Page 5 of Pucking the Cocky Striker

5

Stellan

The game’s over. We’ve won. The crowd is still buzzing, and I’m riding that high, grinning ear to ear, even though I’m totally exhausted. I rip off my gear in the locker room, tossing my jersey and gloves onto the bench with a satisfying thud. It’s been a good game—hell, it’s been a great game. I scored twice, assisted on another, and didn’t get knocked out once. What more could a guy ask for?

“Damn, Stellan,” Alaric says, tossing his towel at me from across the room. “You’ve been working on that Unpredictable Backhand, huh? That last one was a thing of beauty.”

“Thanks, man,” I reply, flashing him a grin. “Had to pull out the big guns tonight.”

Zyon, the winger, laughs as he pulls his shirt over his head. “That’s the only thing you pull out these days, Stephenson. Big guns and bad decisions.”

I roll my eyes, walking over to my locker and grabbing a clean T-shirt. “Oh, please. I’m a professional. I make great decisions.”

“Great decisions, huh?” Zyon laughs, and it sounds like he’s holding back a joke. “Oh, I don’t know, like dating the owner’s daughter?”

I freeze, my fingers stalling on the zipper of my bag. The guys all start laughing, but I don’t think they realize the truth in their joke. It’s not just pretend. I’ve been trying to convince myself it’s only for the cameras, for my career, but the more I’m around Fiona, the more I start to think about her. And that thought scares the shit out of me.

“Dude, don’t tell me you’re actually into her,” Alaric says, tossing his skate into his bag and turning toward me. “I thought you were just playing the game for PR. You’re not trying to get yourself caught up in some real mess, are you?”

“Pfft, nah,” I say, forcing a laugh. “Just here for the ride. You know how it is.”

But there’s a knot in my stomach, and I can’t shake the feeling that the line between fake and real is starting to blur. I push it aside as I finish getting dressed, trying to focus on the fact that we won, that I played well, and that the media’s probably going to eat this up.

Just as I’m pulling on my jeans, the door to the locker room swings open, and the reporters flood in, cameras flashing like a goddamn paparazzi storm. The team’s used to it, so we all stand up and start giving our usual post-game comments, keeping it cool and professional. But I can feel a pair of eyes on me.

I look over and see Fiona standing near the doorway, leaning against the wall with her friend Lacey. She’s in that dress again, the one that makes her look like she stepped out of some high-end fashion magazine. Her hair is a little mussed from the game, but she still looks flawless. Lacey’s beside her, looking like she could be one of the models in the magazine, too. Fiona’s expression is neutral, but I know she’s here for one reason—she’s waiting for me. She’s not here because she’s into the game or the win. She’s here because she has to be.

I’m immediately aware of how the reporters’ cameras are angled toward her and her friend. They’re all thinking the same thing. “Look at the owner’s daughter and her new boyfriend.”

I take a deep breath, trying to push down the butterflies in my stomach. The last thing I need right now is to get caught in some scandal—especially not with Fiona. She’s clearly just doing her part for the team, and I’m just trying to keep my cool. But then the worst possible thing happens.

One of the reporters, a woman with an annoying habit of getting in my face, speaks up. “Stellan! A quick word, if you don’t mind. We saw you and Fiona Green getting close tonight. Is it true you two are officially dating now?”

The air in the room seems to freeze for a second, like the whole team is holding their breath. My stomach sinks as all eyes shift from the reporter to me, then to Fiona, then back to me again.

Fiona stiffens, and I can see her jaw tighten. She’s trying to keep her expression neutral, but it’s clear this is the last thing she wants to deal with.

The reporters’ cameras are still snapping, capturing every moment. Fiona’s hands are pressed together tightly, and I can tell she’s trying to hold it together. I want to protect her from this, from the scrutiny, from the questions.

So I do the first thing that comes to mind. I step forward, close the gap between us, and take her by the shoulders.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice low and steady, “we’re together.”

Fiona looks at me, surprised by my sudden move, but she doesn’t pull away. The reporters are buzzing now, cameras flashing like crazy, and I can see the look of shock in her eyes. She opens her mouth, probably to correct me, but I don’t give her the chance.

I pull her closer, and before she can react, I kiss her. I don’t just kiss her, either. It’s heated, fierce, and desperate—the kind of kiss that makes my heart race and my blood pound in my ears. It’s almost like I can’t stop myself. Her lips are soft, but there’s a fire in her that I didn’t expect, and it sparks something in me that I wasn’t prepared for.

For a second, the world goes quiet. There are no cameras. No reporters. Just me and Fiona, and the way her body presses against mine, the way she doesn’t push me away—she lets me pull her into the kiss.

Then, just as quickly, reality crashes back in. I pull away, but I don’t let go of her. My breath is heavy, my pulse racing in my throat. I see the reporters scrambling to get a better shot, and I feel the weight of it—the moment feels like it’s everything and nothing at the same time.

Fiona’s eyes are wide, and I see the way her lips tremble for just a second. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. I can read it in her eyes.

What the hell have I just done?

I glance over at the guys, who are all staring at me like I’ve just pulled off some sort of magic trick. Alaric’s grinning, shaking his head with a look of disbelief. Zyon’s smirking, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to tease me for the next hundred years about this.

Fiona’s still standing there, frozen, her cheeks flushed from the kiss. She’s not moving, and neither am I. We’re both caught in this weird, confusing moment. The press is still snapping pictures, and I know there’s no going back now.

“Is everything alright, Fiona?” one of the reporters calls out, her voice sharp as she tries to get another angle.

Fiona takes a deep breath, blinking as she comes back to herself. She’s visibly annoyed, but I can’t tell if it’s from the kiss or from the situation itself. I can’t really blame her either way.

“Fine,” she says through gritted teeth, her voice cool and controlled. “We’re fine. Just… doing what’s needed.”

I glance at her, and the reality of the situation hits me all over again. This is all fake. I remind myself of that, over and over again. This is for the cameras. This is for the image. But there’s still a part of me—some twisted part of me—that wonders what it would be like if it weren’t.

If we weren’t pretending.

“Good,” I say to the reporter, still holding Fiona close. “We’re just making this work.”

And maybe, just maybe, I’m starting to believe it myself.

Fiona doesn’t look at me, but I can feel the tension between us. She’s pissed off, and I don’t blame her. I kissed her without warning, without asking for permission. And now we’re both stuck with the consequences of that moment.

The cameras are still flashing, but I don’t care. This isn’t about the media anymore. It’s about something else. Something I’m not ready to deal with.

Fiona clears her throat, stepping away from me, and gives the reporters a tight smile. “Thanks for the interview,” she says, her voice sharp but polite. “We’ll be going now.”

And with that, she walks away, leaving me standing here, with the entire world still watching us.