Page 28 of One Pucking Secret
Wyatt: Yeah, not exactly my favorite part of the job, but I get it.
Mark: Well, it paid off. Check this out.
He attaches a link to his message.
When I click the link, my screen comes alive with words that tell a story about me I barely recognize.
“Everything okay?” Alec asks, eyeing me as I stare at my phone. “More negative press?”
“Actually, no,” I tell him, still dumbfounded as I continue to read the article I interviewed for the other day. “This time it’s positive.”
To be honest, I wasn’t expecting much when I sat for the interview. The media coverage has been so vicious lately, I figured they would just spin it into another bad narrative about me. But this includes quotes from the community director at the center praising me for my volunteer work this past month.
Zach peers over my shoulder and scans the article. “Hey, check this out, Wyatt!” He points to the screen. “They interviewed the guy who got hurt in your parents’ car accident.”
“They did?” I take a closer look at the article. A few paragraphs below the one I was reading, the young man who was injured in the accident caused by my parents’ drunken recklessness reveals that I’ve covered all his medical bills and even paid for his college tuition.
“You really did that?” Zach says, and I nod. It’s a fact I never revealed to anyone.
The shame of my parents harming someone with their own bad judgment kept me quiet on the matter. It felt like an obligation at the time, not something to brag about. Still does, even today.
“Wow, everyone in the comments is singing your praises,” Zach points out.
“Wow, Wyatt is actually a pretty cool guy,” I read aloud from a comment, and can’t help the smirk pulling at my lips.
Alec huffs. “They love you one minute, hate you the next. I wouldn’t get my hopes up that they won’t turn on you again.”
“Dude,” Zach says. “Have some decorum.”
“No, he’s right,” I reply. “I’m relieved that Chloe was able to land me a decent interview, but if Sonia continues to spew her bullshit and manipulate the narrative, it’ll be useless.”
Alec, silent till now, meets my gaze. His nod is subtle but speaks volumes. He doesn’t believeI should indulge too much in the praise, and I agree with him.
I slip my phone back into my pocket. I’ll be sure to thank Chloe once we land in Denver. The intercom crackles, announcing our flight. We make our way toward the gate, and even though I told myself not to get too excited, a small part of me can’t help but smile as we board the plane.
The buzzer sounds, echoingthrough the packed arena, my heart thrumming in time with the cheers. The scoreboard blares the final tally—we won. My hat trick had sealed it, the crowd’s roar still ringing in my ears like a victory anthem. But as I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey in the locker room, I can’t shake the throbbing ache that has taken up residence in my shoulder.
“Damn, Banks, you were on fire out there!” Zach slaps my back, and I wince, the pain flaring from the earlier hit. He frowns, his celebratory grin faltering as he notices my grimace. “You good?”
“Will be,” I manage, rotating my shoulder carefully. It was just one hard check into theboards, but it’s left its mark on me, a reminder of my body’s limits now that I’m thirty. Most players my age are preparing for retirement. While I work hard to keep my body strong and limber, my age betrays me on occasion, reminding me that my time as a professional hockey player is almost up.
“Tonight, we celebrate,” Alec chimes in, his voice carrying over the chatter of the room. He’s already in high spirits, the glow of victory and the anticipation of alcohol bright in his eyes.
“Not me,” I say. “I’ve got a shoulder to nurse tonight.”
“Suit yourself,” Zach teases as I decline the invitation, his words tinged with a knowing smirk. They file out, a parade of adrenaline and testosterone, leaving me alone with the echo of their excitement.
Back in my suite,the quiet is a welcome contrast to the clamor of the rink. I grab an ice pack from the freezer, the cold biting into my skin, offering a brief reprieve from the ache in my shoulder. Sinking onto the couch, I press the pack against the soreness,my knuckles brushing the coarse fabric, a small, grounding comfort amidst the buzz of lingering adrenaline.
Chloe… I should call her, or at least text. But what would I say? How do you articulate a knot of feelings that’s part need, part longing, and entirely too complicated?
A knock interrupts my thoughts. I push off the couch, my shoulder protesting with each step toward the door. Expecting room service or one of the guys, I swing it open—and freeze.
“Chloe?” The word comes out more like a question, disbelief threading through it. She stands there, takeout bag in hand, her green eyes sparking with a familiar mischief.
“Surprise,” she says with a playful smile, stepping past me into the room like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The scent of food follows her, making me realize I’m hungrier than I thought.
“What are you doing in Denver?” I ask, closing the door behind her, still caught off guard by her unexpected arrival.
