all your Love on Ice episodes last year." He whispered the words like he was in a confessional booth. "My sister made me, but, like… you were totally misunderstood."

"Wow, thanks for the validation, Pickle. Nothing says real hockey like a public redemption arc approved by siblings of preteens."

He didn't flinch. "You made sequins look sick. Also, my mom had a crush on you."

I laughed. "Tell your mom I say thanks."

"Already did. She asked if you're single."

I stared at him.

He grinned, stood, and clapped me on the back. "You got this, man. Third line? That's where the real mess lives."

And then he was gone, skate guards clacking down the hallway. I exhaled slowly, tying the drawstring on my warm-ups.

It wasn't much, but hell, maybe a new kind of disorder would be a good thing.

The third line didn't get theme music or spotlight intros.

We got Coach's half-snarl, a clipboard with names crossed out, and the eternal understanding that no one expected much from us unless it involved blood or overtime desperation.

Perfect.

I hit the ice with Pickle on my right and a guy named Kowalczyk at center, and the three of us skated like Coach handed us a group project due in twenty minutes—tons of hustle and blind trust.

Coach dropped the puck himself. No speech. Only a whistle and a glare.

Game on.

I'd forgotten how good it felt to move—really move. Not for the cameras or the crowd. It was an attempt to prove I wasn't a joke. I wanted to feel my body doing something right for once.

The blade caught just right, and the pass curved where I intended. I didn't think about "Puck Life", sequins, or Evan's spreadsheet of my sins.

I skated.

We rotated lines. The second shift gassed me, but I rode the high.

Third time out, I got caught on a sloppy pinch—my fault, too aggressive—and Coach's whistle shrieked across the ice. I muttered a curse, looped back to reset, and caught Evan gliding backward through the neutral zone.

The puck was headed straight for him. So was a meathead winger from the other side.

Evan watched the play develop—head up, jaw set, reading it like a diagram only he could see.

The winger didn't slow down, and I didn't think. I moved.

Two strides. One wide-angle stick check.

I snagged the puck with the toe of my blade, chipped it loose, and spun into a no-look dish back to Evan, who'd pivoted perfectly to catch it.

He didn't break stride. Three strides. Quick wrister. Net.

Goal horn—okay, it was a guy with an airhorn on the bench, but still.

I coasted to a stop near the boards, chest heaving. Evan turned, gazing from behind his mask. It was small and subtle, but he nodded.

Once.

And fuck, my toes tingled.

I skated back to the bench, lungs burning. Hog smacked me on the helmet as I passed.

"That deke was filth. Proud of you, Vegas."

Pickle yelled, "That's our legend!" and banged the boards with his stick.

I tried to play it cool. Dropped into my seat and unsnapped my gloves, but inside? I knew I'd been seen.

Not for the meme or my life mess.

For the hockey move in a lightning-fast moment.

And across the ice, Evan Carter—Mr. Label Maker, Lord of Passive-Aggressive Silences—was watching me again.

The locker room always smelled worse after a scrimmage—a combination of burned rubber, stale sweat, and damp socks.

Most of the guys peeled off fast. Someone shouted about beers at The Drop. Pickle tried to start a group chant, and Hog threatened to bring banana bread as a penalty.

I stayed behind. My shoulder needed ice, and I needed to breathe.

Evan was still at his stall. Suited down now, hoodie zipped, hair damp and dark at the temples. He wiped down his stick, slow and methodical, one square inch at a time.

I watched from the other side of the room.

He hadn't said anything about the pass or the goal. He nodded, and he didn't correct me either. Progress.

I started to stand, then paused.

He glanced up. Our eyes met. Held.

That look—fuck. He could read a whole person in three seconds flat. No blink. No mercy.

There was something new. Curiosity?

I responded with a half smile. He didn't return it, but he saw it.

Eventually, he stood, tucked his gear into a black duffel, and slung it over one shoulder. Before leaving, he hesitated by the whiteboard, where someone had scrawled STORM vs. STORM in marker and drawn a crude stick figure with glittery hair labeled "Vegas MVP."

Evan didn't laugh, but he wiped the glitter hair off the board with his sleeve, leaving the line clean, and kept walking.

I stood there for a beat longer, helmet still in my hands. As I headed out, I passed the fridge in the trainers' lounge. I spotted a note taped to the door.

Socks ≠ Refrigerated. This is not a metaphor. —E

I snorted, and I pulled a Sharpie from the supply drawer and added underneath:

It could be. Check the expiration date.

I capped the marker and slung my bag over one shoulder.

Two infractions today—

One sock in the fridge.

One heart in my throat.

Call it a win.