Pucking Daddy (Metro Raptors #2)

1. ZARA

ZARA

A New Boldness

The neon sign above Mickey's Bar flickers twice before settling into its usual warm glow, casting amber light across the rain-slicked sidewalk.

I push through the heavy wooden door and let the wall of noise hit me—laughter, clinking glasses, some country song I half-recognize bleeding from the jukebox in the corner.

It’s my last night in town. Tomorrow, everything changes.

I shoulder past a group of guys in flannel shirts arguing about something sports-related and slip onto one of the empty stools at the bar.

The leather is cracked, sticky in places I don't want to think about, and absolutely perfect. This place has been my refuge for three years—cheap beer, cheaper therapy from whoever sits next to me, and a bartender named Dolly who never asks questions but always listens.

"The usual?" Dolly appears with a knowing smile, already reaching for the tap.

"Make it two. I'm celebrating."

"Or mourning?"

"Both." I pull out my phone and check my email for the fourteenth time today. Still there. Still real.

Confirmation: Nanny placement effective Monday. Client name will be disclosed upon arrival.

The agency's confidentiality policies border on paranoid, but they pay triple the going rate for high-profile families.

Whatever billionaire's kid I'll be wrangling, I can handle it.

I survived the Hendersons’ five-year-old terror twins. I outlasted the Palmers’ mother-in-law who criticized my every breath. I’ve taken every well-paying job without complaint, and this new one is just another step toward my goal.

My fingers find my necklace—a small silver heart my little brother Danny gave me when I left home at eighteen.

Ten years ago. A decade of being the responsible one, the steady one. The one who shows up.

Dolly slides my beer across the bar.

I lift it in a silent toast to the television mounted in the corner, where men in jerseys are slamming each other into walls on ice.

Hockey. The sport makes no sense to me—why would anyone voluntarily strap knives to their feet and chase a rubber disc?

But the Metro Raptors logo in the corner of the screen catches my attention. That is where I am headed. Same city, anyway.

"That seat taken?"

The voice comes from my left—low, rough around the edges, like he's been yelling all day or hasn't slept enough. I turn.

Oh.

Oh.

He’s tall. That’s my first coherent thought, though “tall” doesn’t quite cover it.

Built like someone designed him to make bar stools look small, and a few years older than me. Brown hair pushed back from a face that belongs on a magazine cover—if the magazine is about brooding intensity and jawlines sharp enough to cut glass.

His eyes find mine, and something in my chest stutters.

"It's all yours," I manage.

He sits. The space between us suddenly feels charged, like the air before a storm. He smells like cedar and something sharper—stress, maybe. Exhaustion. I recognize it because I wear it myself often enough.

"Rough night?" I ask, nodding toward the whiskey Dolly places in front of him.

"You could say that." He doesn't elaborate, just wraps long fingers around the glass and stares at the amber liquid like it holds answers.

On screen, the hockey game shifts to a replay. A player in a Raptors jersey scores, and the announcer's voice pitches up with excitement. "Morrison with the game-winner! Jake Morrison cements the victory—"

The stranger’s attention snaps to the TV. A muscle flickers in his jaw, his expression otherwise unreadable.

“You a fan?” I ask.

“Something like that.” He takes a drink, then sets the glass down. “You?”

“Honestly? I can barely tell which direction they’re supposed to skate. Also, isn’t everyone missing half their teeth?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him.

Before he can answer, I press on. “Anyway, I prefer my men fully dentally equipped.”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

Slow. Deliberate.

My pulse stutters.

“Good to know,” he murmurs.

Oh.

I try to play it cool, like his tone doesn’t land low in my belly.

I gesture at the screen with my beer. “Why is that guy sitting alone in a little glass box? Is that a time-out? Do grown men get time-outs?”

The ghost of a smile crosses his face. "Penalty box. He cross-checked someone."

"Cross-checking sounds violent."

“It is.” He turns to face me fully, and God, his eyes are intense. Not just blue—they’re focused in a way that makes me want to shift under it. Or lean closer. Or both.

“You’re really not a hockey fan.”

“I’m really not. I’m more of a ‘watch people bake stressful cakes on television’ kind of girl.” I extend my hand. “Zara.”

