For Pucking Keeps: A Hockey Romance (The Seattle Vipers Series Book 1)

1. Jaz

ONE

Ten months ago

Okay, I must admit, I need to see what all the hype is about. The loud raucous crowds, the smell of popcorn, imitation cheese on nachos, and the pungent scent of stale beer wafting from the cups of people around me. I mean, I know the beer isn’t stale, but I am the type of woman who likes her drinks in the form of slushie, fruity deliciousness. Beer is a no go; the smell makes my stomach turn. Fermented piss. Go ahead, fight me on it. I won’t be changing my mind, ever. Scrunching up my nose against the stench, I turn my attention forward, my focus on the eight-foot-tall plexiglass barrier towering over me, just as a massive man comes smashing into the boards with a mighty bang. I jump in startled excitement.

Clutching my chest, my heart pounds against my palm, I breathe out, “Jesus.” My eyes widen as I take it all in. The man turns as he whips off his helmet, his eyes blazing with fury. The helmet hits the ice along with his stick, huge, padded gloves go flying, and he charges the other player who had cross-checked him hard, causing him to crash and lose the puck. Puck, a black round disk, that reminds me of a Ding Dong, as it slides across the ice. Hmmm. Ding Dong.

It’s an all-out brawl. The fight between two players quickly turns into both teams coming together, a dog-pile of fists and blood as the scene on the ice before me turns hostile. It’s barbaric, and hell, a little dramatic, but this shit is exhilarating to watch.

So, this is hockey.

The crowd goes absolutely ape-shit. I think. . .I think I might be in love.

“Oh, come on ref! Are you fucking blind? I am all of five foot nothing and even I can see the foul from here,” Lia taunts. Cupping her hands in front of her face, she begins to boo the referee down below. It only takes a few seconds of her verbal outrage to cause the onlookers in our section to join her.

“Boo! Boo!” they all chant, as popcorn, candy boxes, and empty plastic cups go flying forward, hitting the plexi-glass, which is all that protects said referee from death by snack bar.

My mouth falls open in shock as I wonder if my new neighbor, slash newly acquired friend, has been body snatched. I’ve known Lia for four months now, and I’ve never seen this side of her. Her petite body vibrates with pent up rage as she bounces up and down like an MMA fighter waiting for a chance to jump into the fray. As if sensing my shock, she glances over and smiles, grabbing a handful of her popcorn as if she wasn’t about to go green and Hulk out on me.

“I live for this shit, Jaz! I’m so glad you finally decided to come with me. I usually come to my brother’s games alone.” She shrugs and smiles with excitement, tossing a handful of popcorn into her mouth and chewing it enthusiastically.

“Well, I have to say this is quite the spectacle,” I reply as I watch the refs begin to break up the fight, pulling big, burly hockey players off one another, dragging padded bodies across the ice.

Lia huffs, pointing her manicured finger at me. “I told you, if you’re going to write about hockey, you have to see it. To really experience it.” She winks.

The boos die down, but cheers erupt as two refs escort one of the bloody players to the penalty box, where he commences riling up the crowd, clapping and fist pumping as he receives five minutes in the sin bin. Or at least, I think that’s what it’s called. Lia’s been shouting terminology at me all night, and I have no clue what any of it means. Going to have to hit up google if I want to wrap my head around it all. It’s all a bit much. I mean, what the hell is a hat trick?

Hockey is a sport that wasn’t accessible to kids in the neighborhoods I grew up in, so my knowledge is slim to none. Well, that’s a lie, I’ve read my fair share of hockey romance novels; it’s the reason why I am here tonight. Okay, back to my point. Basketball, football, track and field, hell, even baseball were sure tickets to get into a top college if you had the skills and the talent to receive a scholarship. Hockey, golf, swimming, gymnastics, even figure skating were sports that most minority kids from lower income families weren’t privy to because of the money it took to succeed and sustain participation. Nothing was off-limits of course, despite what a lot of short-sighted people thought in a world of prejudiced ideals and stereotypes. Black people do swim, we do play unconventional sports, and by the looks of these hot as hell brown-skinned hockey players soaring across the ice, we sure as fuck play hockey.

