Puck Me, I’m Yours (Hawthorne University Hockey #1)

1. Breck

1

Breck

Fuck, hockey players smell like absolute ass. It’s the kind of stench that sticks in your nose and makes you question your life choices, but somehow, it’s also the smell of home.

It’s a comforting kind of gross we’ve just come to accept as part of our identity. I mean, we have to. The stink follows us everywhere. This isn’t even our locker room, we’re not even in full gear, but somehow, the stench has seeped so deep into the concrete walls, it feels like the building itself is sweating.

It might not be our locker room, but we’ve brought along the usual brand of chaos—some guys are blasting music, others are complaining about hangovers, and someone’s always stealing someone else’s protein bar. Me? I’m just trying to find a clean pair of socks and avoid thinking about that whole pizza I most definitely didn't eat last night. ...is the nutritionist going to kill me? Probably. Is this clinic going to kill me? Magic 8 ball says, “it's likely”.

It’s that smell of sweat and determination hanging heavy in the air as Coach Barnes steps in with that serious look he wears when he’s about to drop some truth bombs on us. It’s that “you’re going to work harder than you’ve ever worked in your life” face, and I’m already regretting my breakfast choices. My green smoothie might taste good going down, but it looks like I'm speeding alien guts when it comes back up.

I shift on the bench, my leg bouncing with nervous energy. Two faces I haven't seen in a while catch my eye as they saunter in behind coach—Rowan and Zane, our very own Hunters-turned-pros, looking all polished and important. It's weird seeing them on this side of the ice these days.

"Listen up, gentlemen," Coach's voice booms, cutting through the nervous chatter. "We’re not here to skate circles. This power skating clinic isn't just another practice,” he says, pacing the room like he’s auditioning for a motivational speaker gig. “This is about sharpening your skills—speed, balance, edges, explosiveness—everything that separates the good from the great. I want to see you pushing your limits, building speed, improving your balance, and—most importantly—fixing those bad habits you knuckleheads have picked up."

I nod along, soaking in every word. My eyes dart to Rowan, now sporting a Bay State Blades jersey, and Zane in Boston Blizzard colors. They made it. They're living the dream we're all chasing. I have a contract with Minnesota, but nothing’s been signed yet. There’s always a chance I can fuck things up and lose the future I’ve been planning since I first took the ice at six years old.

Coach continues, his tone leaving no room for argument. "I expect nothing less than your absolute best behavior and effort. You're representing Hawthorne, the Hunters, and yourselves. Don't make me regret bringing you here."

A few seats down, I hear Kade Reller, one of our freshman defensemen, mutter under his breath. "This is bullshit. We already know how to skate."

I cringe internally. Oh, buddy. Wrong move.

Before Coach can respond, Rowan steps forward, his pro status radiating off him like an aura. "You think you're too good for power skating, kid?" His voice is calm but carries an edge that makes Kade squirm. "Let me tell you something. I spend hours every week on power skating drills. So does every guy in the pros. You want to make it? This is how you start."

Zane nods, adding, "It's not just about knowing how to skate. It's about efficiency, explosiveness, endurance. The difference between good and great is in the details."

A low, sneering voice cuts through the locker room chatter. "Yeah, but the Blades aren't really pro, are they? More like glorified minor league."

My head snaps up, searching for the source of the comment. It's one of the cocky freshmen, smirking like he's just dropped some profound truth.

Before I can even process my reaction, I'm on my feet. "I’m sorry," I bark, my voice sharper than I intended. "Is there something wrong with playing in the ECHL? He's getting paid to play hockey. Are you? Do you have a special NHL contract—or any contract—that I'm unaware of that makes you somehow superior to the rest of us?"

The kid's smirk falters, but he doesn't back down entirely. "I just meant—"

"No," I cut him off, stepping closer. The locker room falls silent. "You don't get to 'just mean' anything. That's disrespect, plain and simple. And we don't do that here."

I can feel the eyes of my teammates on me, the weight of the 'A' on my jersey. "Those guys," I gesture to our pro alumni, "they've earned every bit of respect we can give them. You want to make it? Start by showing some damn gratitude to the ones who paved the way."

I pause, letting the weight of my words sink in. “If you think you’re too good for this, you’re dead wrong. Even the best players in the league grind through clinics like this to stay on top.”

The freshman mutters an apology, his face flushed. I nod, letting out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "Alright, let's gear up."

As I sit back down to lace my skates, Micah leans over. "Nice save, captain."

