Puck Aholic: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  Which means, for the purposes of today’s festivities, I’m still considered a rookie and will be hitting the ice with the rest of the under twenty-fives in the penultimate scrimmage of the game.

  It’s also my first competitive event since I fell for my captain’s little sister and started spending several of the hours I used to spend watching game tape hanging by the pool with Diana, cooking elaborate dinners with Diana, or fantasizing about Diana and wishing she were home with me instead of wherever she’s gotten off to while I was at the gym.

  I asked her to come to Seattle with me, but we couldn’t find anyone to take care of Wanda on such short notice—at least not anyone we could trust her not to attack when their back was turned—so Diana stayed home.

  I miss her like oxygen, but it’s probably for the best. I’m hoping to steal a few minutes to talk to Brendan about the recent developments in mine and Diana’s relationship, and on the off chance Brendan decides to kick my ass, that’s something best done without Dee anywhere nearby.

  I arrive at the arena around nine a.m. to discover the Seattle locker room is as stinky as I remember, and that the equipment manager has put me in the stall right next to Brendan’s. It feels like a sign, but I can’t decide if it’s a good one or a bad one. Either way, I know better than to try to talk to Brendan before we’ve taken care of business. He’s notoriously no-nonsense in his pregame rituals, and he’s sitting next to Justin, who is clearly deep into the focus-enhancing meditation he swears turns his game around every time he’s on the schneide or just sucking more than he would like.

  And I have my own rituals that need tending to.

  I pull up my pregame playlist, slipping in my ear buds and letting my agitated morning brain be soothed by the airy notes of the Peruvian pan flute. It doesn’t pump me up the way my old, minor-league playlist used to, but I’ve learned what my mind wants and what it needs are two different things. With the flutes whistling calmly in my ears, I head out to the ice, leaning my hands against the glass. This is usually when I visualize my positioning during different game situations, keeping in mind the Badger system. Today, however, we’ll be playing three on three, so I allow my mind to drift from the usual script, imagining various fast-paced scrimmage scenarios.

  Even if this is just a charity event, I need it to go well. I need to prove to myself—and my captain—that I can be crazy about his sister and a force to be reckoned with in my game at the same time.

  Twenty minutes later, we hit the ice for warm-ups and then settle onto the bench as our heavy shooters get ready for the first event—a hardest shot contest, where pucks will be clocked as they zip into the net to see which players have the gnarliest slap shot. The Storm players are pale, lean men who look mildly Vitamin D deprived from living in a city where it rains one-hundred and fifty-two days a year. But last summer they ran away with the records for fastest shot and shooting accuracy, while Adams scored the only title for our team, coming in first for skate speed.

  This year, Coach Swindle isn’t fucking around, sending our biggest and bulkiest out for the slap shot contest, with Petrov’s Easter-ham-sized biceps being our best chance at a win. I’m as tall as the rest of the guys hitting the ice, but leaner, so I’ll be skating in the final event with Adams and Scroll, who are so jack-rabbit fast I’ve got no chance in hell of getting around them, which is sort of a relief. I can save my big push for the rookie scrimmage, where I’ll be playing with a few two-way contract guys who just started with the Badger’s minor league farm team.

  As we hoped, Petrov brings home the fastest slap shot—clocking in at one hundred and one miles per hour—but Brendan and Justin, two of our most reliable when it comes to accuracy, are shut out by the Storm’s snipers. They return to the bench looking pissed and glaring daggers at the nearly seven-foot tall, quietly ruthless Seattle player who bested them.

  “Way to blow it out there, Daniels,” Justin says, plopping onto the bench and snatching his water bottle from the shelf.

  “Fuck you, Justin,” Brendan returns. “You couldn’t hit the ass end of an elephant if it were holding still today.”

  “I know.” Justin sniffs, swiping his glove across his sweat-damp upper lip. “But you’re supposed to be better than I am. You’re Yoda to my Skywalker.”

  “He’s old enough to be Yoda,” Petrov says, getting a laugh from both of them.

