Page 58 of Married As Puck
He chuckles. “And miss this? Please.” He circles me like a vulture. “Or maybe this isn’t about hockey at all.”
I glare. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“That little wife of yours,” he says, dragging out the word with a sneer. “She’s pretty. Real pretty. But I have to wonder––”
Heat flares in my chest, dangerous. “Leave her out of this.”
Jack’s grin widens. “Can’t, man. She’s part of the show now. The media loves her. And you—oh, you eat it up, don’t you? Makes you look less pathetic. A washed-up player and his perfect little wife. Adorable.”
My pulse hammers in my ears. Images of Brie flash in my head—her laugh, her touch, the way she trusts me. He’s trying to dirty it, twist it, and I want to break him for it.
But then he leans closer, voice dropping, eyes sharp. “You know what the best part is? No matter how much you practice, no matter how hard you hit that puck, you’ll never escape it. The truth. You’re just like your old man—angry, broken, violent. The only difference is people actually expect something from you. And when you crash, it’s going to be spectacular.”
The words land like a punch to the gut. My stomach knots. My hands shake on the stick. He knows that he’s close enough to the truth that I feel exposed, raw.
I swallow hard, force my voice steady. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”
Jack smirks, skating backward now, satisfied that he’s struck deep. “Right,” he mocks. “Keep practicing. You’ll need it.”
He turns and glides off the ice, whistling like it’s just another day, while I stand rooted, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
His words echo, louder than the sound of my own breathing. Just like your old man.
For a moment, I can’t breathe.
And Brie’s voice comes back to me. Her warning about Miranda. About Jack. My jaw tightens. Maybe she’s right. Maybe something’s brewing.
I linger on the ice after most of the guys have hit the showers, but Keith hangs back too, stretching lazily near the bench. He’s always got that look of half concern, half curiosity, like he’s waiting for me to slip and tell him what’s actually in my head.
Finally, he tosses his towel over his shoulder and calls out, “You gonna keep pretending you don’t hear me, or are you planning on telling me why you’re skating like a man possessed?”
I smirk, breath still ragged, but it doesn’t stick. “Gotta be ready for the game.”
“Bullshit.” He steps onto the ice, skates crunching lightly. “You’re pushing harder than you ever did before. And don’t tell me it’s about fitness. I know you, Gray. Something’s eating at you.”
I drag my stick across the ice, staring at the scratches like they’ll give me answers. “Jack’s been in my face. Talking. Too much.”
Keith’s eyebrows shoot up. “That clown? What’s he got to say that’s worth you losing your cool?”
I don’t answer right away. The words sting too much, still fresh. Finally, I mutter, “He’s running his mouth about Brie. About me. He’s just saying a lot and it’s getting really hard to ignore him.”
Keith whistles low. “Yeah, that’s his style. Poke the bear, see what happens. Don’t give him what he wants.”
I snap my head up. “You didn’t hear the way he said it. Like he knows something. Like… like he’s waiting for me to fall apart. And then—” I hesitate, but the memory burns hot. “He said it’d be a shame if I didn’t get another shot. At all.”
That makes Keith straighten up, his joking edge gone. “What the hell does that mean?”
“That’s exactly what I’ve been asking myself.” My grip on the stick tightens until my knuckles ache. “And it’s not just him. Brie said she saw him with one of her colleagues. Miranda. Caught them together. She’s convinced they’re working some angle. Ibrushed her off at first, but now—” I shake my head. “Now it doesn’t feel so crazy.”
Keith steps closer, his voice lowering. “Look, if Jack’s playing games, I’ll keep an eye on him. Locker room, rink, wherever. He tries anything—he won’t get away with it. But you, Gray—don’t let him get in your head before the game. That’s what he wants.”
I let out a heavy breath, the weight sitting on my chest refusing to lift. “Yeah.”
“No, I mean it.” Keith jabs a finger at me. “You’re too damn good to let him rattle you. You’re better than him on the ice, always have been. The only way he wins is if you start fighting ghosts instead of playing hockey.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I can’t hold a smile. “You sound like a coach.”
Keith grins. “Nah. Coaches scream at you. I’m just reminding you who the hell you are.”