I roll my eyes, but I can't help the small smile tugging at my lips. "Not captain yet, dude."

The changing room buzzes with a mix of excited chatter and nervous energy as we finish gearing up. No full kit today—normally, power skating clinics call for full dress, but the coaches want to see how we move without the bulk on day one. Just gloves, helmets, sticks, and skates.

Coach looks pleased, a rare sight. "You heard them, boys. This is your shot. Don't waste it."

As the team starts to buzz with renewed energy, I catch Micah's eye. He gives me a subtle nod, and I return it. We're on the same page. This is our year, and it starts right here, right now.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for the grueling session ahead. My mind wanders briefly to the figure skaters we'll be sharing the ice with. Greer’s no joke, but I wonder if they take their training as seriously as we do. Guess I'm about to find out.

“Come on, Leif. Let’s gooooo!”

“You have got to stop calling me that,” Micah grumbles, tugging at his helmet strap.

“Do I? Because from where I stand, someone with the last name Erikson simply must have the first name Leif. If they don’t, it’s practically criminal neglect by their parents. I’m just doing my part to fix a historical injustice.”

“Fuck off, asshole.” Micah smacks the back of my helmet, making me stumble forward.

The locker room bursts into laughter, and I flash him a grin before grabbing my stick. Its familiar weight in my hands is grounding, a reminder of why we’re here. Why I’m here. The swishing of our movements echoes as we shuffle out, the hum of chatter fading as we get closer to the rink.

I can't shake the feeling that something's about to change. Maybe it's just the start of a new season, or maybe... I don't know. But whatever it is, I'm ready for it.

The chill of the ice hits me first, but it’s the unmistakable sound of blades carving into ice that stops me in my tracks.

"What the—?" someone mutters.

A chorus of groans ripples through the group as heads crane to see what’s happening.

"Aw man, the ice is gonna be all choppy," Tanner White whines, his voice grating on my nerves.

"Yeah, fucking figure skaters probably tore it up," Kade chimes in, rolling his eyes.

I feel a flicker of irritation. These guys have no idea what they're talking about. "You do realize this is their ice, right?" I say, my voice sharp enough to cut through their grumbling. "We're the ones borrowing it. Show some respect."

The boys fall silent, a few of them looking sheepish. Shoving my way to the front, I shoot them a glare. "Quit whining and move. What could possibly—"

The words die in my throat the second I see her.

Two skaters glide across the surface like they’re floating, every movement smooth and perfectly in sync. There's two of them, I know that. But all I can see is her.

She moves like the ice belongs to her, like she’s commanding it with every deliberate twist and turn. Everything else—the rink, the guys, even my own heartbeat—fades into static.

My chest tightens, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

"Damn," I mutter, the word slipping out before I can stop it.

Micah elbows me, grinning like a jackass. “What was that, Breck? You seeing ghosts or something?”

“Shut up,” I snap, but my voice lacks its usual bite. I can’t tear my eyes away.

Her hair’s pulled back into this neat ponytail, and her posture’s straight up I-can-totally-do-a-backflip-and-make-it-look-easy. Honestly, I think she might be magic.

Her partner launches her into the air, and she twists—no, she flies —before coming down so effortlessly it’s like gravity doesn’t apply to her. It’s not just athleticism; it’s art. There’s nothing forced about it—she just flows, seamless and natural, like this is where she was born to be.

"Earth to Breck," he teases. "You gonna stand there drooling all day?"

I blink, trying to shake off the spell I've fallen under. But my eyes keep drifting back to her, drawn by some invisible force I can't explain.

"Who is she?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Micah shrugs. "No idea. But whoever she is, she's way out of your league, dude."

“Not helping,” I mutter, still transfixed.

I should feel offended, but I'm too captivated to care. As I watch her glide across the ice, I can't help but think that Micah might be right. But for the first time in my life, that doesn't feel like a challenge—it feels like an opportunity.

She spins again, faster this time, and I swear I can feel my pulse racing. My brain short-circuits for a second, and I wonder if I’ve had a concussion without realizing it.

Their routine builds to its peak, and I’m holding my breath like it’s me out there under the lights. She spins faster and faster, her movements blurring into something hypnotic, and then— bam. With a precision so sharp it feels unreal, she stops, her head snapping up, and her eyes locking with mine.

The rest of the world falls away.

It’s like the rink tilts under me. My pulse slams against my ribs, my stomach flips, and every coherent thought I’ve ever had vanishes in an instant.