  “Fuck you, too, Petrov,” Brendan says, still smiling. “You’re only a few years younger than I am, asshole.”

  “Which is why you can’t quit,” Petrov says. “I’m not ready to be the geezer of this team.”

  I observe the exchange, but don’t join in the way I usually would. I don’t want to risk making Brendan crankier than he is already. Hopefully he and the other over-thirties will crush the Storm in the veteran’s scrimmage that closes out the event, and he’ll be in a good mood for a nice, calm, reasonable chat afterward.

  As predicted, in the speed skate I am thoroughly smoked by the smaller, speedier members of my own team, but I come in ahead of all three Storm players, giving my spirits a lift going into the rookie scrimmage. We’re playing three on three, so we’ll have more room to navigate, and the action will be more free-flowing and fast-paced than a traditional game. Add in the fact that defense is always more lax in these exhibition matches and I’m looking forward to getting flashy with my offense and showing off a few puck-handling tricks I’ve been working on.

  I hit the ice with the two minor-league guys I recognize from our franchise end-of-the-year party, and for the first of our two abbreviated eighteen-minute periods, we proceed to kick Storm rookie ass. We’ve never played together before, but the chemistry is there from the drop of the puck. The open format gives the minor leaguers the chance to shine, allowing them to showcase speed and talent that leaves no doubt I’ll be seeing them around the Badger locker room before too long. And they’re not selfish with the puck, either. They set me up with several tic-tac-toe plays, and I send the puck sailing into the open net, earning two of our four goals and ensuring our second period is pure playtime.

  It is a fact universally acknowledged that there are certain moves best avoided during a regular season game if you prefer your head to remain attached to the rest of your body. But in a three-on-three scrimmage when you’re already up four goals? Well, then, anything goes.

  I start off the second period by intercepting a pass and scooping it up, carrying it on the blade of my stick and shooting it into the net lacrosse style, inches in front of the Storm rookie chasing me down the ice. My linemates and I continue our scoring onslaught by racking up two more goals, all while grinning like kids kicking ass in a pond hockey massacre after school.

  I can’t remember the last time I’ve had so much fun, and by the time I put an end to the scoring by faking out the goalie, aborting my forehand shot to seal the deal by tapping the biscuit between my legs into the net, I’m flying higher than I have in a long while.

  Taking the game seriously is important for my future and my career, but I wouldn’t have a career without my love of being on the ice.

  Back on the bench, things are quieter than I expect them to be, until Petrov calls out, “Where you been hiding the mad skills, rookie,” and laughter erupts from the rest of the team.

  “Fancy footwork, man,” Adams says as I sit down beside him. “You were on fire out there.”

  “I’m going to talk to Coach about letting you off the leash more, Nowicki.” Brendan gives me an encouraging slap on the back. “You’ve got improv skills we should be taking advantage of. You keep playing like that, and you’ll be a top-six forward before you know it.”

  And that right here—praise from the captain who had to pull me aside several times last season for impromptu therapy sessions when my game started to suffer—is one of the highlights of my year. The only thing that could get me any higher is hearing Brendan say that he trusts me to be the kind of boyfriend his sister deserves.

  The veteran game is tighter,
but Brendan scores twice, Petrov continues his lucky streak with two goals, and we take home the vet scrimmage win by a comfortable two-point margin.

  We head down the tunnel feeling no pain, and the locker room is filled with the familiar “we crushed it” vibe that always follows a win. Laughter and conversation are louder than usual, and a plan to meet up for beers after we touch down in Portland triggers a debate about which microbrewery has the best happy hour.

  I couldn’t ask for better timing to declare my completely honorable intentions toward Brendan’s sister. Naively, I think the festive atmosphere will make this easier.

  I am, however, very, very wrong.

  “What the fuck did you just say to me?” Brendan asks in a chillingly quiet voice after a silence that has already stretched on for way too long.

  I swallow hard. “I’m going to ask Diana if she wants to start dating. Seriously. Exclusively.”

  Justin, who has clearly overheard what was supposed to be a private conversation, lets out a long, low whistle. “Oh, you stupid, stupid rookie.”

