Page 6 of Puck Wild (Storm Warning #1)

I liked having someone in my corner. I liked how he'd said "get the fuck off him" and meant it.

I was in serious trouble now because people left. They always left. And getting used to having someone defend me would only set me up for the inevitable moment when I'd have to defend myself again.

I pulled my hand away from Jake's and skated toward the bench, jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth.

Behind me, I heard him following, but I didn't turn around.

Some walls existed for good reasons.

When I reached the bench, it was a fishbowl. I was the star creature with all eyes on me.

Luka, one of the trainers, already had his kit out by the time I slumped onto the players' bench. "Let's have a look." His voice was matter-of-fact as he stared at my palm. "Could be worse. You're lucky—blade caught the meat, not the tendons."

Jake dropped onto the bench beside me without asking. He was breathing harder than he should have been for a simple scrimmage, probably still riding the adrenaline from his face-off with Murphy.

"You need stitches?" Jake asked.

Luka shook his head. "Nah. Clean cut, good bleeding. I'll butterfly it and wrap it up. He'll be fine."

"Good." Jake's voice dropped so that only I could hear it. "Can't mess up that face."

My entire nervous system short-circuited.

Heat crawled up my neck, and I prayed it wasn't visible.

"Thanks."

Jake faced me. "For what?"

I risked glancing at him. "Going after Murphy."

"Guy was being a dick."

"Still."

"Forget it." He bumped my shoulder. "Partners look out for each other, right?"

He hadn't said teammates or linemates or any of the other hockey jargon players normally chirped. He'd said partners. That was more dangerous.

Jake was close—his knee was almost touching mine.

"Yeah," I said. "Partners."

He stared at me momentarily, long enough to realize he had really long eyelashes for someone who ate cereal for dinner and rapped about power plays.

"Good," he said quietly.

I sat there like an idiot, wondering when I'd started registering the details of my roommate's face.

"You two gonna kiss, or should we give you some privacy?" The voice of Jamie, the other trainer, rang out in the arena.

"Easy there, Jamie." Hog's voice boomed from somewhere behind us. "Save the romance commentary for your podcasts."

Something small and soft hit my shoulder. I looked down to find a tiny knitted object that looked like... a puck?

"For your tender heart, Spreadsheet," Hog announced cheerfully. "Knitted with love and a fuck-ton of glitter."

I picked up the puck cozy, turning it over in my uninjured hand. It was well-made—tight, even stitches, perfectly puck-sized. The yarn was soft blue, matching the color of the Storm's away jerseys.

"You made this?"

Hog beamed. "Made twelve of 'em. Figured the team needed more emotional support accessories."

Jake snorted. "You knit emotional support accessories?"

"Knitting is meditation, Vegas. Very good for processing feelings and building finger strength." Hog flexed his massive hands. "Plus, chicks dig a man with domestic skills."

Jake grinned. "Pretty sure that's not what chicks dig about you."

I nearly smiled, despite the throbbing in my palm and my world now tilted in a new direction. There was something surreal about holding a hand-knitted puck cozy while getting patched up by a trainer, surrounded by teammates who apparently thought my love life was fair game for public discussion.

"All set," Luka announced, securing the last piece of medical tape around my palm.

"Thanks."

He packed up his kit and moved on to check someone's tweaked shoulder.

"You good to keep going?" Jake asked.

"Good to go."

"Fuck yeah." He stood and grabbed his stick. "I'm pretty sure Murphy's still out there, and I've got some unfinished business."

"Jake—"

"Kidding." He paused. "Mostly."

The locker room after practice was always a different atmosphere than before—heavier and saturated with sweat. Steam drifted from the showers, mixing with the smell of tape adhesive and whatever industrial soap the rink supplied.

I sat in front of my stall, methodically cleaning blood from the seam of my practice glove with a damp towel.

Jake was across the room with Hog and Pickle, gesturing wildly about something that had them both laughing.

His hair was still damp with sweat, sticking up in a dozen different directions, and he'd stripped down to his base layer and shorts.

I stared at the lean muscle definition across his shoulders and how his hands moved when he spoke, animated and expressive.

He caught me looking and flashed a crooked grin. I turned away immediately, focusing on the stubborn bloodstain that refused to come clean.

