Just My Puck (New York Raptors #3)

1. When you’re accident-prone like me, you quickly learn that the closer to the ground you are, the better.

"When you’re accident-prone like me, you quickly learn that the closer to the ground you are, the better."

Dawn Russell

When will I wake up and realize this is just a dream? It has to be. Nothing ever works out in my life.

So, me moving to Brooklyn for this too-good-to-be-true job and still being alive makes zero sense.

Sure, the studio apartment I’m renting is tiny and practically falling apart, but it’s real, which wasn’t a guarantee, given my track record.

I stroll to Trunzler Insurance, a dmiring the Christmas decorations lining the street.

I’ve always dreamed of coming to New York during the holidays, envisioning all the dazzling lights and festive displays that could put even the biggest Scrooge in the holiday spirit.

And standing here now, wrapped in the glow of twinkling decorations, it’s exactly how I pictured it—magic in motion. My favorite kind.

But the dream feels a little less perfect without her .

I blink hard, swallowing against the lump in my throat as I step into the building. I need to focus. Today is an important day, after all. My chance to finally have a normal job and break into Corporate America—in Brooklyn, of all places.

As I’m passing through the revolving door, it slams to a stop.

Momentum thrusts me forward, and something tightens around my neck. A sharp tug. I gasp, stumbling back. My hands fly to my throat, fingers clawing at my scarf—twisted, caught. Strangling me in the glass-walled entrance like some tragic, fashion-related crime scene.

Of course my scarf got caught in the door and is now trying to murder me. Here we go. The dream has officially expired, and I won’t have even made it through my first day.

Panic flares as I glance sideways , catching my reflection in the glass—wide eyes, mouth slightly parted in horror. And then, through the blur of movement in the lobby, I spot a woman pausing mid-stride. Her brows knit together, then she springs into action, pressing something on the wall.

With a soft whir, the door releases, and the pressure around my throat eases. I sag against the glass, dragging in a deep breath as I rub at my neck.

“Are you okay?” the woman asks, her eyes wide. “Sorry about that! The door is notoriously capricious. It was supposed to be fixed today, actually, but . . .” She trails off as she scans the lobby, and that’s when I finally notice the chaotic atmosphere stifling the room.

Employees are shuffling around, holding boxes. Some are crying, others seem defeated. Clusters of employees are chatting low, trying not to be overheard. On the desk in the middle of the lobby, the phones are blaring, but no one is answering.

“What’s happening?” I ask, my lips pulling into a frown. Then, realizing I haven’t introduced myself, I add, “I’m Dawn Russell, by the way. Today’s my first day.”

Her expression freezes. “Um, right. I forgot to give you a call, with all this going on.” She gestures to the chaos around us, then heaves a deep breath.

“There is no Trunzler Insurance anymore. Our fant astic CEO took off to some small island that has no extradition treaty with the US, taking all the company’s money with him. ”

I adjust my bag on my shoulder, confused. “What? What does that mean?”

“It means this is a sinking ship,” she says, her pitch rising an octave.

“I’m not sure if we can save the company, but for some of us, this is our entire life, so we’re going to try.

Obviously, you don’t have to stick around and work for free.

” She shakes her head, glancing sideways as a woman breaks into sobs.

“Sorry, I’d better go. Use the other door to get out,” she says, pointing at the normal-looking door next to the murderous one. “Good luck.”

I snort out loud, but she’s already run off to comfort her weeping colleague.

The moment I leave the building, stepping into the biting December air, a laugh bursts out of me—loud, unfiltered, and maybe a little unhinged. A few people walking by glance my way, their expressions ranging from curiosity to mild concern.

Good luck? Yeah, that’s not on the table for me. And at this point, I doubt it ever will be. I’m even famous for being Bad Luck Girl. At least the child version of me is, to meme lovers around the world.

I nudge a loose roc k on the pavement with the tip of my boot, watching it skitter into the gutter. What now? I uprooted my whole life, left my tiny Indiana town behind and came all the way to New York for this job. And now, just like that, I have to start over.

Is it even worth the effort? Maybe I should just find a nice quiet corner, curl into a ball, and let fate do its thing.

A sudden gust of wind whips through the street, cutting through my coat like a blade.

I shiver and fumble with my scarf, looping it back around my neck, properly this time.

Clearly, the wind doesn’t care that I’m having an existential crisis.

