Puck Hard (Dirty Puck #4)

Prologue

TATE

Some people say you know instantly when you meet the person who’s going to destroy your life. Right now, watching my teammates celebrate our latest win, I have no idea I’m about to meet mine.

The Oakland Raptors just crushed Vegas four to one, and my teammates are acting like we won the fucking Stanley Cup. Masterson slams his beer bottle on the high-top table at the Baccarat Bar in the Bellagio. Foam spills over the rim and drips down the side onto the polished wood.

“Did you see that backhand in the second period?” he shouts over the music. “The Vegas goalie didn’t even know what hit him.”

Colby laughs, clapping him on the back. “You mean when you whiffed on that pass from Carter and nearly took out the ref?”

“Hey, that was a very strategic move, asshole,” Masterson shoots back, grinning.

The hotel bar is packed with tourists and locals, but our corner table feels like its own world. Loud, obnoxious, and exactly what you’d expect from a bunch of twenty-something NHL players who just dominated one of the best teams in the league.

I take a sip of my beer, but my phone burns a hole in my pocket. The call from my agent, Rex Ashton, hit right before I headed down here. His voice echoes in my head, in that damn diplomatic tone that always delivers bad news.

“Team management’s asking questions, Tate. Your save percentage has dropped since last season. They’re not panicking yet, but... ”

But they’re watching. Evaluating. Wondering if their investment in me was a mistake. Probably wondering if they’ll re-sign me now that my four years are up.

“Earth to Tate,” Cam Foster says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You celebrating with us or just here for the free drinks that Masterson’s buying?”

“Hey,” Masterson grunts after draining the last of his beer. “I got the drinks last time. Let one of the rookies buy this time.”

I force a smile and drum my fingertips against my glass. “Just thinking about that save in the third period. I thought that shot was going in.”

“Bullshit,” Carter van Kleef says, leaning back in his chair and raising his arms above his head. “That was pure instinct. You read that play perfectly.”

Carter should know. He’s been solid since he and Jack Larson got together last year. Watching them now, seeing how settled they both are since their rivalry turned bromantic, something twists in my chest. I look away.

“Speaking of perfect,” Masterson says, waggling his eyebrows, “did you guys see the blonde at the blackjack table? She’s been checking me out all night.”

“Dude, she’s looking at the exit sign behind you,” Cam laughs.

The conversation flows around me, familiar and comfortable, but I can’t shake Rex’s words.

Or my mom’s call yesterday, asking when I’m going to bring home a nice girl to meet the family.

They’ve been asking that question more often lately because my brother Mark is getting serious with his girlfriend Tessa, and each time it gets harder to avoid.

“What about you, Tate?” Jack asks, and I realize everyone’s looking at me. “Anyone catch your eye out here?”

My throat goes dry. “Nah, I’m good.”

“Come on,” Jaren pushes. “You’ve been single since Amanda, right? That was like six months ago.”

Eight months, but I’m not gonna correct him.

Amanda was nice, pretty, smart…everything my family would approve of.

But being with her felt wrong, like I was constantly acting.

I never really…connected. She did, though.

That’s when I knew I had to break it off.

I didn’t want to be the asshole who led her on and gave her false hope for a future that would never exist.

“Maybe she didn’t check all his boxes,” Carter says, giving me an out.

“Or maybe he’s finally figured out what the rest of us already know,” Jaren grins. “Hockey’s easier than relationships.”

Everyone laughs, including me, but it comes out hollow.

She definitely didn’t check all my boxes, but nobody knows what my checklist looks like.

Hell, I’ve had enough trouble admitting it to myself.

My eyes drift from Cam to Jack and then to Carter.

Jack and Carter have been together for a couple of years, ever since they were drafted to the Raptors.

And Cam’s been with Logan for about a year now, and even though Logan retired last season, they have the kind of relationship that’s enviable… solid, real, and comfortable.

The kind I’ve never had with anyone, not really.

I sit back and scan the bar, exhaling slowly.

That’s when I see him.

He sits alone at the far end of the bar, dark hair falling over his forehead as he stares down at his whiskey.

Everything about him screams control, from his perfectly pressed shirt to the way he holds himself on that stool.

But there’s something else there too. Something that makes my pulse spike and heat flood my chest.

Our eyes meet across the crowded room, and the sounds around me fade to white noise.

Fuck.

I’ve spent months shoving down thoughts like this, convincing myself they don’t mean anything. That the way I sometimes notice other guys is just curiosity. Normal shit.

But the way my body reacts to this stranger’s heated gaze, the flush crawling up my neck, the sudden tightness in my jeans, makes me a fucking liar.

“You okay, man?” Carter asks, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

I tear my gaze away from the bar, my heart pounding behind my ribs. “Yeah, just tired. Long game.”

Jaren drains his beer and stands up. “All right, boys, I’m hitting the casino. Who’s coming?”

“Count me in,” Masterson says, pulling out his wallet. He tosses cash on the table and points at Bryce, one of the rookies. “You got next, kid.”

Bryce smirks and downs the rest of his beer. “You got it, boss.”

Chairs scrape against the floor as the guys all stand up, making plans for their next stop. This is my chance to escape, to go back to my room and pretend this feeling isn’t clawing at my chest.

“You coming, Tate?” Cam asks.

I glance back toward the bar. He’s still there. Still watching me with those intense eyes.