"Didn't know the Vegas show did rescue missions."

The voice came from somewhere behind me. I didn't turn around to see who'd said it, but I recognized the tone. The words amounted to friendly chirping, but the tone was sharper underneath.

"Guy's got a hero complex or something," another voice added. "Probably thinks he's gonna get a reality show out of it."

I kept scrubbing at the glove, jaw clenched tight. Part of me wanted to turn around, to say something in Jake's defense, but I didn't say anything.

I never said anything.

The voices moved on to other topics—weekend plans and someone's girlfriend drama. The moment passed.

Like always.

I pressed my thumb into the soft yarn of Hog's knitted puck cozy. It was surprisingly comforting—something about the texture and the absurdity of receiving emotional support accessories from a teammate who probably bench pressed more than my car weighed.

Heat built behind my eyes, and I told myself it was the lingering pain from my injured hand. Nothing more.

Jake Riley wasn't perfect. He was loud, feral, and seemingly incapable of taking anything seriously for more than thirty seconds at a time. Still, he was brave in ways I'd never learned how to be.

When someone had tried to hurt his partner, he'd stepped up without hesitation.

When it mattered, he'd chosen action over silence.

The apartment was quiet when I got home. Jake's gear bag wasn't by the door, he hadn't scattered his shoes across the entryway, and there was no sound of off-key singing drifting from the bathroom.

He was out. Probably at The Drop with half the team, rehashing the practice and collecting high-fives for his heroic defense of my honor. His absence should have brought relief—a few hours of peaceful solitude to process my day.

Instead, the emptiness weighed heavily on my chest.

The kitchen called to me how it always did when my thoughts were too loud in my head. I pulled cookie dough from the freezer—chocolate chip, pre-portioned and ready to bake—and set it on the counter to soften.

Next, I opened the fridge to reach for my pitcher of iced tea.

There was a note stuck to one of Jake's containers, written in his distinctive scrawl on a piece of tape from the medical kit: For whoever's bleeding but still hot. (Yes, that's you.)

I stared at it. He'd assumed I'd find it, understand what he meant, and accept my roommate calling me hot.

I did.

A sensation swept through me, something akin to fondness.

I opened the container. Inside were three of the chocolate chip-cornflake cookies I'd made the night Jake moved in. They were the ones I'd left on the counter as a peace offering, not expecting him to notice or care.

He'd saved them and hidden them in the fridge with a label that was half-joke and half-confession.

I had to sit on one of the kitchen stools before my knees gave out entirely.

I pulled a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and pressed it against my injured palm, hissing slightly at the cold shock.

The medical tape was already loosening at the edges, and I'd need to change the dressing soon.

Luka's instructions echoed in my head: keep it dry, change it daily, and don't do anything stupid with it.

It was reasonable advice, and I'd follow it to the letter.

The laptop was still open on the counter where I'd left it that morning, cursor blinking in the familiar spreadsheet that tracked everything from grocery expenses to practice schedules and Jake's various infractions against household harmony.

I stared at the screen, thumb working unconsciously over the stitches of Hog's puck cozy. The current entry was from yesterday: Socks in Fridge: 4. Late-Night Singing: 5. Podcast Volume Violation: 7.

Clinical. Detached. A running tally of annoyances that reduced Jake to a series of problems to be managed.

Now, that wasn't the whole story.

What about how he'd made the team laugh on his first day, turning potential humiliation into something closer to celebration?

What about his actual hockey skills, how he could thread passes that shouldn't exist, and find scoring chances hidden in plain sight?

What about the fierce protectiveness I'd witnessed when he'd stepped up without hesitation when someone tried to hurt me?

What about the cookies hidden in the fridge like a secret?

I deleted the current entry and typed something new:

October 15. Slash. No break. +1 save. -1 predictability. After scratching my head with my uninjured hand, I added: Note: Partnerships require adjustment.

I pressed the peas harder against my injured hand and wondered how long I could stay angry at someone who stood up for me.

I was beginning to suspect the answer was not very long at all.

Tomorrow there would be practice again, and Jake would be there with his ridiculous grins and his willingness to rewrite every system I'd spent years perfecting. For the first time, I was looking forward to it.

The realization should have terrified me.

Instead, it felt like coming alive.