Page 1 of Married As Puck
1
The cigarette between my fingers burns exactly like the one my father used to brand my cheek with—and I can’t seem to stop lighting them.
Seattle’s rush hour traffic pounds against the evening air twenty stories below, but the noise can’t drown out the headlines screaming in my head. I take another drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs until they burn, then exhale slowly into the October wind. The irony isn’t lost on me that I’m literally poisoning myself with his favorite weapon.
My phone buzzes against the balcony railing. Another notification. Another story about Seattle’s fallen hockey star. I don’t need to look to know what they’re saying.
The memory hits without warning. I’m ten years old, crouched under our kitchen table while Dad towers above me, that same sick smile twisting his face. No teeth showing. Just coldsatisfaction before his boot connects with my ribs. The air leaves my lungs now the same way it did then.
"Look at me when I’m talking to you."His voice echoes across fifteen years.
I was looking. I was always looking, even when I desperately wanted to close my eyes. Even when he grabbed my hair and yanked me close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath, the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes.
"If you tell your mother about this, I’ll rip your guts out and feed them to those damn pigeons next door."The cigarette glowed orange in the dim kitchen light."You understand me?"
I nodded. What else could a ten-year-old do?
"I’m only treating you the way you deserve. Should’ve let her abort you when I had the chance."Then came the slap that made my skin sting, followed by the searing pain of the cigarette butt pressed against my cheek."Tell her you fell. Tell her you’re fucking clumsy."
The cigarette stub burns my fingers, snapping me back to the present. I curse and flick it over the railing, watching it spiral down into Seattle’s concrete maze. My reflection stares back from the glass door—same dark hair, same sharp jaw, same eyes that turn cold when I’m angry. Too much like him.
I light another cigarette immediately. My hands are steadier now, practiced. This habit crept up on me so gradually I didn’t notice until it was too late. Just like his temper, apparently.
Inside, my laptop screen glows accusingly from the desk where I left it. The apartment feels suffocating—all sleek lines and expensive furniture that can’t hide the chaos in my head. Ishould go back to work, try to salvage what’s left of my reputation, but my feet carry me to the computer anyway.
A new notification blinks in the corner. My stomach drops.
SEATTLE’S GRAY LOSES CONTROL: BRUTAL LOCKER ROOM ASSAULT ON TEAMMATE
The photo loads slowly, each pixel a small torture. There I am, gripping Jack Monroe’s jersey, my face twisted with rage. The expression is so familiar it stops my breath because I see him. It’s my father’s face wearing my features.
The video clips are worse. My fist connecting with Jack’s nose. Blood spattering the locker room floor. My teammates’ shocked voices creating a soundtrack of horror. In the footage, I look like a man possessed.
I remember the moment it started. Jack’s voice, low and mocking, "No wonder your old man wanted to get rid of you. Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, does it, Cameron?"
He knew. Somehow, he knew about the scars hidden under my jersey, about the nights I still wake up checking the locks twice. And he used it like a blade.
The slap came before I could think. Then Jack was spitting blood, staring at me with wide eyes, and something in me just snapped.
I slam the laptop shut before I can read the comments. I already know that they’ll say I’m a thug, hothead, loose cannon. They never mention what Jack said. They never mention the months of careful needling, the way he’d smile when he pushed just hard enough to make me flinch.
My phone buzzes. It’s an email from the league office. My vision blurs as I scan the formal language, but two phrasescut through everything else, "pending investigation" and "temporary suspension."
The air leaves my lungs. Five years of grinding through minor leagues, clawing my way to the top, and it’s over. Just like that.
I take my phone off ofdo not disturbmode, and it floods with voicemails from Coach, texts from my PR manager Sarah about "damage control" and "crisis management."
I laugh, but it’s not fucking funny. Forty-eight hours ago, I was the league’s rising star. Now I’m unemployed. This is shit! I start pacing my living room. Right when we need to make playoffs. Right when everything actually mattered.
The urge to pour a drink hits hard and fast. There’s a bottle of scotch in the kitchen cabinet, aged and expensive. It would burn just right going down, would quiet the noise in my head for a few blessed hours. But then I see his face again, smell the whiskey on his breath, feel his hands yanking my hair. I’ve spent fifteen years running from that man. I won’t become him over this.
Instead, I reach for another cigarette, then stop myself. The pack crinkles in my grip. Even this small rebellion feels like surrender.
A sound at the front door makes me freeze. Not the sharp buzz of the intercom or the mechanical whir of the elevator. This is different—metal scraping against metal, a pause, then a frustrated sigh.
Someone’s trying to get in.
My first thought is paparazzi, but they’d be louder, more aggressive. This sounds almost... polite.
