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

9. Jaz

NINE

Ilove my writing cave. Well, it’s less of a cave, more of a wide-open view of the world outside. It’s my sanctuary. A place only meant for me, where I can get lost in my thoughts and my daydreams. Where characters and worlds are built and torn apart, hearts are broken, love and happily ever afters created. The one place I can delve into the deepest, darkest parts of myself and freely purge it all in the form of prose, without questioning my sanity. I pour it all onto the pages of my books, then sit back and watch as my readers devour each word. I am a storyteller; I have no desire to be anything but this.

Leaning back in my comfy desk chair, I take in the room, scrutinizing every detail for the hundredth time today. Windows line the walls on three sides facing the front of the craftsman bungalow that I had to have. I took one look at the traditional arts and crafts woodwork and fell in love with this place. My desk is built into the wall underneath the windows like a ledge, allowing me multiple vantage points to sit and write depending on the time of day. The polished parquet floor is covered in plush rugs, deliciously soft against my bare feet. An oversized beanbag chair sits in the corner that serves as both a reading nook and occasional napping spot. Bookshelves line the walls behind me, filled with not only my own books and merchandise, but books and keepsakes from some of my favorite authors. Yes, I am a writer, but I was a reader first. So, yeah, I have a little bit of an obsession. My library of smut and fantasy are what dreams are made of. Well, my dreams at least. The room is comfy and cozy, perfect for writing.

So, why am I sitting here daydreaming about a certain hockey player, his beautiful hazel eyes, that damn beard, and fuck me, those lips? Torrance Bailey has been living rent free inside my head for days now. When I sent him the thank you text two days ago, I didn’t expect him to suck me in like he did. I braved communicating with the hope of controlling the situation, maybe creating some professional boundaries. I posed questions about the innerworkings of the sport, and he answered, nothing more. If only it were that clear cut. Well, all of my careful planning went out the window as soon as I pushed send on my first message. The man is my own personal riptide, there’s little to no resistance as I let him pull me further into his ocean. I hate to admit it, but I could easily drown in it, in him, if I’m not careful. It was nothing but flirty banter, easy and playful, and I loved it. Short and sweet, with just a hint of the control I am sure he craves and needs. Yes, I got all that just from a few texts, and no, I am not thinking about how hot said control can be in any other capacity than the ice he skates on.

“Ugh. Write. I need to write,” I say out loud with a barely contained growl. My frustration with myself, the past few months, it’s a crushing weight pressing down on me. It’s as if the stress, negativity, and rampant anxiety manifested a monster of my own making, becoming sentient. I can almost hear its laughter at my weak and feeble attempts at regaining the strength and fight I lost.

Drumming my fingers anxiously in front of the keyboard I watch the blank screen of my laptop and will myself to type. I’ve been watching the Vipers play for the past two nights with Lia right beside me. I asked questions, she answered, and I took copious amounts of notes while drinking Aspall, my favorite British cider, and way too much buttered popcorn. The story is on the tip of my tongue, I can see it, but as soon as I sit down to write, my brain shuts down on me. If I don’t push past the mental barrier?—

“Nope.” I shake my head against the thought. I don’t want to think about missing my deadline. The thought of failure goes straight to my gut, making me nauseous. Failure is not an option. I’ve never failed at anything, and I don’t plan on doing it now.

I close my eyes against the setting sun and take a calming breath to stave off the growing panic attack. I open them again, but the pressure continues to suffocate me. Guilt. Fear. Anger. Hurt. I recognize the emotions that have stifled my creative thoughts, shackling me inside the darkest part of my mind with no way to break free. They’ve built walls that at first, I didn’t want to scale, but now it all seems insurmountable. Because you were a coward, and you ran instead of kicking the shit out of Shaun and the other one you called best friend. I can’t even say his name, the betrayal hits so deep.

I jump as the sound of my phone pulls me from my wandering thoughts. When I see Julia’s name on the screen, I freeze, and look back at the blank screen in front of me. Shit, shit, shit.

Julia: Whatever you’re doing in Seattle, don’t stop.

ME: What? Right now I’m not doing anything but staring at the cursor blinking back at me.

Julia: I’m going to pretend I didn’t see that last message.

ME: Fine. I will redact my last text. What did I do? I can feel your excitement through the phone.

Julia: Are you watching your book sales?

ME: I love you, Jules, but that’s what I pay you for. So, no.

Julia: I almost spit out my coffee, bitch. I think it’s the other way around. I pay you, to make me money. It’s the circle of life, bestie. But that’s beside the point. It seems your little social media blip has people running to grab copies of your books.

ME: Really?

Julia: Pay attention, woman. You shouldn’t be surprised. You are trending. You even have hockey players singing your praises from the locker room. I’m actually happy dancing right now. Maybe this hockey romance book is not a bad idea. I need a title and a cover, stat woman. We need to throw everything at promotions. I need you to write. Go with it. Embrace your new hot hockey ‘associate’, let him introduce you to his sticks and pucks ?? then write that shit down.

ME: Wait. What?

Julia: Research. Bye!

ME: Jules!!

Julia: Pages, chapters, words, oh yeah, and hockey.

I turn my phone over on my desk and drop my forehead to the smooth wooden surface and groan.

“I won’t let the pressure get to me. I won’t let the pressure get to me,” I chant repeatedly hoping that it will stick. I have enough demons riding my back, there’s no room for more. I let my fingers hover over my phone, tempted by the mind-numbing distraction only social media can promise, but hesitate. The glare from my laptop taunts me as the cursor blinks back at me impatiently. So, I do the one thing I should have done hours ago. I shut the laptop and leave the room.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow the words will come. Tomorrow everything will feel better. I hope.