  “I know dating a teammate’s family is frowned on,” I hurry to add. “But I care about Diana and she—”

  “Caring about her is fine,” Brendan cuts in, dropping his bag with a heavy thunk that echoes in the increasingly quiet locker room. “Fucking my little sister, who I trusted with you because I was certain you had the good judgment to keep your dick in your pants, is something else. What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I was thinking she’s a really cool person.” I stand my ground as he takes a menacing step forward. “She’s funny and smart and interesting, and I don’t want to let my shot with her slip through my fingers because of some stupid team rule.”

  Brendan’s lips part, but I push on before he can speak.

  “And it is stupid.” I lift my chin, meeting his cold gaze without looking away. “A rule against casual shit is fine, sure. But what I feel for Diana isn’t casual, and I’m not going anywhere until she tells me to get lost. You can kick my ass if you feel that’s necessary, but all I want to do is make her happy. I’m going to be good to her. You can count on that.”

  Brendan shakes his head, the muscle in his jaw clenching and unclenching until he finally waves a dismissive hand. “Fine. Knock yourself out, Nowicki. But I hope you realize she’s a grown woman. She’s not some puck bunny who’s going to be impressed by the fact that you play pro hockey, and she’s already been through hell with boys who didn’t know how to act like men. Don’t be one of them, or I will make sure the rest of your time on this team is as brief and unpleasant as I can possibly make it.”

  “I’ve been a grown man since I was eighteen,” I say, unable to keep the anger from my voice. “I also have two sisters of my own, who I love too much to treat other women like shit. You’ve known me for a year. I would think the fact that I’m not a jackass have been made pretty clear by now.”

  “What’s clear is that you have poor listening skills,” Brendan says, reclaiming his bag. “And even worse impulse control.”

  My lips part to defend myself, but he’s already gone, storming out of the locker room with Justin not far behind.

  Jus pauses at the door to pin me with a “you really stepped in it this time” look that isn’t without a certain degree of pity, then ducks out to follow Brendan, hopefully to put in a good word for me.

  Justin and I are closer than we were when I was first drafted onto the team. I helped facilitate his proposal for God’s sake. Surely he can do me a solid and tell Brendan he has no reason to believe I’ll be anything but a good boyfriend.

  I reach for my own bag, only to jump in surprise when I realize Petrov is standing beside me. “Shit,” I say, breath rushing out. “How are you so big and so quiet at the same time?”

  “Practice.” He studies me beneath his furrowed brow. “Some things you can only learn from experience, but I’m willing to share mine if you’re willing to listen. I believe I’ve proven I was spot-on about the thin line between hate and fucking.”

  I nod slowly. “Fine. What do you think I should do?”

  “I think you should call it off with Diana, apologize to your captain, and get your focus back where it belongs—on your team. You treat it right, and this team will be your family for a good, long while. A hot summer with a firecracker might be fun, but it isn’t worth putting your future at risk.”

  “She isn’t just a firecracker.” I keep my voice soft so the nosy bastards on their way to the showers can’t eavesdrop. “I’ve never felt this way about someone before. Ever. And yes, I get it, this team can feel like a family. But I would like a real family someday. Wife, kids, the whole package.”

  Petrov’s thick brows lift. “How long have you known Dee? A week?”

  “Over three weeks.”

  He makes a disgusted sound. “Love at first sight isn’t a real thing, kid. Trust me.”

  “It wasn’t at first sight,” I protest. “We didn’t—”

  “You can’t fall in real love in a few weeks,” he cuts in. “You’re letting your dick be your guide, which isn’t always a bad thing, but in this case it absolutely is. You’re going to wake up out of this fuck-happy fog in a few months and wonder what you were thinking. But by then it will be too late. You’ll already be in a shitty place with your captain and your team and have proven that you aren’t someone we can trust. And you won’t like the way it feels to be outside the trust circle, kid. Believe me.”

  “I’m not a kid,” I say, the fact that those particular words are coming out of my mouth making me feel about twelve fucking years old. “And I know the difference between a hard-on and something more.”

