Page 3 of Puck Lust

I just had no idea how far or hard I’d fall when it came knocking.

Coach Enver turns toward me, his bright red face pinched with anger. “My office. Ten minutes.”

I nod, not even bothering to make eye contact with the guys because I don’t want to be faced with the truth.

They all resent me for signing. I have no love for Oakland, and they all think I followed the money.

That’s only part true.

Barnes corners me before I can even make it into the locker room.

“Listen, hotshot,” Kevin Barnes, one of the wingers, hisses, backing me against the cinderblock wall. “We don’t give a fuck that you were a god back in New York. Out here, we don’t hangour teammates out to dry because we wanna steal their thunder. That’s not how we work as a team. And if you don’t like that, fuck off. Because from what I can see, you’re all hype, man. Nothing special about you, except maybe your ex. But even he doesn’t wanna be bothered with you now.”

“Get the fuck away from me, Barnes,” I say, the vein in my neck throbbing hard. “I didn’t see you take any shots tonight. You didn’t do shit to get us on the board.”

My blood burns, fists itching to take a punch and crack his jaw. But I swallow down the rage building in my chest.

Barnes glares at me, his nostrils flaring.

Masterson shows up and pulls Barnes away from me. “Come on, enough.”

But he doesn’t look at me.

I fucked him tonight. I fucked them all.

I pull off my helmet and scrape a hand down the front of my face. Barnes stalks through the doors and Masterson just shakes his head at me.

How the hell am I supposed to go in there and face them all right now?

Using the sleeve of my jersey, I mop my sweaty forehead, pushing back the hair hanging around my face.

I’ve got ten minutes before Coach is gonna lash my ass with some of his famous heated rhetoric. With a look at the double doors leading into the locker room, I head down the dimly lit tunnel, my blade guards thumping against the cement floor.

It’ll be at least forty-five minutes before the guys get in their warm-downs and showers. By that time, Coach will hopefully have finished chewing me out and I can get on with the rest of my shitty night.

Alone.

My fucking fate, it seems.

I slink down the darkened corridor, gripping the back of my neck. It doesn’t do a damn thing to ease the tension lodged at the base of my skull. I slam my hockey stick against the wall with a loud grunt and immediately regret it.

“Jack,” a female voice calls out.

Fuuuuck.

Could this night get any worse?

High heels clack on the floor behind me. “Jack, do you have anything to say about Sam Hartley and Brixton Scott’s engagement?” she asks breathlessly, stopping right in front of me.

More footsteps follow. Camera shutters snap, flashes pop.

My jaw tenses. And now I’m surrounded.

“No comment,” I hiss.

“I think the people of Oakland want a little more than that,” a male voice says with a smirk curling his lips. “They had a solid team before you showed up on the ice. And tonight, the first game of the season, you showed them what really matters most to you is… well,you.Maybe that’s what Sam realized, too.”

My eyes spit fire at the cocksucker in front of me. “It’s a team sport,” I growl, purposely ignoring his comment about Sam. “There are six of us out there at any one time. The team’s record is theteam’srecord. The loss isn’t on me alone.”

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