Puck Me, Valentine (Seasonal Firsts Novellas #3)

Chapter 1

The turtle blinks at me with ancient, judgmental eyes as I crush the antibiotic tablet into powder.

“I know, Gerald,” I mutter, mixing the powder into a tiny dish of mashed squash. “You think I’m overreacting. But that shell rot isn’t going to heal itself, is it?”

Gerald, a red-eared slider someone abandoned in a Walmart parking lot last month, withdraws slightly into his shell. Classic Gerald.

“Val!” Liz’s voice echoes down the hallway of what I’ve optimistically dubbed the Campus Animal Rescue and Education Center—though everyone else calls it “that room with the sad hamsters.” “Did you hear Monica’s opening segment?”

I glance at the ancient radio perched on the filing cabinet, currently silent. “No, why?”

Liz appears in the doorway, her hair in about six different braids, each a different color.

She’s holding two coffee cups and wearing her signature expression of amused concern.

“She’s going full passive-aggressive today.

Heritage week theme. Playing exclusively 80s love ballads and making pointed comments about ‘certain people’ occupying ‘valuable creative spaces.’”

My stomach sinks. “She’s still mad about the rehearsal room.”

“Mad?” Luke pushes past Liz, immediately crouching down to peer at Gerald. “She’s conducting a goddamn psy-op on you, mate. Last week she played ‘Every Breath You Take’ five times in a row. The stalker song, Val. Five times.”

“That’s actually not what that song’s about—”

“We know what it’s about,” Liz interrupts, pressing a coffee into my hands. “You’ve explained Sting’s creative intentions to us multiple times. That’s not the point.”

I sigh, setting down Gerald’s food dish. He immediately begins eating, which is at least one victory for the day. “I’ve been looking for alternative spaces for her band. The new music building has—”

“A six-month waiting list, we know.” Luke straightens up, somehow managing to look sympathetic and exasperated simultaneously. “You’re too nice, you know that? Monica’s the one who should be finding solutions. You actually need this space for, you know, keeping living creatures alive.”

“Her band is important to her.”

“And you’re important to the twelve animals currently residing here, plus however many you rescue this semester.” Liz checks her watch. “Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be heading to the sports complex?”

The coffee suddenly tastes like ash in my mouth. “Right. The hockey team.”

“And the volleyball team with cuties,” Luke reminds me cheerfully. “Equal opportunity athletic exploitation.”

“It’s not exploitation. It’s… community partnership. You know how it is.”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s you desperately trying to meet the student activities board’s impossible conditions so they don’t shut you down.” Liz’s voice is gentle but firm. “Which is why Luke’s coming with you for moral support.”

“I am?” Luke looks startled.

“You are,” she confirms. “I have Organic Chem lab. Someone needs to make sure Val doesn’t just leave the flyers with some random person and bolt.”

She’s not wrong. That was absolutely my plan.

The radio crackles to life, and Monica’s honeyed voice fills the room.

“Good afternoon, campus! This is Monica Vance with Retro Replay, your daily dose of nostalgia here on 94.7 FM. Coming up, we’ve got a Valentine’s Day special—yes, I know, the holiday of forced romance and commercialized affection is still three weeks away, but we like to plan ahead here at Retro Replay.

Unlike some people who make long-term commitments to spaces they can’t actually maintain. ”

I close my eyes.

“But first,” Monica continues, her tone shifting to something more serious, “a reminder to stay safe out there. Police are still investigating the biker gang incident near the east campus apartments last weekend. Three students reported being harassed, and there’s been increased activity in the area.

Campus security is recommending the buddy system after dark, so grab a friend, folks.

Or, you know, a large turtle for protection. ”

Luke snorts. “Was that a Gerald reference?”

“She’s actually being helpful,” I point out, even as my face heats. “The safety announcement is important.”

“The turtle comment was unnecessary,” Liz says darkly. “Okay, you two need to go. You mentiones that the hockey team practices until four-thirty, and you want to catch them before they hit the showers.”

The mental image that springs to mind is deeply unhelpful. Specifically, the image of one particular hockey player, water streaming over—

“Val?” Luke waves a hand in front of my face. “You still with us?”

“Yes. Sorry. Let me just—” I grab the stack of flyers I printed last night, each one carefully designed with photos of the animals and information about the fundraising events. The Spring Carnival. The Valentine’s charity auction.

“These look great,” Luke says, flipping through them. “Very professional. The athletic teams would be stupid not to participate.”

Except one person’s opinion might make all of this irrelevant. One person who thinks the entire rescue operation is a “disaster in the making” and whose dark eyes seem to follow me across campus, whose presence makes my brain short-circuit in ways I absolutely don’t want to analyze.

“Come on,” I say, before I can talk myself out of this. “Let’s go beg some hockey players for help.”

* * *

The sports complex smells like rubber, sweat, and something so masculine that probably shouldn’t be as appealing as it is. Yeah, unfortunately, appealing to me. Luke wrinkles his nose.

“How do they stand it?”

“Pheromones,” I say absently, then realize how that sounds. “I mean—evolutionary biology suggests that humans are more tolerant of scents associated with their own activities and peer groups, so—”

“Val, mate.”

“Right. Less nerding. Got it.”

The hallway leading to the rink is covered in photos of championship teams dating back to the 1970s. Our university has a ridiculously successful hockey program, which makes sense given we’re in Minnesota. Hockey is practically a religion here.

I can hear them before I see them—the sharp crack of sticks hitting pucks and the shouted instructions from Coach Peterson.

My palms are sweating, which is ridiculous. I’m just dropping off information. I don’t even have to talk to most of them.

I definitely don’t have to talk to him.

“You okay?” Luke asks quietly. “You look like you’re about to face a firing squad.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re doing the thing where you clutch papers like they’re a shield.”

