Puck Him Up (Puckboys Unleashed #1)

Chapter 1

PHOENIX

The blade of my skates cuts against the ice. Sharp. Practiced. I glide across the ice like I own it. Fast. Relentless. The cold air drifts into my mask, stinging my eyes. Every stride, every breath, every twist of my skate is a challenge I’m forcing my body to rise to.

I don’t need anyone’s approval, but hell, it’s nice to feel wanted. Needed.

The puck is a blur beneath my stick as I slam it into the net with a thunderous crack. It’s the kind of shot that should make a goalie think twice about coming near me. But here, on this rink, there’s no room for mercy. Not for me, not for anyone.

I’m the star of this team—rookie or not, the ice listens to me. But today, I’m pushing it harder than usual. My legs are burning, sweat is dripping from the back of my neck, but I don’t care. The crowd of teammates is watching now, some grinning, some clearly on edge.

They can feel the volatile energy in the air, crackling like the ice beneath my skates.

“Jesus, Locke, calm down!” Jax’s voice cuts through the noise. He’s leaning against the boards, smirking like he’s the one who knows all the secrets. Jax is always waiting for the next crazy move, but even he looks a little thrown off.

But calm down? No. This is the only way I know how to play. When I hit the rink, it’s all or nothing. Control is an illusion; I don’t believe in playing it safe.

Another slap shot, another heart-rattling thud as the puck finds the back of the net, this time hitting the post hard enough to make it bounce back into the zone.

I let out a sharp breath and start skating again, my pulse speeding up.

The sounds of the rink echo around me, but there’s something else now—something pulling my attention away from the puck, away

from the ice.

I spot him.

Fucking Leander Cameron.

The new kid, standing on the far side of the rink, out of the way of the chaos, was a quiet observer.

He’s not like the others. He doesn’t yell praise or pound his fists against the plexiglass divider.

The other guys are either sizing me up or thinking about how many beers they’re gonna have after this.

No, Leander’s gaze is different. There’s something about the way he watches—calm, precise, like he’s studying the exact moment my reckless energy reaches its peak.

I stop mid-lap, skating backwards toward the boards, keeping my eyes on him.

His posture is perfect, every muscle controlled.

He doesn’t look intimidated, not like some of the others who still aren’t sure if they want to befriend the rookie or keep their distance.

No, Leander’s got a different kind of focus—sharp, like a scalpel, slicing through everything else.

I pull my helmet off, gliding smoothly to a stop right next to the boards.

“Hey, Cameron,” I call out, my voice louder than necessary, but that’s how I roll. “You gonna just stand there and watch? Or are you gonna actually get on the ice?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look rattled by the challenge in my tone.

That’s what bugs me. He’s too damn cool.

Too controlled. He’s the new guy, the guy who’s supposed to be hungry, desperate to prove himself.

But the way he looks at me, the way he doesn’t react the way everyone else does…

It’s like he’s already got me figured out.

I know I’m pushing it, trying to break him down, make him flinch, but that’s the game.

People like me don’t play nice. We push until we can’t anymore. The problem with Leander is that I can’t figure out if I want to break him or drag him into my orbit.

His sandy brown hair shields his eyes as he tilts his head, considering me.

“I’m good,” he answers, his voice low, controlled, almost like a challenge back at me. I could’ve sworn I saw a flicker of something there—maybe admiration, maybe something else—but it was gone too quickly to pin down.

I follow him with my eyes, heart still hammering in my chest. There’s something about the way he moves, something sharp, something… dangerous, like he’s just barely holding it all together. Hell, maybe we’re more alike than I care to admit.

Jax laughs from behind me, breaking the tension like a slap in the face. “Look at you, Locke. You got yourself all wound up over the quiet guy.”

I grind my teeth, pushing off the boards again, skating in the opposite direction with reckless abandon, ignoring Jax’s comment. He’s not wrong, though. I am wound up. And I can’t shake the feeling that Leander’s the one who’s going to get under my skin more than I want him to.

The adrenaline’s still running through my veins as I skate to the center of the rink, the wind biting at my skin like it’s daring me to slow down.

The rest of the team is already gathering for a drill, the rhythm of their movements almost mechanical.

But I’m not here to follow the script. I’m here to rewrite it.