He hesitates for just a beat before taking it.

His palm is warm, calloused, rough in a way that absolutely does not belong to a man who looks this put-together. My skin prickles at the contact, like my body clocked him as dangerous before my brain could catch up.

“Jax.”

“Just Jax?”

“Just Jax,” he affirms.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Jax.” I grin at him. There’s no harm in a little flirting, right? It’s my last night here anyway. I’ll never see this man again.

“Likewise, Zara,” he says.

There’s something in his voice—low, almost amused, like he knows exactly what I’m doing and is choosing not to call me on it.

I take another drink, hyperaware of his presence beside me. "So, Jax-just-Jax. What brings you to this particular dive bar on this particular Tuesday night?"

“Needed a drink,” he says.

I raise a brow. “Groundbreaking.”

His mouth twitches.

Okay. So he does have facial expressions.

"I needed to get out of my head," he elaborates.

"That bad?"

He exhales slowly. "Life's about to get complicated."

"Join the club." I clink my glass against his without permission. "I'm moving tomorrow. New city. New job. New everything."

“What about you?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay light. “What do you do when you’re not… drinking in bars?”

His eyes hold mine for a beat too long.

“I work,” he says simply.

“Wow. Another mystery solved.”

That almost-smile again. Smaller this time. More private.

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“You answer like you’re being interrogated.”

“Maybe I am.”

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice. “Trust me, if I were interrogating you, you’d know.”

His gaze drops to my lips again.

Heat blooms low in my stomach, fast and unwelcome and… okay, not unwelcome.

Not even a little.

Who is this man?

His attention shifts to his phone when it buzzes.

I watch his face harden as he reads whatever is on the screen—jaw tight, that intensity sharpening into something almost angry.

He types a quick response and shoves the phone back in his pocket.

“Everything okay?”

“Custody hearing,” he says, voice flat, like the words cost him something. He looks almost surprised he said it. “Sorry. You don’t need my—”

“No, don’t apologize,” I cut in, turning on my stool to face him. “That sounds brutal.”

"It is." He drags a hand through his hair, messing up the careful sweep of it. "Can't afford chaos at home. Not now. Not with everything else."

The weariness in his voice tugs at something in my chest. I know that exhaustion—the bone-deep kind that comes from holding too much together for too long.

"For what it's worth," I say, "anyone fighting that hard for their kid is probably exactly the kind of parent who should win."

He looks at me then. Really looks, like he is seeing me for the first time. The bar noise fades around us, and I feel the weight of his attention like a physical thing.

"You don't know me."

"No. But I spent the last ten years taking care of other people's children. I know the difference between parents who show up and parents who don't." I hold his gaze. "You look like someone who shows up."

The silence stretches between us. The song on the jukebox changes—something slower, more intimate. His knee brushes against mine under the bar, and neither of us moves away.

“Why are you being nice to me?” he asks.

“Severe case of optimism. No known cure,” I say lightly. “It’s kind of my thing.”

That almost-smile tugs at his mouth again. “Sunshine.”

"Guilty."

“I could use some of that.”

His voice is quieter now. Rougher.

Something in my chest tightens, just a little. I don’t know why, but it feels like he really means it.

I should probably make a joke. Deflect. Keep it light.

Instead, I hold his gaze.

“Careful,” I say softly. “I come with a lot of pep talks and baked goods metaphors.”

His mouth curves, slow and deliberate. “I can handle baked goods.”

“I don’t know,” I tease. “You seem more like a… whiskey and bad decisions kind of guy.”

He leans closer, his shoulder brushing mine this time. Not accidental. Not even pretending to be.

“Maybe I’m trying to make a better one tonight.”

My breath catches.

Okay.

Okay, we’ve crossed into something else. He’s definitely flirting. And between his attention and the fact that I’m moving tomorrow, I feel bolder than I should.

I glance down at my drink, then back at him. “And I’m part of that plan?”

His eyes drop to my lips again, like he can’t help it.

“Maybe.”

Heat spreads through me, quick and reckless.

This is insane. I don’t usually act like this.

I came to Mickey’s to relax, have a drink. Maybe talk to one of the regulars one last time. Say my goodbyes.