I look down. He’s right—I’m holding the flyers against my chest like defensive armor.

I force myself to lower them, to breathe normally and to remember that I’m a functional adult human who can handle a simple conversation.

The assistant coach’s office is right before the entrance to the rink. If I’m lucky, I can just—

“Valentine Wylie!”

I freeze. That’s Will Nakagawa’s voice, and there’s no escaping now.

Will skates over to the boards, his face breaking into a genuine smile.

He was my older brother Sasha’s teammate and his good mate. He’s always been kind to me, which somehow makes this worse. If everyone on the team were assholes, this would be easier.

“Hey, Will.” I manage what I hope is a normal smile. “How’s—”

“Is that Valentine Wylie actually venturing into the sports complex?” Another player glides over—Spencer, I think. “What’s the occasion? One of your rabbits take up hockey?”

“I wish,” I say, and I’m surprised to find I mean it. That would be adorable. “Actually, I’m here about a fundraiser. The animal rescue center needs to—”

“Oh, the petting zoo thing!” Spencer grins. “My girlfriend loves that shit. I mean, your place. She spent like an hour with your guinea pigs last week.”

“Technically they’re cavies, not—” I catch Luke’s look. “But yes. That place. We’re trying to organize some fundraising events this spring, and we were hoping some of the athletic teams might want to participate. Good publicity, that sort of thing.”

Will’s expression shifts to something more thoughtful. He glances back at the ice, and I make the mistake of following his gaze.

The practice is in full swing. Players move across the ice in coordinated chaos, and even I, who knows almost nothing about hockey, can see the precision in their movements. The skill.

And then there’s Devlin Bower.

He’s impossible to miss. Six-foot-four, built like someone designed a human specifically for violence, moving across the ice with a grace that seems physically impossible for someone his size.

Even from here, I can feel the intensity of his focus.

I look away immediately, my heart doing something uncomfortable in my chest.

“That’s a cool idea,” Will says, and I force my attention back to him. “What kind of events?”

I explain about the Spring Carnival booth, the charity auction, the volunteer opportunities. Will listens, nodding along, but I can see the hesitation creeping into his expression.

“So,” I finish, trying to sound confident, “I was hoping you might talk to the team? See who’d be interested?”

Will shifts his weight, his skates scraping slightly on the ice. “The whole team? I mean… probably not everyone, but some of the guys would definitely be up for it.”

Something in my chest tightens. “But not everyone.”

“Look, Val—”

And that’s when frustration overwhelms my usual caution. Maybe it’s Monica’s passive-aggressive radio show. Maybe it’s the constant stress of trying to keep the rescue center running.

Or it’s the exhaustion of always being the person who has to ask for help, who has to justify why saving abandoned animals matters.

Or maybe it’s the weight of those dark eyes that I can feel watching me from across the ice, judging me, and finding me lacking as always.

“But someone like Devlin Bower wouldn’t agree, right?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. “And he’ll influence the whole team?”

Will’s eyes go wide. Beside him, Spencer develops a sudden, intense fascination with his stick tape. The temperature in the room plunges twenty degrees.

“Val,” Luke hisses, but it’s too late.

“Luke, you’re late for class. You can stop babysitting me now.”

I throw my arms around him, but to my surprise, he doesn’t argue. He actually starts to leave, though not before burning a long, unreadable look into me.

And then there’s a sound like a small avalanche, and then Devlin Bower is right there, stopping so abruptly that ice sprays across the boards.

He yanks off his helmet, and his straight black hair falls across his face, damp and disheveled.

His eyes meet mine.

They’re so dark they’re almost black, framed by thick eyebrows currently drawn together in what might be confusion or anger.

His jaw is set, his mouth pressed into a hard line.

Everything about him looks lethal.

My stomach does something that feels like falling.

“Something you want to say to me directly, Wylie?” His voice is low, rough. “Instead of gossiping with my teammates?”

I really should apologize. I should laugh it off.

Shit, to be honest, I should do literally anything except stand here staring at him like a deer caught in headlights.

But all I can think about is the winter break he spent in our guest room, and the moment I found my heavy biology thesis—the one I’d spent months meticulously annotating—shoved into the bottom of the recycling bin.

He didn’t say a word when I pulled it out, soaking and ruined. He just stood in the kitchen doorway, nursing a protein shake, and watched me with a bored expression that said my life’s work was nothing more than clutter he was ‘cleaning up’ to make room for his gym bag.

Then there were the endless family dinners where he’d sit across from me, a massive, silent wall of muscle.

Yeah, he would laugh at Sasha’s hockey stories and talk stats with my dad, but the second I tried to join the conversation, he’d go perfectly still. He wouldn’t argue. He’d just stop talking and stare at his plate until the silence became so heavy I had to look away.

It was a calculated sort of erasure—making it clear that in a room full of people who loved me, in my own house, I was the only one whose voice didn’t matter.

He never had to call me stupid to make me feel it.

All it took was the way he’d walk into the sunroom where I kept my rescue cages and stop dead, his nose wrinkling in exaggerated disgust.

He’d never look at me, but he’d loud-whisper to Sasha about how he ‘couldn’t breathe in a house that smelled like a barn’ or ask when the ‘vermin’ were finally being evicted. He made my passion feel like a pathetic, dirty little secret, all without ever speaking a direct word to me.

Even the time he once loudly asked Sasha if his “little brother was always such a teacher’s pet, or is that new?” It only happened once, and I remember it vividly.

Because it was the last time he spoke to me directly.

Devlin Bower became my brother Sasha’s best friend the day they first met, but somehow, Devlin and I have never gotten along.

And now, he’s looking at me like I’m the biggest problem in his world.