The Pucking Clause (Defenders Diaries #5)

Chapter 1

DECORATION KANE (WESLEY)

The puck ricochets hard off the glass and shoots down toward our end. I pivot, cut it off before their winger can touch it, and take the brunt of his weight as he slams into me. My legs hold. My stick eats the puck clean, and I push it up the boards.

Dmitri Sokolov is there, all speed and muscle, flattening a Shamrock into the wall so hard the guy’s helmet pops crooked. The crowd loses its mind.

“Boston weak!” Dmitri shouts, wild with adrenaline. “Defenders strong!”

I huff and angle my body back toward the crease, keeping the blue line covered. Boston tries to cycle, but they’re rattled. The puck comes to me again, and I fire it through traffic. Our winger catches the rebound, jams it past the goalie. The horn blares.

Madison Square Garden shakes so hard, I think the roof might lift off. Fans pound the glass. Kids in jerseys scream themselves hoarse. The holiday crowd wants blood and cheer in equal measure.

Dmitri barrels into me, smacking my helmet. “Merry Christmas, Bear!”

I push him off, grinning. “You’re an animal.”

He smirks, and I can’t help it. I love this guy.

For sixty minutes, hockey makes everything simple. You hit, you pass, you protect. You don’t think about anything else.

The locker room after a win is a zoo. Music blasting, players shouting, gear flying everywhere. The place reeks of sweat, tape, and whatever body spray Novak swears women like.

I’m halfway through unstrapping my pads when Tanner plops down beside me. “So, Kane,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear, “you heading home for Christmas? Back to Alaska? Gonna kiss a moose under the mistletoe?”

The guys howl. Dmitri bangs a fist against his locker.

I ignore it and focus on untying my laces.

“Wait,” Tanner says, lighting up. “This is the year Hannah got engaged to the cannery guy?” He draws out her name, savoring it. “Bristol Bay’s buzzing, huh? Poor Wesley Kane, dumped for the guy with the big diesel.”

Laughter erupts around us.

My teeth scrape so hard it’s a miracle they don’t shatter. “He’s a tender skipper.”

“High school sweetheart, right?” He doesn’t quit. “Bet the cannery already tagged their head table.”

Dmitri frowns. “A fish boat? Kane, you lose a girl to a man who smells of salmon and diesel? She’s not seen the Times Square billboard with your ass on it?”

The laughter spikes again. I rip off my skate. “Shut the fuck up.”

Tanner leans back, smirking. “Touchy.”

Yeah, touchy. Because it burns.

We were kids when Hannah and I got together. Both fourteen, braces, stolen kisses behind the rink. She was the first girl I ever loved. The only girl. She was my person. Everyone in town knew it. It was a given: Wesley and Hannah, forever.

Until she said she couldn’t do it. Couldn’t be “the girl who waits.” Couldn’t build a life around bus schedules, long road trips, months where I was gone more than I was there. She wanted roots. A ring. A man who could be home for dinner, not just on ESPN highlights.

She dumped me in her parents’ driveway with tears in her eyes, and two months later she was on another guy’s arm. The one who’d never leave Alaska, who’d never miss a family Christmas, who could promise her normal.

I can’t even blame her for it, but it still cuts deep.

Now she’s engaged. Everyone back home is probably already planning the wedding. The idea of walking down Main Street, of seeing her hand on someone else’s chest, that big ring flashing in the cold, turns my stomach into a knot.

I yank my gear off. A buckle cracks; Novak glances over but doesn’t say anything.

She chose the guy who stayed. The one who works the docks. The one who fits into Bristol Bay, who will never leave. And me, I traded boots for skates, honest work for a paycheck that comes from playing a kid’s game. And everyone back home knows it.

My dad never said it out loud. But I saw it in his eyes the day I left for juniors. You’re choosing this over us?

Maybe he was right. Maybe I did choose the fake world over the real one. Billboards and protein powder endorsements instead of a life that was grounded and ours for generations.

“Yeah?” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else. “Doesn’t feel that way when everyone back home pities me.”

That lands heavier than I mean it to. The room goes quiet for a second. Even Tanner shuts his mouth. We all know how to chirp each other. It’s part of the job, part of the bond. But we also know when the line’s crossed. When it cuts too deep, the chirping stops. That’s the unspoken rule.

Dmitri claps my shoulder, firm. “She is not the right girl. If she cannot love a man who chases dreams, then she is a small dream herself. You want a small dream, Kane?”

I stare at my skates. Hannah chose security. My dad chose tradition. And I chose... What? Fame? Money? A life that fits in a suitcase?

“No,” I say finally. “I don’t.”

“Exactly. You need a big dream. Big girl. Big life. You are a Defender. You are an Alaska bear. That girl?” He shrugs, snorts. “Her loss.”

Some of the guys chuckle, the noise trickling back, softer this time. The tension eases. They’re letting me know: we’ve got your back.

