Page 108 of Pucking Wild

“Those are tabloids,” I cry. “It’s bullshit, Bea. I’m not with Jake Price. It’s trash reporting—”

“It’s fuel for this fire,” Bea counters.

“And Troy means to watch me burn, right?” I challenge. “Are you going to help him? Is that what you want too?”

“He’s angry and upset,” she replies. “Justifiably so. You’re asking him to uproot his entire life, to end a relationship that’s lasted over a decade. He’s not taking any of this lightly.”

I shake my head, blocking out her attempts to minimize and deflect.

“Perhaps if you’d just agree to speak with him—”

“No.” My palms are suddenly sweaty at the mere idea of another encounter. “That’s not happening. Bea, I’m done. I’ll give himonemore chance to do this uncontested. You write up the papers this time and get him to sign.”

“Tess—”

“You get him to sign, or I will see him in court,” I shout, a tear slipping down my cheek. “And then every awful thing he has ever said or done will become a matter of public record—the cheating, the abuse, the isolation, the harassment. I will drag your precious son into this fire with me, and we will burn together, so help me God.”

“Now your true colors begin to shine,” she says, her tone cold, distant.

I take a deep breath, eyes closed. “This all stops when he grants me my divorce. Only he can do it, Bea. Only he can set us both free.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “I need more time.”

“Well, I have no more time to give,” I reply, wholly resolved. “So, are you helping me or not?”

39

“Come on,” I mutter, hands balled into fists as I watch Sully, Jonesy, and Karlsson skate down the ice, passing the puck. They had to reshuffle the forward lines with me missing, which means Jonesy is practicing with the starters this morning. He’s playing like a hotshot, making fancy stick moves and hogging the puck.

“Come on,” I say louder this time. “Just pass it, Jonesy!”

Sully is open and waiting, but Jonesy keeps it, trying a backhand flick that gets blocked by J-Lo. He bats the puck away and sends it down ice, leaving Jonesy scrambling to chase after it.

“Stop showboating and pass the damn puck,” I shout as he skates past me. This is the worst part about being injured: the watching. I launch to my feet, grabbing the top of the boards. “Pass it, Jonesy! For fuck’s sake—”

“Yoo-hoo, Ryan!”

I spin around, watching as Poppy St. James comes sauntering down the row of seats, her heels clicking as she walks. Does this woman ever not wear heels? She’s our public relations manager, but don’t let her Barbie looks fool you. She’s sharp as a tack and ruthless.

Her gloomy shadow Claribel walks in her wake. Poppy is loud and bright in a lavender pantsuit and blazer, while Claribel is a goth girl with dark eye makeup and dyed hair.

“Hi, Ryan,” Poppy chimes. “You got a minute?”

I stifle my groan. Whenever Poppy asks for a minute, she really means an hour. And if Claribel is involved, it means I’ll be doing something stupid like slapping a teammate in the face with a tortilla or answering questions about my favorite books and music.

It was one of her stupid viral TikToks that outed me as a Swiftie. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a good nickname for a forward. But now the guys up in the sound booth are having too much fun with it. The last time I scored a goal, they played “22” as my goal song.

“What’s up, Poppy?” I say, giving Claribel a nod. She barely acknowledges me, her eyes on her phone.

Poppy flashes me a smile. “We’re looking for one more Ray to help us with this commercial spot, and you’re perfect. Come on.” She doesn’t even wait for my answer, she just spins around.

“Well—wait,” I call.

She glances back, one brow raised.

“I—well, I can’t leave,” I say, gesturing to the ice. “Coach wants me watching practice.”

“This will only take a few minutes. Now come on, handsome. The camera crew is waiting.”

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