I glance over at the bench, and sure enough, there’s Leander—flicking off his gloves with a quiet precision, like the kind of person who takes their time but never wastes it.

It’s almost like he doesn’t feel the pressure, like the speed of the game is something he’s above. The calm before the storm. My storm.

I don’t care that he’s the new guy. I’m gonna test him.

“Cameron!” I call out, my voice cutting through the noise of the practice. I can see the way his head turns, his eyes locking on me. Like he knew I was going to say something. That I was going to insist that he join us. My pulse hammers in my ears.

So. Fucking. Annoying.

“Yeah?” His tone is controlled, measured, as if we’re having a quiet conversation at a coffee shop rather than on the ice. That’s the first thing I hate about him—that goddamn calm. It makes me itch to break it. To rattle him.

“Let’s make this interesting.” I skate forward, my blades carving deep into the ice, the friction beneath me pushing me into motion faster than I probably should. “One-on-one,” I challenge, the words practically dripping with the promise of a fight.

The other guys on the rink start to murmur, clearly enjoying the spectacle. They know I can’t resist pushing the limits—of the game, of myself, and now, of him.

I’ve got a feeling Leander’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t let the pressure get to him, but I want to see him crumble.

Make him work for every damn move. He’s got all this controlled intensity, but I’m not sure if he knows how to deal with someone like me.

I don’t play by the rules. I break them until there’s nothing left but chaos.

Leander doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even hesitate. His brown eyes narrow just slightly, that sharp, focused look coming into play. He’s reading me, processing my move before it’s even made. Damn it, that only makes me want to push harder.

He pulls on his helmet and skates to the center, his movements smooth, almost angelic. Every motion is fluid and efficient, with no wasted energy. It’s not the kind of speed I’m used to; it’s the kind of precision that’ll make you miss a single misstep in the blink of an eye.

I grin as I line up opposite him, my breath coming out in white puffs, the cold air biting into my skin. His stance is perfect—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, ready to explode into whatever move he has planned. He’s quiet. Too quiet. But that’s fine. I’ll make him whimper.

The puck drops in the center of the rink, and I’m off like a bullet.

My speed’s my biggest weapon; no one can keep up with me when I move like this.

The sound of my skates slicing through the ice is deafening, the thud of the puck against my stick drowned out by the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

It’s pure, unfiltered adrenaline, and I feed off of it.

I dart left, fake right, then back again—classic Phoenix Locke.

Simple. Effective. But I know Leander’s not the kind of guy who’s going to fall for it.

He’s too smart for that. I feel him trailing me, staying right on my tail like he’s not even trying.

I push harder, shifting my weight to catch him off guard, spinning back toward the net, but that’s when I see it.

He’s not where I thought he’d be.

Leander’s already moved to the other side, his eyes locked on me, his body anticipating every shift I make. He’s countering me? And then, in one smooth motion, he extends his stick and sweeps the puck off my blade with a clean, clinical move that leaves me stunned for half a second.

“Damn,” I mutter under my breath. But I’m not pissed.

No, it’s the opposite. I feel that rush again—that thrill.

The challenge. This guy is hiding something hungry within him.

Something dangerous. But it’s the kind of danger that makes me want to lean in closer, to see how far he’ll let me push before he cracks.

I recover quickly, skating after him, trying to close the distance, but he’s fast. I feel like his shadow is chasing him down.

He makes a pass to the side, and in the blink of an eye, he’s got control of the puck again, dancing around me.

His eyes scan the rink like it’s only a chessboard, trying to find a way for his knight to topple my king.

I lunge at him, trying to push him into a corner, using my size and speed to trap him. But Leander isn’t scared of me, and that’s what’s throwing me off. He’s standing his ground. He doesn’t back down. Why isn’t he terrified?

I try to shove him off balance, throwing my weight into it, but he pivots, leaning into the move with a kind of grace that makes my breath catch.

My weight shifts too far to the left momentarily, and that’s all it takes.

In the next instant, he’s passed me, speeding down the rink with the puck like he’s been playing this game for years.

The rest of the team is shouting now, but all I can hear is the whoosh of the skates beneath us and the pounding of my heart. I push myself harder, skating after him with everything I’ve got. He’s fast, but I can catch him. I have to.