I didn’t plan to meet a handsome stranger with intense eyes, a quiet voice, and hands that feel like they could ruin me in the best way.

And yet… somehow, he brings this new boldness out in me.

“Maybe’s not very convincing,” I murmur.

His fingers tap once against the bar, like he’s holding himself back from something.

“Then let me be clearer.”

The air between us shifts again. Tightens.

I swallow. “Please do.”

For a second, he just looks at me. Really looks. Like he’s weighing something. Deciding.

Then his gaze flicks past me, toward the hallway by the bathrooms. Dimmer there. Quieter.

When his eyes come back to mine, there’s a decision in them now.

“Walk with me.”

Not a question.

My heart kicks, and I don’t think I’m capable of rational thought, because I slide off the barstool like I’ve been waiting for him to ask.

“Lead the way, Jax-just-Jax.”

His hand finds the small of my back as we move through the crowd.

The contact sends a jolt straight through me.

God.

The hallway is narrow, dim, a little quieter than the bar. The muffled bass of the music pulses through the walls, steady and low, like a heartbeat.

There’s no one else here.

I turn to face him, leaning back lightly against the wall, crossing my arms just enough to keep myself from doing something stupid.

Like grabbing his shirt and pulling him in.

“So,” I say, tilting my head. “This is where you bring all your mysterious bar conversations?”

His lips twitch. “First time.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Believe me or don’t.”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

He steps closer.

I can hear my own breathing. Feel my pulse everywhere. And I mean everywhere.

He takes another step, closing the distance until there’s barely any space left between us.

His hand lifts, slow enough that I could stop him if I wanted to.

I don’t.

His knuckles brush lightly along my jaw, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

The touch is gentle. Careful. Completely at odds with everything else about him.

It makes my chest ache in a way I don’t understand.

His thumb grazes just beneath my ear, lingering.

The touch is barely there, just the lightest brush of skin against skin, but it sends a slow, electric ripple down my spine. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat, like my body forgets what it’s supposed to do next.

We don’t speak, and I feel frozen in place. Not because I don’t want this, but because I want it too much.

My eyes flick up to his, and that’s a mistake.

They’re even darker now. Focused. Like he’s watching every tiny reaction, clocking everything about me.

Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

I’ve never been this turned on in my life, and he’s barely even touched me.

What kind of magic is this?

My thoughts scatter, useless and disjointed.

This is insane.

I just met him.

I’m leaving tomorrow.

I should not be standing in a dim hallway letting a stranger undo me with one touch.

And yet—I don’t move.

His thumb shifts, just a fraction, tracing the smallest arc beneath my ear, and my stomach drops low, heat pooling in a way that makes my fingers twitch with the urge to grab onto something.

“Breathe, Zara,” he murmurs. It’s barely more than a whisper.

Oh.

Right.

Breathing.

At his quiet command, my body listens before my brain catches up. I pull in a shaky breath, and it feels like it scrapes all the way down, like I’m suddenly aware of every inch of myself at once.

His gaze tracks my breathing, taking in everything.

A lopsided grin tugs at his mouth, slow and knowing, like he just witnessed something he liked.

“Good girl.”

The words land low in my chest—and then lower.

Heat rushes through me, sharp and immediate, and before I can overthink it—before I can talk myself out of this—I slide my hand up his chest, curling my fingers into the fabric of his shirt.

His grin fades and his eyes darken, focus snapping back to me like I just crossed some invisible line.

Then his hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, firm and warm, his fingers threading just slightly into my hair.

My pulse spikes.

“Last chance,” he murmurs.

My lips part. “For what?”

“To step back.”

I don’t even hesitate. “Not interested.”

And that’s all it takes.

His mouth is on mine in an instant

His hand tightens at my neck, tilting my head just enough, deepening the angle as I gasp softly against his lips. My grip on his shirt tightens, pulling him closer, needing him closer.

God.

This is—

It’s overwhelming in the best way.

He kisses like he’s in control of everything, slow and deliberate for exactly half a second—

and then it shifts.

Something breaks loose.

The kiss deepens, turns hungrier, more urgent, like whatever restraint he had is gone now, replaced with something raw and impossible to ignore.

My back presses into the wall behind me, but I barely register it.

All I feel is him.