  Petrov’s dark eyes grow even darker. “I thought I did, too. And then she stole my grandmother’s car and my credit cards, took off to Vegas, and never came back.”

  I wince. “Ouch.”

  “And up until the day she left, I thought it was real,” he says, opening up more than he ever has with me. “And no, not every woman is after your money or your fame or your grandmother’s car, but there are enough of them out there that you need to start being really fucking careful. Take things slow and then take them even slower. The right woman will wait, while the wrong ones move on to an easier mark.”

  I shake my head. “Diana isn’t like that. I’m the one who wants more. I’m pretty sure she would be fine with keeping things casual.”

  “Diana is good people,” he says. “But she never should have been on the menu. For her sake, as well as yours. Think of how shitty she’ll feel if she realizes she’s the reason Brendan isn’t willing to be an advocate for you anymore? Because you realize there’s no way he’s having that talk with Coach now, right? That ship has been shot full of canon balls and is sinking fast.”

  I let out a long sigh. “I know, but…” I trail off, shaking my head as I shrug my bag over my shoulder. “But I don’t care. She’s worth it.”

  Petrov grunts. “Well, good luck, then. I hope I’m wrong, I really do.”

  My lips curve in a bitter grin. “But you think there’s a better chance of pigs flying out of my butt.”

  “Or of you letting me butcher that pet of yours,” he agrees, clapping me on the shoulder. “But at least love seems to agree with your game.”

  It agrees with more than my game. It agrees with every part of me—body and soul—and sooner or later Brendan is going to realize that Diana and I are the reason the family rule shouldn’t exist. We’re good together and getting better every day. I’m certain of that. As certain as I am that when I meet Diana at the party tonight, she’ll greet me with silly stories about what she and Wanda did while I was away, and an extra sunny smile just for me.

  Yes, I’m really that naïve. God help me.

  Chapter Twenty

  Diana

  Late Wednesday afternoon, I dress in a sparkly blue dress and head for the door, only to change my mind and run back upstairs to change into a light brown sundress with woodland creatures embroid
ered on the bodice and the hem. I’m afraid the blue will be too sparkly, and I figure I can’t go wrong with a woodland creature theme, considering the venue.

  When I arrive at Good Timber’s St. Johns location twenty minutes later, I’m relieved to learn my gut hasn’t led me astray. The assembled company—my soon-to-be coworkers, their spouses, and various friends of the brewery—are a handsome crew, but not an overly dressy one. There’s an easy, breezy vibe to the party, and I’m able to jump away from a leaking keg tap a lot faster in my white sandals than I could have in gold pumps.

  Once I’ve secured a pint of Cranberry Cougar, I track Jax down at the bocce ball court in the back patio area and thank him for the invite.

  “Of course. So glad you could make it.” His brown eyes flick up and down my frame in a way that is appreciative without being skeezy. Truly an art most men have yet to master, proving my new boss is a keeper. “Love your dress. You’re already earning us trendy cred just by showing up.”

  “Well, thank you,” I say, deciding it’s too early to confess that I’m one of the least on-trend people I know. Hopefully I’ll have a chance to impress him with my work before he realizes that my fashion sense is only on-point about a third of the time.

  Jax smiles “I’m glad you invited Tanner, by the way. We haven’t had a chance to have a beer and catch up in a while.”

  “I’ll be sure to bring him by for a chat once he gets here,” I promise, easing away as two serious-looking men in suits sidle up to Jax, looking needy. “Catch you later.”

  “Later.” Jax lifts a hand before turning to give the suits his attention.

  I wander through groups of people engaged in conversation, card games, or prolonged study of the art that’s been hung on the back wall of the main dining room since the last time I was here. I marvel again how a party is something different to every person who attends. Some of these people are having a laugh-out-loud silly time with close friends, some are engaged in urgent, hushed discussions about business or personal matters, and some, like me, are circling the perimeter, looking for people who seem like they might be amenable to welcoming a newbie into their midst.