“Actually, I think I’m going to finish my beer first,” I say, holding up my half-full glass. “Rex called before I came down. Told me I need to think through some contract stuff so I’m gonna hang.”

It’s not a lie. The call from my agent weighs on me even if it’s not the real reason I want to stay.

“All right. Don’t overthink it,” Carter says, clapping me on the back. “You played great tonight.”

I nod and watch them go, the group of guys who’ve become like brothers to me. A thought gnaws at me.

Wonder what they’d think if they knew the truth about what’s going through my head right now.

When they finally disappear around the corner, I take a shaky breath and glance back toward the bar.

Shit. He’s gone.

Disappointment hits me like a junk punch, which is fucking crazy. I don’t know anything about the guy except that looking at him made me feel more alive than I have in months.

I raise the glass to my lips and finish my beer while the conversation with Rex loops through my head, interrupted only by my mom’s hopeful voice asking about grandchildren she’s afraid she’ll never get from me.

Jesus. Now I definitely need another drink.

I walk toward the bar and sink onto a stool. Seconds later, I catch a whiff of spicy cologne. I turn. My breath hitches.

Fuck me.

“What can I get for you?” the brunette bartender asks me.

I whip my head around. “Another Stella, please.”

Swallowing hard, I turn back to the gorgeous man sitting to my left. Electricity crackles in the air. His gaze is intense but curious, like he’s trying to figure out what I’m thinking.

Shit, if he only knew…

“You’re with the hockey team,” he says. His voice is low, gravelly, and makes my entire body hum.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Up close, he’s even more devastating. Sharp jaw, eyes such a pale blue edging toward gray, and the kind of mouth that makes me think things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking.

“Good game tonight.” He takes a sip of his drink, never breaking eye contact. “You made some impressive saves.”

“You saw?”

“Hard to miss when the whole bar boos every time you stop a puck.”

My lips lift into a half-smirk as I play it cool.

The bartender sets my beer down, and I wrap my fingers around the cold glass. “You know hockey?”

Something flickers across his face, too quick to read. “I know enough.”

The non-answer should bother me, but it doesn’t. I’m used to people wanting to know everything about my life, my stats, my plans for the future. His disinterest feels like relief.

“You’re not much of a talker,” I say.

His mouth quirks. “Neither are you, apparently. Most players would still be soaking up the win with their teammates.”

Heat crawls up the back of my neck. “Maybe I don’t feel like celebrating.”

“Bad night?”

“Not bad. Just... ” I trail off, not sure how to explain the restlessness, the feeling like I’m waiting for something I can’t put my finger on. “Different.”

He studies me for a long minute, and I feel too exposed. Like he can see through every wall I’ve built. My skin prickles under his heavy stare.

“Different can be good,” he says finally.

The words settle into my mind. I take a long pull from my beer, using the seconds to calm the pulse punching a hole in my throat. When I put down the glass, he’s still watching me, and the glimmer in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

“What’s your name?” I ask, even though part of me likes this anonymity.

“Does it matter?”

The question should piss me off. Instead, it sends a thrill through me. He’s right. Names complicate things and make them real.

And whatever this is, I’m not ready for it to be real.

“No,” I say. “I guess not.”

He turns on his stool to face me, and I catch his scent again. God help me, it makes me want to move in closer.

“You’re tense,” he says.

“Yeah, well, it’s been a long season.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

My heart stutters at his knowing look, and the urge to tell him the truth grabs hold…

that I’m twenty-four years old, and I don’t know what the hell I want.

I’ve spent my entire life focused on hockey because it was easier than dealing with everything else, and lately I’ve been having thoughts I’m afraid to acknowledge.

But I can’t say any of that. Not to a stranger. Not to anyone.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s all.”

He doesn’t believe me. His expression tells me as much. But he doesn’t push, thank fuck.

The bartender moves away to serve other customers, leaving us staring at each other, a silent challenge hanging between us.

“You want to get some air?” he asks.

My heart batters my ribs. “What?”

“It’s loud in here. Crowded.” He doesn’t look away. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when you can actually hear yourself.”

He’s offering me an out. A way to leave without making it about anything more than needing space. But the way his look burns my skin, the way my body responds to his nearness, the way my breath hitches tells me it would be about a lot more than that.

“Come with me,” he says, and it’s not really a question.

I should say no. Should finish my beer, go back to my room, pretend this never happened.

Instead, I find myself nodding.

We don’t talk as we walk through the casino, past the slot machines and card tables, past crowds of strangers who have no idea that my entire world just shifted on its axis. The elevator ride to his floor is silent, the air so thick with tension that I can barely breathe.

When we stop in front of his door, he pauses with the key card in his hand.

“You sure about this?” he asks.

I look at him, really look at him, and see something that mirrors my own confusion. My own want.

“No,” I say honestly. “I’m not sure about anything anymore.”

He steps closer, the heat radiating from his body warming my skin. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

The softness in his voice nearly unravels me. When was the last time someone offered me that kind of choice? That kind of safety?

“What if I don’t know what I want?”

“Then we figure it out together.”

He holds the card against the lock, and the door clicks. The sound echoes in the quiet hallway.

I follow him inside, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he can hear it. The door closes behind us, and suddenly we’re alone in the dim light of his hotel room.

And for the first time in my life, I stop running from who I really might be.