Brutal Puck (Sinful Puck #1)

Chapter 1 Nik

NIK

The second I step into the locker room, everything freezes, like someone hit pause on the world.

Then it erupts, whistles, catcalls, and laughter bouncing off the wall, heads snapping toward me like I just kicked over a hornet’s nest.

“Holy shit, Captain. What’s with the suit? You interviewing at Goldman Sachs or trying to seduce the judge?” Conor “The Mouth” Murphy bellows, eyebrows climbing halfway to his hairline.

The guys pile on instantly.

“Zoolander!”

“Damn, Nik, save some sex appeal for the rest of us!”

“Someone’s getting laid tonight!”

It’s chaos, pure locker-room firestorm, and I don’t flinch. Let them gawk. Let them run their mouths.

I glance down at the dark gray suit, which molds perfectly to my body, with its crisp lines and the black silk tie snug around my neck.

Damn, I look good.

Too good for this fucking, sweat-stink locker room.

“Why are you walking in here all suave, Nik?” someone calls out.

“Did you have press or something?” Conor presses, leaning on his locker, grinning like a kid who just found a loaded firecracker.

“Or something,” I reply, shrugging as I toss my jacket onto the bench.

The laughter swells, but I ignore it.

Press. Sure. That’s the polite explanation.

Truth is, I didn’t just roll out of bed in this suit. I’ve been torturing a man over an unpaid debt.

Suit optional? Hell no.

But unofficial research conducted exclusively by me proves that a well-dressed torturer is infinitely more intimidating. It makes them sweat harder and instills greater fear.

Best part? Not a drop of blood on this suit. Not a wrinkle. My shirt’s pristine.

A quick glance in the mirror reveals not a single hair out of place.

Smooth. Calm. Menacing.

That’s the goal on and off the ice.

Now the red marks on my knuckles? Well, those can be chalked up to the fact that I’m a pro hockey player, and pro hockey players get banged up a lot.

Conor smirks. “Late and dressed like a Bond villain. Bold move, Captain. Did the guy sign the IOU, or is round two on the schedule?”

I flip him off as I peel away the expensive layers. “Round two is on the ice,” I murmur, my voice low and tight. “Let’s see how long your mouth stays open when I’m done with you, Murph.”

Cheers and laughter ripple through the room.

They don’t need to know the truth.

They don’t need to see the twisted satisfaction that coils in my chest when bones snap and joints bend the wrong way.

They don’t need to know the look on his face when he begged me to stop. That raw, pitiful fear was the best part.

A cold smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I pull my shirt over my head. I’m not proud of the work I do. But it’s the only part of the family business that scratches the itch I actually enjoy.

The locker room swirls around me, teammates taping sticks, yanking jerseys, smart-ass comments flying my way.

I cut through it all as if I owned the place.

Not because of the C stitched on my chest.

Because in my world, respect isn’t handed out with a captain’s badge. It’s earned

Earned in blood, in silence, in fear. And today the suit did its job.

The banter bounces off me; I barely listen.

This is the dirtiest bunch I’ve ever worked with. They play like they’ve got nothing to lose, fight like unpaid rookies with everything to prove, and it works, because we do lose a lot.

Off the ice, it’s worse. These guys are fucked up in every way: gambling debts, ugly divorces, underground brawls. Name a vice, they’ve done it.

And me? I’m no angel. I don’t bother with small-time sins.

Mine are bigger, more dangerous. I run an enterprise—an organization that thrives in the shadows.

The violent streak I can’t suppress? It fits right in with both on the ice and in the life I’ve been handed.

Beating the shit out of lowlife losers is my favorite part of running U.S. operations for the Barkov crime family.

My phone buzzes on the bench, distracting me. I glance down at the screen and see the picture of my sister, Misha, pop up. She has dark eyes that mirror mine, the look I grew up with. And she’s the courage that helps me through everything.

“Shit,” I mutter, snatching the phone.

But before I can swipe it, Conor is already leaning over from his locker, the fucking asshole grinning like he’s just hit the jackpot.

“Bro,” he says, glancing over at the screen. “Misha again?” He raises his eyebrows. “Man, I swear to God, your sister could put half the fucking city to shame just by walking down the street. She’s—”

Before he can finish, I turn to him sharply. “Don’t,” I warn him, the growl in my voice deepening as my thumb hovers over the screen. My mind flashes to how I’ve always protected her. Nobody, especially a loudmouth like Conor, gets to talk about my sister like that.

Conor chuckles, ignoring the warning in my voice. “Oh, come on, Nik. You gotta admit it. Misha’s got that, you know, fire in her eyes. I’ve thought about her, man. In the shower. A lot. Hell, probably more times than you’d care to know.”