I whistle softly before replying, “Yeah, I am experiencing it alright.” I raise my eyebrows suggestively as she throws her head back with laughter. Yes, she gets it.

I can’t deny that she is right. Nothing prepared me for this. The energy from the crowd and players is electric. It’s a fast-paced adrenaline rush of unexpected maneuvers that has my heart in my throat with each pass of the puck. There would be no amount of research that could do the real experience justice. I had Lia to thank for this, well, her brother, but she had finally worn me down. Desperate and needing to feed my starving muse, I relented and came to a match with her. I don’t regret it in the slightest.

I settle back into my seat and look over to Lia. “Thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful to this woman who I tried to ignore for weeks as I attempted to hide away from the world. Sometimes you need someone to push their way into your life without giving you a choice in the matter. “Girl, I didn’t know I needed this, but I am really enjoying myself.” I point to the ice and smile in gratitude and appreciation for the eye candy.

Lia beams and finally sits as the buzzer sounds to end the period. Music immediately blares over the speakers to entertain the crowd as players glide off the ice and begin to head back to their locker rooms for a brief reprieve.

I watch Lia as she scans the players. At five foot two, my petite neighbor is a force to behold. She’s adorable; black rimmed glasses, big blue eyes, and curly brunette hair frame her heart-shaped face. She’s wearing a blue, green, and silver jersey that practically swallows her entire body with the number twenty-two and the last name Masters on the back. Her brother, Ridley Masters, is why we are here. He is a forward for the Seattle Vipers, and I have no doubt she is looking out for him.

I look down at the jersey he provided me with tonight and notice that I have the number fifteen in the middle of my chest. I guess when Lia told him I was joining her tonight he grabbed whatever jersey he could find. The number means nothing to me, but at least I am blending in with the rest of the fans. ‘When in Rome’, as they say. I’ll wear some random’s jersey for the sake of remaining invisible. I already feel a little overwhelmed and out of place as it is.

I’m not a sports enthusiast of any kind, but I want to write a sports romance. Hockey has been getting mad attention lately and I want to jump on the band wagon. “Strike while the iron is hot.” My publisher’s words, not mine. I haven’t written anything in months, and I need my next bestseller. My readers are eager to get their hands on my next book and I don’t think I can keep using my excuse of moving as a reason for not putting words to paper any longer.

How can I write about romance when my own love life is a heaping pile of dog shit? Yep, I went there. The events that led me to move to Seattle four months ago shattered my muse into a million pieces, leaving my creative well as dry as the Sahara Desert; dried up and void of life. Or in my case, ideas. I’m not a big believer in chance, but what are the odds that I move next door to a very convincing neighbor who just so happens to have a brother who plays for the NHL? A win-win for me.

My near miss with my fiancé drained me of my very soul. I won’t lie and say I’m not still heartbroken and running away from the hurt and fallout of the breakup that sent me spiraling into darkness. I haven’t recovered, and at this rate, I never will. It’s been six months, and it still hurts; the wound is fresh, gaping open and raw. If I close my eyes I can still hear the sound of Shaun’s balls slapping against the ass of my supposed best friend, Mace. I shudder at the memory of them shielding their dicks with their hands as they chased me down the driveway of the home I shared with Shaun, both of them trying to convince me that it wasn’t what it looked like. Oh, it definitely was.

I sigh. Yep, that shit still stings. But there is only so much moping I can allow myself to do. Being here in my favorite city is a fresh start, a chance to begin again. A chance I need like my next breath.

I know. I’m a walking and talking cliché. I am running away from my life, seeking refuge and reinvention, while attempting to keep my readers happy in the process. Do I even believe in what I am writing anymore? Love, romance, and the struggles of seeking out a meaningful relationship, with my shattered heart—I don’t know. I need something new. Being here tonight is just the beginning. All the tropes line up perfectly, I am a plot line in the making. See, cliché.

“Looks like a cut chin but his nose doesn’t look broken.” Lia pulls me from my thoughts as she blows out her breath in relief. “That’s a typical Tuesday night for him. He will live.” I watch her squint her eyes, leaning forward, as if she can see directly over the shoulder of the team trainer who’s checking her brother over. He stands and heads back to join his teammates before the beginning of the third and final period of the match. He looks at the stands and offers her a salute, then he disappears out of sight. I watch the exchange and feel a pang of sadness. I miss my own siblings. The lack of communication these past few months is all on me.