I sit on the bench staring at my laces, wondering how the hell I’m going to survive going home for Christmas.

The door swings open and Joy slips in. Phone up, Defenders hoodie drowning her to mid-thigh, bare legs, split-sole jazz shoes. Her lanyard swings—a staff badge clipped to the hem of her hoodie, Joy Preston, Digital Media printed in block letters. Every head turns.

She’s run our socials for six months and it’s been denim and oversized hoodies, always. She lives in the same building a bunch of us use; I’ve shared lobbies and elevators with her more times than I can count.

But the legs are new, and my brain misfires—a full-on prehistoric flicker I couldn’t excuse if I said it out loud.

“Whoa, whoa,” Tanner yells, yanking his towel higher. “Warning, please. Some of us are indecent.”

“Some?” Novak hollers. “Try all of us.”

Dmitri spreads his arms, shirtless and smug. “I am always decent. Ladies love me. But I am in love.”

Joy doesn’t blink. “Relax. I’ve seen knees before. Yours aren’t special.”

Laughter roars. She claims the middle of the floorspace. “Okay. Holiday TikToks. Don’t complain. Don’t whine. Fans love it. And before anyone tries—yes, it’s in your contracts under ‘reasonable promotional obligations.’ Translation: I own you for the next thirty minutes.”

Groans. No movement. She doesn’t flinch.

Tanner chirps, “You know how much we already suffer for the fans?”

Her look could strip paint. “You make seven figures to chase a puck. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

I try not to stare. Fail. Bare legs, steady stance, cool, lethal poise. In a locker room full of half-dressed loudmouths, she doesn’t shrink or apologize. A live wire, perfectly leashed.

She taps her iPad. “Pairings. Dmitri, you’re with Novak. Santa hats. Yes, you’ll wear them. The fans will be delighted.” A pause. “And now, for the dance videos.”

Tanner points across the room. “O’Reilly. He’s got the best moves.”

Hoots. Bangs. Finn smirks, towel low, soaking it in. He lives for this.

Joy lifts a brow. “Oh, I’ve seen O’Reilly dance.” The corner of her mouth tips. “I’ve got the perfect song for him lined up.”

The men howl. Finn bows. “I can dance to anything you hit me with, darlin’. Just say the word.”

“Thank you for not making a fuss.” Her gaze cuts to me. “Kane, I’ve seen you dance too.”

My chest tightens. “Oh yeah?”

Her grin widens. “Not bad at all. Promising, even. Which means—” tap on the phone “—you’re dancing with me.”

“Kane’s going viral!” Tanner yells.

“Show hips, Bear!” Dmitri roars. “Internet loves hips!”

Heat climbs my neck. “I’m not dancing on TikTok.”

She steps in, winter air giving way to peppermint and clean soap. She doesn’t look away. “Yes, you are. Or I’ll put you in the elf costume I was saving for Tanner.”

Tanner curses. The smarter play would be to hold the line. But my body has other ideas. “Fine.”

“Good man.” She’s close enough that I feel the warmth of her breath. “Relax. I’ve seen you move. You’ll be fine.”

My gut tightens. She was watching me. When? How often? Why?

I clear my throat. “What kind of dance?”

“The fun kind.” Her grin goes sly. “Basic ballroom. Foxtrot, quick spin. I’ll do the heavy lifting.” A beat. “You’ll be there for decoration, Kane.”

The room detonates.

“DECORATION!” Tanner yelps.

“Christmas tree Kane!” Dmitri bellows. “Put lights on our boy!”

Decoration. It shouldn’t lodge under my ribs. It does. She thinks I look good. That fact carves its way through the noise and settles where it can do damage.

Joy tilts her head, enjoying the chaos she started. “In ballroom, ninety percent of the audience watches the woman. Your job is simple. Stand there, look good, and don’t screw me up.”

More howls. Tanner wipes tears. “Stand there, Kane. Don’t screw her up.”

“Strong jaw, empty head,” Dmitri intones.

I drag a hand down my face to hide the grin I don’t want them to see. “Looking forward to it.”

She clocks the line, the not-grin, the surrender I didn’t plan on giving. Her expression sparks. For a second everything falls away and it’s just her, steady and sure, setting terms I’m happy to follow.

An hour later, we’re showered, fed, and sprawled across the lounge. Christmas lights blink along the far wall. The camera’s on a tripod. Joy wheels it into place, checks her frame.

She reaches for the hem of her oversized hoodie, and every guy in the room suddenly finds something fascinating about the floor. Except me. I can’t look away. She shrugs out of it, and my brain blanks.

Short skirt. Ballroom heels. Legs polished to a shine. A bra glazed in sparks. Bare abdomen. A tiny silver navel ring catching the overhead light like it’s winking just at me. Her blonde hair is down—long, loose, moving with her breath. The lanyard’s gone, just skin and sequins and confidence.