Yep, this day turned out to be a fucktastrophy. Three hours later, a pound of flour, eggs, sugar, and a shit-ton of chocolate, I’ve made enough brownies and chocolate chip cookies to feed an army. I love to bake, cooking in general. Hello, thick thighs. I thought I would make up for my paltry attempt at writing and bake the pain away. Well, as sad as it sounds, I baked and cried. There is devastation in those delicious treats. By the time Lia knocks on the front door to watch the Vipers play in the third game in their away series, I am puffy eyed and covered in the aftermath of my baking frenzy.

“Jaz. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in. I’ve got cider, guacamole, and chips. Popcorn is definitely off the menu for a while!” she shouts from the entryway. “I— What in the Betty Crocker, Pillsbury, and Hines is going on up in here?” Lia turns in a circle, eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing slowly as she takes in the mountain of baked goods lining every surface of my kitchen and dining room. When she finally stops to get a look at me, her shocked expression softens, and concern follows.

“Jaz, what happened?” Lia’s smile is gentle, almost pitying, and the sight only makes the day from hell even worse. I can’t believe I’ve let her see me like this. It’s official, this is rock bottom. Only up from here, right? I know what she must see. Lia knows why I came to Seattle, every gut-wrenching sordid detail of my ex and my best friend’s betrayal. I didn’t fall apart then, but maybe I was still numb. My urgency to break through my writer’s block has opened the floodgates of my emotions, and it is tumbling out of me.

“Everything. I can’t write. I’m stuck. It’s all here.” I tap my temple and hang my head. The next part I don’t want to admit, but Lia isn’t blind. She teased me about Tor for the past two nights. “I can’t stop thinking of Tor. I mean, why couldn’t I have met the man when I had my shit together? Not when I am scrambling to think straight and write a decent sentence. I sat for hours, Lia. Hours. I think the neighbors across the street are going to call the cops and tell them I’m a spy from the amount of time I’ve spent staring in their direction.” I lift my shoulders up and down shrugging in defeat. If I’m having a pity party, then I am going to ride this feeling until the wheels pop off. “I haven’t talked to my mother and sisters in months. Shaun and my asshole bestie, well he is nothing to me anymore, but they keep trying to reach out. But with the recent picture with Tor and I going viral. . .” I blow out a breath and wipe away a random tear. “It’s only a matter of time before the past few months come stomping up my front porch.”

Lia takes a step forward, then pauses, arms full of her offerings for tonight’s game. She turns in a circle again, searching for somewhere to set her hoard of snacks, then shrugs as she quickly runs back to the living room. I watch her lay out the food and drinks on the table. The kitchen, dining, and living room are an open layout. I love that there are no walls and I can see each room from wherever I am downstairs.

“Oh Jaz. It was only a matter of time before everything you’ve been dealing with hit a boiling point. Your recent picture blowing up all over social media is just the catalyst.” She walks over to a tray of chocolate chips cookies, picks one up like it’s the holy grail and takes a bite.

“Holy shit, Jaz.” She groans. “Fuck the books, you need a bakery. This is a good cookie.” She waves the cookie around in the air and takes another big bite. I can’t help but laugh as she does a happy dance, picking up the tray of cookies in front of her. “We can finish at least a tray of these together while we watch the game. Gym be damned.” She laughs, then quickly sobers, remembering suddenly the gravity of my situation.

I hold my hands out in surrender, she doesn’t have to snuff out her smiles for me. I love how bubbly she is. I appreciate her ability to find happiness and joy in every situation. “You’re right. I know I have to face it all. I need to address it all head on so I can focus solely on my books again. My family though, mm hmm, I’m sure I’m going to get a few curses and threats of death from my sisters and mother. That will be the easiest to deal with. But I have absolutely nothing to say to Shaun and Mace,” yep, I said his name finally. Let’s put a pin in discussing them further.

“I get it. I wouldn’t want to hear an apology either but, Jaz, maybe subconsciously you need the closure,” she says through muffled chews as she looks up at the ceiling, looking lost in thought. “Honestly.” She shrugs. “Quick and easy. You don’t owe them anything. Salute them both, wish them to hell, and resolve to never cross paths with them again.”

I consider what she’s saying. “Wish them to hell.” I snort. “Yeah, hell is about right because I’m damn sure not wishing them well. Telling them both to go fuck themselves would be pointless, such classy verbiage it is.” I point to her and smile, as the pressure in my chest begins to ease for the first time in hours. Somehow Lia found a way to simplify it all for me, and I’m grateful to get it out of my head. Emotionally satisfied for now, I put my hands on my hips and take in the destruction of my kitchen and the piles of desserts in front of me.

“I may have gone a little too far with the baking.” I cringe at the state of my kitchen. The contents of my pantry have exploded onto every surface of my countertops. Flour, sugar, it’s scattered over everything, and I’m sure cookie dough is sticking to the splashboards.

“Well, I’ll help you clean up, and maybe. . .I know just the place to donate all these goodies to. A local homeless shelter is not too far from here,” Lia says, gesturing around the room with another cookie in hand.

I check my watch, wiping away the flour from the face, creating a dust plume all around me. Waving my hand in front of me I groan at the thought of dealing with flour in my hair. My hair day ritual is long enough. But that is a worry for tomorrow, right now, I have a kitchen to scrub and a game to watch. We still have time before the puck drops, we can do this. Applause to me for the use of hockey terminology.

Content with the fact all this dessert won’t go to waste, that it’s all going towards making someone less fortunate smile tonight, Lia and I get to work. So, I didn’t write, but this day hasn’t completely been a waste.