Page 63 of One Pucking Secret
“The truth will come out eventually,” I say, trying to sound as steady as I feel in his arms. “I have faith.”
“And in the meantime? How do we handle it?” he asks, a hint of frustration lacing his voice.
I shift slightly, the slickness of our skin a contrast to the emotional rawness that has marked the hours before. “You’re forgettingI have media training too,” I reply, trying to match his steady tone while my heart still races from earlier passions and worries. “Although it is a lot easier when your client isn’t… you.”
“I can only imagine,” he admits, and I feel the vibration of his words as his lips press against my forehead. It’s a simple touch, but it holds the weight of unspoken promises and shared struggles.
“Thank you for this,” I murmur into the space between us, my gratitude mingling with the lavender-scented steam that lingers around us.
“Anything for you,” he says, pulling me tighter. His heartbeat is a steady drum beneath my ear, a rhythm that speaks of resilience and comfort. “We’re in this together. Always.”
Though the warmth of his arms and the soothing fragrance envelop us now, a whisper of hope stirs within me. Whatever the future holds, I want to believe this serenity we’ve found in each other’s arms can withstand what’s ahead.
Chapter 22
Wyatt
I skate off theice, the last echoes of pucks and sticks fading behind me as we shuffle into the locker room post-practice. It’s been a week since Chloe and Jasper have moved in, and while we’re getting along well and adjusting to our new dynamic, the media’s fixation on the child I’ve kept a secret is only beginning to die down.
I’m exhausted—physically from the game and emotionally from the constant scrutiny. All I want is to get back to them, away from the vultures that sometimes still camp outside our parking lot. The first thing I do is head for the shower, eager to wash off the weight of the week.
The water is scalding, steam fogging up the glass doors. I let it run down my back, muscles slowly uncoiling under the heat. It’s a brief sanctuary—the hiss of the spray drowns out the world, if only for a moment. But even here,amid the warmth and white noise, my mind doesn’t shut off. It ticks away, always playing the next move, the next game, the relentless pursuit of victory.
I rinse off, sluicing away sweat and the residue of practice. Today’s just another day, I tell myself. Just another hurdle cleared. As I return to my locker, the room buzzes with its usual banter, a cacophony of laughter and clattering equipment. Once I’m dressed, I pull out my phone, fingers tapping out a quick message to Chloe.
Wyatt: Just checking in.
Her reply comes swiftly, lighting up the screen.
Chloe: So far, so good. Thanks again for letting us stay here. I promise you’ll return to a clean home in a bit.
A chuckle escapes me as I thumb back a response. The idea of Chloe bustling around my place, tidying up corners that probably never knew her touch—it’s unexpectedly comforting.
Wyatt: You don’t have to clean, Chloe. I pay someone to do that once a week.
She fires back a text that has me grinning like a fool.
Chloe: A little extra clean won’t hurt.
The words linger, warming me from the inside out. It’s this domestic dance over digital lines that tugs at something deep within—something that looks a lot like what I’ve been craving. Family. It’s a foreign field I’m navigating without a playbook.
Even so, I could get used to it.
“Hey, Banks! Coach wants to see you in his office.” Alec’s voice snaps me back to the present.
I pocket the phone and rise, scanning the room. My teammates are shedding their gear and laughing about plays. Yet there’s a sudden stillness from Alec and Zach, a tension in their shoulders that doesn’t match the atmosphere of the locker room. They’re both watching me, expressions etched with concern, or is it caution?
I give them a nod, the unspoken question hanging between us like a puck in mid-air, waiting for the play to unfold. Then I’m off, walking toward whatever waits behind Coach Reynolds’s door.
I walk through the maze of corridors leading to his office, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribs. The door shuts behind me with a click that resounds too loudly, andI’m suddenly aware of how much space the silence fills.
“Have a seat, Wyatt,” he directs, gesturing to the chair opposite his cluttered desk.
The leather creaks under my weight as I sit, trying to keep my frame relaxed, but there’s a coil of tension winding tight in my gut. Coach looks at me, his gaze steady, and I know this isn’t about any missed plays or poor performance on the ice.
“Your most recent drug test came back,” he starts, and there’s a weight to his words that has my muscles clenching. “You tested positive for opioids.”
I blink, disbelief halting my breath. “That can’t be,” I say, denial surfacing before I can process his words. “I don’t do drugs.”