The words hang in the air, and the locker room seems to go still for a second as I feel my blood gush in my veins. She’s not a fantasy. She’s my sister. And now? Some idiot just treated her like she’s… a thing.

My heart races, and my hands clench into fists, but I try not to react.

Dominic looks up from his gear bag, meeting my eyes. His face gives nothing away, but I know he feels the change in me. Calm on the surface, fury simmering underneath.

He knows what sets me off —Family, especially when it comes to Misha.

Conor, ever the idiot, doesn’t seem to realize the line he’s just crossed. “Man, I gotta tell you,” he keeps going, oblivious. “She’s the one girl I’d go after, if I weren’t so busy with... well, other things, you know?”

I don’t reply.

The words ring in my ears, but I try not to let it show. I’ve learned how to keep my cool in the most dangerous situations.

But this is different.

This is Misha. My sister. My blood. The one thing that gets under my skin fast and deep.

Conor doesn’t know the danger of crossing that line. He doesn’t know how far I’d go to keep her safe from assholes like him. From anyone who even thinks about touching her in ways she doesn’t want.

The air feels thick with tension, like everything is waiting for me to explode. I glance at Dominic, who looks at me like he knows exactly what’s coming.

For a fraction of a second, I imagine ending Conor right here, right now, making an example and showing what happens when someone even thinks about fantasizing about my sister.

But I stop myself.

Conor, of course, misreads the silence like a fucking moron. He peeks over my shoulder, grinning like a lunatic. “Dude, your sister is a fucking smokeshow.”

I lift the phone, forcing myself to keep my voice calm as I answer Misha. “Hold on, Misha.”

Fuck waiting until we’re on the ice.

I ram my fist into Conor’s loud-ass mouth. Of course, the lunatic just grins through bloody teeth like a fucking psycho. He laughs and says, “You might scare the shit out of everyone else, Ivanov, but you don’t scare me.”

“Get out of my face,” I warn Conor.

I turn, jaw locked, shoulders tight. Don’t need to look back. The message is delivered.

Conor, somehow, manages a wider grin. “Call me, Misha!” he shouts before disappearing into the bathroom to spit out his teeth or whatever.

“Sister,” I say. “Sorry about that.”

“Meh. Another day at the office,” she says. She’s used to dumb hockey assholes. “Is the job done?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Cool. I’ll come over later, and you can tell me about it?”

“Yup.”

“Good talk,” she says. “Bye.”

I hang up, tossing my phone into my locker with far less care than I gave my suit.

“You good, boss?” Dominic’s voice comes quietly from the locker beside mine.

Dominic Belkin is part of my off-ice team, the only person here who knows about the double life I lead. He’s also a true friend, the only person I truly trust, besides my sister and Lars.

Technically, it’s not wrong for him to call me boss. I am his supervisor when we work for the Barkov family. I’m also his team captain here at the Chicago Reapers.

“Yeah. I’m good,” I say, bending to lace my skates, letting the calm I wear like armor settle back over me.

“Did he wail?” Dominic asks, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I nod, letting a negligible grin creep in, then shake my head. “You know the walls have ears here. Let’s go out tonight. Have a drink. Watch beautiful women dance. Let loud music drown out our conversation. Yeah, moy brat?”

Dom’s not my brother by blood, but he is in every way that matters.

He’s been there for me more times than I can count.

He dragged me from a delivery gone bad, a bullet in my shoulder, just over a year ago.

Managed to haul my bleeding ass to a waiting taxi.

He staunched the blood, and when we got back to his apartment, he dug the damn slug out himself, cauterized it with a bottle of vodka, then tossed me a couple of painkillers like it was just another Tuesday.

I was back on the ice for practice the next day, wearing a black dri-fit t-shirt that I refused to remove, because how the hell would I have explained a bullet hole in my shoulder to my teammates or coaches? I had to pretend I wasn’t in pain for weeks.

And Dom didn’t say a damn word. He just gave me that look he always does. Those soulful eyes of his, asking without asking.

“You good, boss?”

The same question he asked today—the same quiet check-in.

I should turn the question back on him every once in a while, I suppose.

He has as much blood on his hands as I do.

Dom’s not just my second.

He’s a fucking killer, for Christ’s sake. A bona fide contract killer

On the ice, they call him The Assassin. I always thought the nickname was a little on-the-nose, but hell, he earns it.

“Drinks, women, loud music,” Dom says as the guys start heading out into the hallway. “What’s not to like about that? I’m in. You coming?”

I nod. “Give me just a minute. Tell them I’m indisposed, if they ask.”

Conor happens to be walking by as I say this. He doesn’t look at me. Just holds up a thumb like he’s logging a goddamn message for dispatch.

“Taking a shit. Got it. I’ll relay the message.”

“Yebuchiy mudak,” I mutter.

Fucking asshole.