Green. Her eyes are so green it’s almost unfair. They’re like sunlit emeralds, framed by lashes that make them look impossibly large. They hold me there, pinned like a bug under glass, and I swear to God I feel seen. Not just looked at, but seen.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, my voice cracking.

“Breck, you good?” Micah’s voice is distant, like it’s coming from underwater.

I’m not good. Not even close. My heart is racing, my brain short-circuiting, and my mouth feels like it’s full of cotton. I’m in the middle of a full-on existential crisis, and all Micah can do is elbow me again.

All I can do is stare at her heart-shaped face and the delicate features that somehow combine into something impossibly elegant yet grounded. She’s like the ice she glides on—cool, flawless, and mesmerizing.

“Dude, you’re staring,” he says, grinning like he’s enjoying my misery.

“I’m not staring,” I lie, dragging my eyes away. It lasts all of two seconds before they snap back to her.

“Uh-huh.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not that guy.”

“Oh, but you are,” he says. “You know how I can tell? Because the second she looked at you, your face turned into a tomato.”

But I barely hear him. Because in that moment, something inside me shifts. It's like all the puzzle pieces of my life suddenly fall into place, and the picture they form is her face.

“I’m fine,” I say quickly, hoping I don’t sound as flustered as I feel.

The pair on the ice continues through their routine, and I'm holding my breath without even realizing it. Her face is a mask of concentration, eyes laser-focused on her partner as they move in perfect unison. It's like the rest of the world doesn't exist for her—not the rink, not the chill in the air, and definitely not the bunch of hockey players gawking at the edge of the ice.

"Holy shit," I mutter, unable to tear my eyes away. "Look at that focus."

Micah snorts beside me. "Yeah, focus. That's totally what you're looking at."

I elbow him, but the words I want to throw back die in my throat as my attention returns to her .

Micah laughs. “Man, you’re whipped, and you don’t even know her name yet.”

Name. Right. She has a name. And I need to know it.

The routine ends, and some of the guys whistle and call out their appreciation, but I barely hear it. She skates to a stop, her chest rising and falling as she catches her breath, and the way she smiles at her partner—it’s soft, real, like she’s letting her guard down for just a second.

"I think I'm in trouble," I say, more to myself than anyone else.

Micah claps me on the back. "Buddy, you've been in trouble since the day you were born. This is just a new flavor of it."

I nod absently, still staring at the ice where she's now taking a bow. "Yeah, but this time... I think I like it."

I can’t stop wondering what it’d be like to really talk to her, to hear her laugh—would it be soft and sweet, or low and dangerous, the kind that makes your pulse skip a beat? Would those piercing eyes light up if I told her one of my dumb hockey jokes, or would she roll them, smirking just enough to make me try harder.

And what about after? Would she humor my sweet tooth and split a mountain of waffles with me at True Brew? Or would she sit across from me, sipping black coffee with the kind of quiet confidence that makes you want to know every little thing about her?

My mind drifts to a more dangerous place. I can’t stop wondering how those plush lips would feel wrapped around my cock. What it’d be like to have her big green eyes staring up at me from her knees. Would she take control, or would she let me lead her?

I turn to Micah, my heart pounding like I've just finished a grueling practice. The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I'm going to marry that girl."

Micah's laughter cuts off abruptly, his eyes widening. "Whoa, slow down there, Romeo. You do realize she probably doesn't even know you exist, right?"

His words sting, but I can't deny the truth in them. I've never even spoken to her. Hell, I don't even know her name. I didn’t know she existed until this very moment, but somehow, in the space of a heartbeat, it hit me—this was the girl I’d been waiting for. Not in some romanticized fantasy, but in the raw, undeniable way you just know when something is right.

And, I know I’m staring at my future.

"Besides," Micah continues, a teasing glint in his eye, "with your smooth moves, she'll be running for the hills before you can even ask her out."

I feel my jaw clench. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Dude, you just spent the last five minutes gawking at her like a starstruck freshman. Not exactly your finest moment."

Heat creeps up my neck. "Shut up, man. I was admiring her... technique."

"Oh, I bet you were," Micah waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

I shove him, probably harder than necessary. "It's not like that!"

"Sure it's not," a dry voice chimes in. Greer saunters up, her signature smirk firmly in place. "That's why you look like you just took a puck to the head."

"I do not," I protest weakly, knowing full well my face is probably redder than our home jerseys.

Greer and Micah exchange a look, dissolving into laughter. I should be annoyed, but their amusement barely registers. My thoughts are still out there on the ice, spinning with the girl who just turned my world upside down.