Page 2 of Puck Me Harder

I was the only girl in my family. With three older brothers and a single father, I wasn’t exactly raised by a pack of wild wolves— but it wasn’t far off, either. I learned early on to be unapologetic about who I am.

Athleticism and femininity can go hand in hand.

“O’Connor…” Drake searches my face, and recognition lights his beady eyes. “You Jack O’Connor’s girl? Hell of a wrist fracture in his second game.”

He scratches his chin pensively, the stump of a cigar between his lips bobbing along.

“How’s Jackie doing these days?” Coach Wallace takes the cigar between two pudgy fingers, gesturing broadly with it as we go. “Can’t believe he’s got kids now. Especially not one so grown.”

There’s more than professional curiosity in his pointed look and It takes all of my patience not to roll my eyes. These macho jerks are all the same. Drake Wallace is old enough to be my grandfather.

The South is an old boys club, especially when it comes to sports.

But I’ll be damned if I let a fossilized asshole with a bad combover and cigar breath rattle me on my first assignment.

“He started a contracting company after college. Roofing and masonry, mostly.” I pull a small recorder out of my bag and check the batteries for the hundredth time. “You know, Coach Wallace, my father always had so much to say about your leadership style. Mind if I ask you a few questions as we go?”

Sofie snorts a small laugh, quickly disguising it with the click-whir of the camera shutter as we begin walking again. Wallace takes the lead, puffing out his bloated chest as he guides us down a wide corridor and into the locker area.

“Dakota, was it?” He licks his chapped lips, fixing me with a look that I can only assume is supposed to be enticing. “I haven’t seen you at any of the press events before. Listen, if you want to get to know me better, I got no problem with that.”

He rattles out a laugh at his own cleverness.

“After you’re done playing Nancy Drew, why don’t you come find me.” He looks between me and Sofie. “Tell your friend to bring her camera. It’ll be a good time. Off the record, of course.”

Of course.

I consider pointing out that Nancy Drew is a detective, not a sports reporter. But something tells me I’d be wasting my breath.

I’m saved from addressing Coach Wallace’s proposition — and throwing up in my mouth in the process — by the slamming of another door across the room.

Two of the tallest humans I’ve ever seen materialize from the hazy shadows. Their deep voices and rumbling laughter carry through the tiled room. The men come closer, their broad outlines coming into sharp focus as they do.

I recognize them immediately.

Parker Knight is a rookie player— the last member to be added to the team. A power forward with a fantastic pre-season record, Parker has a natural gift for getting the puck into the net, no matter how impossible the shot.

Next to him is the Snowhawks’ star defenseman, Kai Mita.

Hockey is violence on ice— figure skating in a war zone. It takes a lot to earn a reputation in a sport like this. But Kai’s standing as resident NHL bad boy is unchallenged.

The New Zealand transplant is a menace on skates. He reads plays and guesses positions with uncanny accuracy. Mita’s quick skating and defensive prowess are unmatched in the league.

He also spends nearly as much time in the sin bin as he does on the ice.

Just a few weeks ago, a video of Mita, shirtless and in the midst of a bar brawl, was making the rounds on social media. The footage was grainy and dark, but there was no mistaking the sound of breaking bones and shattering glass.

I may or may not have watched way too many TikTok angles of that fight. For professional reasons, of course— it was all research. It had nothing at all to do with the ferocity on Kai’s face or the way his muscular chest glistened in the bar lights.

The ribbed white tank top he’s wearing now clings to his defined torso, damp with sweat and tight enough to make out every ridge of his cut abs. Somehow, it’s even hotter than seeing him bare-chested. In the warm glow of overhead lights, the Maori Ta Moko tattoos that wind their way down Kai’s arm are rich indigo. It’s an intricate pattern, almost hypnotic against the deep copper of his skin.

“I think I’m finally starting to get the appeal of hockey,” Sofie murmurs low enough for only me to hear.

Kai stops, towering over me. According to his stat sheets, Kai Mita is exactly one foot taller than me at six foot two. But standing in the shadow of his massive frame, those twelve inches seem to stretch on for miles.

His dark, shoulder-length hair is pulled up in a tight bun— not much different than my own professional chignon, but somehow a bazillion times sexier. Kai’s mouth is set in a firm line as he crosses those massive arms across his chest.

I can’t remember the last time I was actually at a loss for words. My tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth, my mind utterly empty for the first time in twenty-three years.

---