Page 17 of One Pucking Secret
Now, there’s Jasper. The boy with his father’s eyes. The boy Wyatt doesn’t know exists. And that kiss? That kiss is dangerous because it reminds me too much of what I wanted, of what we almost had.
I shouldn’t have wanted it. I hate that I did. But that doesn’t stop the truth. My heart and body betrayed me the moment our lipstouched, craving something that will only end in pain.
I can’t want this. Not when there’s so much at stake—Jasper’s safety, my peace of mind. I tried to contact Wyatt, tried to tell him about his son, but he never responded. Ghosted me. Ignored me when I needed him most. Why would this time be any different?
As I drive away, the city lights blur past, but all I can think about is him. Anger flares, hot and sharp, as I grip the steering wheel. Is this just a game to him? Am I just some forgotten chapter he’s flipping through again? But even as the questions gnaw at me, I can still feel the ghost of his kiss on my lips.
And the worst part is, I don’t know if I regret it. I should. But I don’t.
Chapter 6
Wyatt
Ice scrapes under myskates, the chill of the rink seeping through my gear. Puck on my stick, I fake left—no good. Right into a defenseman’s path. Zach circles back, eyebrows raised beneath his helmet.
“Hey, the PR campaign seems to be working,” he says, pausing to swipe a bead of sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his jersey. He takes a moment to adjust his helmet, his gaze flicking across the rink as if assessing our next play.
“Yeah, Chloe’s pulling strings,” I grunt, pushing off the boards and feeling the familiar ache in my muscles.
Zach nods. “It’s helped drown out some of Sonia’s bullshit. Some people are seeing through her allegations.”
I exhale, relief barely touching the tension in my chest. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
We glide toward the bench for a water break. Zach takes a long sip and then glances over atme. “Chloe’s doing a solid job. And she’s hot. Surprised your charms haven’t worked on her yet.”
I shake my head, feeling the shift in the conversation. “Yeah, well… my charms worked back in college, but they seem pretty useless now.”
Zach raises his eyebrows surprise. “Back in college?” His interest piques. “She went to USC?”
“Yep.” The words are matter-of-fact, but they carry the weight of a history I’ve kept to myself.
“So, the two of you were a thing?” Zach’s curiosity is evident, his eyes studying my expression for more than just the surface story.
“Thing is a strong word.” I shrug, not willing to admit it felt like it could have been more than that. “And she’s the one acting like she doesn’t remember me.”
“Ouch,” Zach chuckles, slapping my shoulder with his glove. “Guess you’re not as unforgettable as you thought, Banks.”
I don’t tell him how much that night meant to me, how often Chloe’s ghost has danced through my dreams over the years. It’s been a week since we started working together, and I’m still struggling to keep my head straight when she’s around. Instead, I chase after thepuck, muscles tensing, my focus splintering like thin ice.
Practice drags on, and I’m a half-step behind every play. Pucks skitter past my stick, shots veer wide. Frustration boils in my chest, each missed pass stoking the fire.
“Come on, Banks, keep your head in the game!” Alec, my teammate, a veteran on the team, calls out from the bench, his mustache twitching in amusement. His voice echoes, too loud in the frosty air, fueling my irritation.
“Watch it, Harding,” I snap back, knowing full well he enjoys seeing me off my game. If looks could freeze, he’d be a statue.
“Keep this up, and I’ll be back on the first line before you can say benchwarmer,” Alec taunts, leaning over the boards in a friendly tone that feels more like a challenge.
“Over my dead body,” I mutter, but the bite’s gone from my words as I skate out of the rink. We head to the locker room, the weight of the day’s failures clinging to me like wet gear.
The locker room’s fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting a harsh glow on the scuffed tiles. I peel off my sweat-soaked jersey and toss it into the bin, muscles aching from exertion and irritation.
Just then, Coach Reynolds steps out of his office. “Got a minute, Banks?” he calls to me, his voice cutting through the post-practice chatter.
“Sure thing, Coach.” I follow him in, the door closing with a soft click. The office feels tight, the walls crowded with strategy boards and framed victories that now feel miles away.
“Rough practice today,” Coach says, skipping the pleasantries, his eyes locking onto mine like he’s searching for answers.
“Got some stuff on my mind,” I admit, leaning back against the cold filing cabinet. I don’t need to explain. Coach knows. Everyone in the organization knows.