Neither do the dozens of people rushing past me, too busy with their own lives to notice the girl who’s frozen on the sidewalk, wondering if she made the worst mistake of hers.

With a sigh, I start walking. Back to my cramped apartment. Back to scouring job listings. Again.

Good thing I haven’t unpacked more than my toothbrush. My bus got in so late last night, I barely made it to the mattress before passing out.

I speedwalk through the streets of Brooklyn, eager to get home, but I don’t recognize any of these streets—or the Christmas decorations. Yeah, that’s what happens when I overestimate my capabilities and refuse to use the GPS on my phone.

I open the app, and sure enough, I went in the opposite direction of my studio. I let out a groan, preparing to lock my phone when a coffee shop icon pops up on the map. Rise & Grind, voted Best Coffee in Brooklyn.

My fingers may be stiff from the cold, but the rich, nutty scent drifting through the air is enough to make my mouth water. That’s all the persuasion I need. With zero hesitation, I follow my nose toward a street called Warlington Lane.

The moment I step onto the charming pedestrian street, it feels like I’ve been transported from the bustling city to a small-town winter postcard—brick storefronts lined with twinkling lights, the hum of holiday shoppers, and a street performer’s saxophone playing somewhere in the distance.

But I’m a coffee lover above all else, so Rise & Grind is getting all my attention.

A bell jingles softly as I push open the door, a welcome rush of warmth wrapping around me.

The scent of freshly ground beans and something sweet—maybe caramel?

—fills the cozy space. The coffee shop is small but inviting, decked out in beige and white with a few festive touches.

Garlands are draped over a wide counter that nearly spans the entire room, fairy lights woven between the evergreen branches.

To the right, a Christmas tree st ands near two small tables, its ornaments reflecting the soft glow of the overhead lights.

But what really catches my eye? A small table by the entrance, stacked with black and red merchandise—a stark departure from the otherwise neutral aesthetic.

A sports team, I’m guessing, though which one is a mystery to me.

“Good morning,” a girl with strawberry blonde hair calls out. She smiles brightly, hands braced on the counter.

“Hi.” I step toward her and glance at the modest but tasty display of pastries.

“We have cinnamon rolls, red velvet muffins, and peppermint bark scones for a touch of holiday spirit today.”

“It all looks fantastic.”

A girl with shoulder-length blonde hair arrives from the backroom, wearing a Rise & Grind apron and balancing another tray of baked goods that smell of warm butter and caramelized sugar.

“And a warm batch of cookies,” the blonde woman adds, placing the tray on the counter. “Good morning.” She gives me a little wave before grabbing a pair of tongs and sliding the cookies into the display window.

“Smells like heaven. I can never resist a fresh batch of cookies,” I say with a chuckle, although I really should, given how tight these pants are fitting already. “I’ll take one, and a large latte macchiato wit h a drop of caramel. If that’s possible?” I add, remembering it’s not Starbucks.

“Of course.” The girl who welcomed me nods before turning around to make my coffee.

“For here or to go?” the other girl asks, grabbing a cookie with the pair of tongs.

“To go, please.”

“There you are.” She places it in a kraft bag before setting it on the counter and taking my payment. “Here’s your receipt. And this is a scratch card for a chance to win two hockey tickets for tonight’s Raptors game. We only have a few cards left, and so far, nobody has won the grand prize.”

I wince. “Oh, thanks, but luck isn’t my strong suit. I just got fired from my brand-new job today. I shouldn’t be spending money on coffee and cookies in the first place, to be honest.”

“Doesn’t hurt to try,” the blonde girl says with a warm smile. “Here, take my lucky quarter.” She tears off a quarter taped to the side of the register.

I hesitate, then take the coin, rolling it between my fingers before pressing the edge to the card. As I scratch, silver flakes dust my palm, and then—wait. My brows furrow.

“It says I won.”

“You did!” they both squeal, their excitement catching me off guard.

“That’s fantastic!” the other girl chimes in as she sets my coffee on the counter. “My dad’s going to be thrilled—he’s the head coach.”

I chew my lip. “Right. And you said this is for . . .?”

“Hockey, of course,” she exclaims. “The famous New York Raptors. Games are always a blast, and these are ice seats.”

“Always fun,” the blonde adds with a knowing nod.

She hands me the tickets, and I glance down at them, half expecting them to burst into flames in my palm. “Huh. Well, thanks. I never win anything, so this is a nice change of pace.”