Puck, Marry, Kill (Dirty Puckers #2)

Dominic

“It’s starting to feel cold in here,” the announcer booms over the sound system, and the crowd starts to cheer. “Entering the arena, welcome the . . . Blizzard!”

We hit the ice one right after another, immediately skating in loops and swirl patterns around our half of the ice to warm up. It’s a preseason game, but the routine is the same every time. Athletes thrive on routine—it helps balance out the chaos of the game itself. So everything should be normal.

Except I’m wearing a fucking baby-blue jersey and the team around me isn’t family the way the Hawks have always been. They’re a bunch of dipshits who act like life is a frat party.