Page 22 of Puck Lust

I slam him against the wall before dropping his shirt. He smooths the front of it. The vein in my throat hammers hard, ready to explode.

But this prick knows who I am. And I’m not drunk enough to make the dumbass decision of cracking my fist against his jaw like some fucking cretin.

“What the hell is going on here?”

I twist around. Jack stands behind me, a pissed-off look on his face. “VK, what the fuck are you doing?”

The guy rolls his eyes. “I think he got a little jealous.” He glowers at me and pushes past to get to Jack. “But we’re done. Let’s get out of here.”

“Jack, don’t go with him.” I drop my voice and put a hand on his arm. “I heard him on the phone. I don’t think he’s a good guy. He’s after something. Ask him about it, for fuck’s sake.”

“I can’t believe you’re trying to cockblock me right now. And you say I’m a selfish prick.” He lets out a dry laugh.

My throat tightens as Jack backs me against the wall, his green eyes spitting fire. “So lemme get this straight. You get to go home and fuck your bubble head girlfriend and I have to go home alone because you can’t keep your nose out of my business? Guess what? I’m a big boy.” He shakes his head. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long damn time. I don’t need anyone’s help. Especially yours.”

“I’m telling you, he’s planning something and if you leave with him, I’m worried that he’ll?—"

“Worry about yourself, VK. Trust me, there’s plenty to keep you occupied.” He steps back, jaw twitching as he scrubs a hand down the front of his flushed face. “Leave me alone,” he mutters. “I’m not your fucking problem to fix. I never was.”

I let out an unsteady breath, my head jerking to the guy. He flips me off, a malicious smirk on his face. Then he grabs Jack’s arm and pulls him closer. “Fuck him. Let’s go.”

Jack lances me with one last glare before turning his back on me.

The crowd swallows them as they push past the people on the dance floor.

I lean back against the wall, my heart thundering as I replay his words.

“Worry about yourself, VK. Trust me, there’s plenty to keep you occupied.”

I swallow hard, fisting the sides of my hair.

He’s right. And that fear of never being good enough has followed me around for years. I made the NHL by the skin of my damn teeth and Jack knows it. I was lucky to get drafted to Washington. I worked harder than I have for anything else in my life to get ahead and here I am, back again in Jack’s shadow.

Masterson knows it. Everyone knows it.

And the fact that Jack is stirring up these crazy feelings inside of me is only more of a distraction from proving myself to the team, the coaches, the fans, my family.

For years, my dad couldn’t shut up about Jack and how shocked he was that I was playing in the same league as him. He loved knowing we were friends and encouraged me to learn as much as I could from him. But I guess that’s what happens when you grow up the only son of a college hockey star who’d have gone pro if he hadn’t gotten an injury that took him out of the game.

It was bad enough that everyone compared my athleticabilities to my dad’s while I was growing up. But when your own father compares your level of talent to the guy who has the magic you’d expect the son of a true hockey god to have, it fucking hurts.

I always made my own way. Even with my dad’s influence, I didn’t look for special treatment or opportunities, not that I was good enough to get them anyway.

Everything I have comes from my own hard work. Period.

And for a long time, it looked like my hockey career was going to end after college.

But I got lucky and I didn’t waste the chance to make a future for myself.

That future isn’t guaranteed, though.

I wake up every day with that reality hanging over me.

Jack is now a damn big part of it, bigger than I want to admit.

And way bigger than I’m prepared to handle.

Masterson pokes his head around the corner. “Hey, I was looking for you. I think you might’ve lost Livvie to Lane Maxwell tonight,” he says, pointing at the stage where Livvie is standing, her eyes glued to the drummer. “Sorry, dude.”

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