I reach for my phone. Staring down at the screen I think about what I could possibly say to excuse my radio silence, when I feel the urge to look up. You know that feeling you get when someone is watching you? Well, I am definitely being watched. Lia elbows me in the side to get my attention. But I don’t acknowledge her right away. Nope, not going to look. Why am I refusing? Honestly, I don’t know. I have a feeling that when I do, there will be a shift in the tectonic plates that is my life. Don’t ask me how I know. It’s my intuition. But who am I kidding? After what Shaun and Mace did to me, I can’t trust myself to trust my gut either.

“Jaz.” She nudges me again, forcing me to look away from my phone and over at a pair of eyes staring back at me curiously. A mountain of a man stands there with his helmet and stick under his arm, head tilted as he looks from Lia to me, brows raised. Our eyes lock and we are both frozen in place, a neutral standoff is the best way to describe it. He studies me and I do the same. He’s far enough away that I can’t make out the finer details of his face, but I take in his light brown skin, slightly darker than my own, his hair is a dusty brown, shaved on the sides with short locs on top.

I stand slowly, wanting—no, that’s not right—needing, yes, that is a better word, I need to move closer, to see more of him. How do I describe the pull without sounding like a cliché yet again? Magnetism is the only word I can muster. It’s as if we are under a spell. Like there is a little invisible cupid waving its little wand, or cupid’s bow around, teasing us both. I’m picturing it, the little wings, cherub body. . .and then the bubble bursts, freeing us both. A ref skates by and claps him on the back. I watch him jolt in surprise; his eyes leave mine. He says something to the referee and skates away. But not before he stops, looks up at Lia then me, shakes his head, then skates off the ice.

“I guess Tor finally noticed you in his jersey,” Lia says, making me take my eyes from the door he just went through.

What just happened? I sit down slowly, wondering why the hell I felt the need to run to a strange man as if my life depended on it. That is the last thing I need!

“I’m sorry. What? His jersey?” In confusion I glance over at Lia who has an amused look on her face that makes my hackles raise. I am sure she didn’t miss our little tableau. I refuse to even entertain a conversation about what that was all about.

“Jaz, your jersey, number fifteen, is Tor’s number.” She gestures to the tight-fitting jersey I’ve tied off at the waist and chuckles. I look down and roll my eyes. Of course. I purse my lips and give Lia the stink eye. Alright Lia, you are about to lose your new friend status if you keep this up.

I narrow my eyes and pop my shoulder. “So. I am not the only person in this crowd who’s wearing his jersey number, Lia, surely.” I cross my arms over my chest, hiding the number from view, suddenly feeling insecure. What did he see when he looked up at me? Before I can let myself go there, I stop. I couldn’t care less what he or anyone else thinks about my appearance. I am all kinds of comfortable in my skin. It took me years to accept me and damn it— Nope, not going there.

“Well, he definitely noticed you, and he never notices anything other than his hockey stick and puck.” She winks. I don’t know what her wink means, and I won’t try to decipher its meaning any time soon. I didn’t come here to scope out hockey players. Okay, full disclosure, who wouldn’t admire a sexy as sin man when he’s right in front of you? I raise my hands high and admit it. But I wasn’t scoping out anyone, and I am not looking for attention from the opposite sex. There’s no room in my life or my heart anymore.

The rest of the game goes by in a blur. I keep my head down, pretending to make notes on my phone, determined to focus on the reason why I am here. In the end, the Vipers pick up their first win of the season and the fans celebrate in the aisles. My first ever hockey game, and I made a promise to Lia that it wouldn’t be my last. As much as I want to detach myself from the moment, I can’t help but get swept away in the excitement. Before I know it, Lia and I are surrounded by reporters as we wait for her brother outside his locker room. It’s not until I hear the reporters screaming his name that I look up and find hazel eyes looking right at me. Eyes that have me falling into their depths. Eyes that I never want to look away from me again. Well, fuck.