Page 1 of Puck Wild


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Chapter one

Jake

They say you can't escape your past, but I was praying Thunder Bay hadn't bingedLove on Iceor blasted "Puck Life" on repeat.

My duffel bag slammed against my hip as I jogged through the parking lot, still sweaty from sprinting through Toronto Pearson airport like some discount Jason Bourne. Red-eye flights were supposed to be cheaper, not a cardiovascular event. The October air bit at my face, sharp enough to make my eyes water, and I tugged my hoodie lower. Just another guy in gray fleece, nothing to see here.

The Fort William Barn squatted ahead of me, smaller than I'd imagined. It was older than the photos suggested and painted that particular shade of municipal beige that screamed, "We renovated in 1987 and called it good." A hand-painted sign near the door read "Home of the Thunder Bay Storm" in fading blue letters.

It was the bottom of the barrel of the minor leagues, but beggars…

I pushed through the main doors and immediately hit a wall of stench—bleach, wet tape, and maybe burnt coffee? A hallway stretched before me, lined with team photos going back decades. Guys with mustaches and mullets, others with buzz cuts and bad attitudes. They had the gravitas of statues carved out of lake granite.

I found the locker room by following the noise—sticks clacking against concrete, tape ripping, a random yell for a better energy drink. The noise landed first, and then the heat. Twenty-something bodies were getting ready to sweat.

Slipping inside, I hoped to blend into the chaos. Find my stall, drop my bag, and get through five minutes without anyone recognizing—

"Yo, is this you? No fucking way. Is this you on one knee like you're proposing to the Zamboni?"

Fuck.

A kid with a mullet and an eager grin held up his phone. The screen glowed with me frozen in a scene I knew by heart: wearing a sequined jersey, down on one knee, holding a single red rose like I was proposing to the entire rink. Stylists gave me perfectly tousled hair—the kind that read, "I woke up like this and didn't need a curling iron." The caption read "Love on Ice: Jake Riley's Most Dramatic Rose Ceremony Yet!"

Quiet reigned in the locker room—not dead silence. Someone was still taping a stick in the corner, and the coffee machine gurgled like it was dying, but quiet enough for me to hear my pulse in my ears.

"That's definitely you, right? Sequins, bro. Out there doingThe Bacheloron skates." The kid—had to be the rookie, Travis something—held the phone closer to my face like he needed a side-by-side comparison. "Same jaw. Same... uh, eyebrows?"

I forced my mouth into a lopsided grin. "Guilty as charged. Streaming royalties are welcome, by the way."

A few guys chuckled. Someone wolf-whistled. Before I could figure out if I were being mocked or welcomed, a voice boomed from the back of the room.

"Everybody shut the hell up—we're not honoring this icon properly."

Connor "Hog" Hawkins unfolded himself from a bench like a bearded mountain coming to life. He was bigger than his photos suggested and broader than seemed physically possible. A tornado roaring in off the plains must have styled his auburn hair. He pulled out his own phone and started tapping.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right. Siri, cue the banger. You know the one, 'Puck Life.'"

No.

A Bluetooth speaker on the equipment shelf crackled to life. Next was the opening synth line—three notes that had haunted my nightmares for two years. Above it was my voice autotuned into oblivion:

"Puck life chose meeee, stick in my hand like destiny..."

I wanted to die. Actually die. Right there on the rubber floor mats, surrounded by the smell of old sweat, writhing in fresh humiliation.

Hog wasn't done. He started moving. Calling what he did a dance was generous. It was more like interpretive disarray, complete with an invisible puck drop and what I assumed was his impression of a bedazzled jersey. His arms windmilled, and his hips defied the laws of physics.

"Can't stop the game, can't stop the flow, Thunder Bay Storm, here we gooo!"

That last line wasn't even from my song. He'd remixed it and made it worse, somehow. And better, definitely better.

The room erupted. Not cruel laughter—though there was some of that—but twenty guys discovering a new favorite thing to yell during warm-ups. Someone started clapping. Another guyjoined Hog's dance, adding what looked like a combination of the Macarena and a slapshot motion.

I took a bow. Full theatrical sweep, one hand behind my back as if I were accepting the fucking Hart trophy. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all season. Tip your bartenders."

Inside, I bled out all over the concrete floor.

The song finally ended, and Hog took a bow to scattered applause. He caught my eye and grinned, all teeth and mischief. "That was entertaining."