Oh, Puck! (The Morrison Brother’s #1)

1. Prologue

Prologue

Declan

“We’re not running a fucking circus here! You’re supposed to be playing HOCKEY!”

GM Colin Holden’s voice bounces off the glass walls of his corner office, but I couldn't care less. I’m too busy watching the Pacific Ocean sparkle under the morning sun. It's a deep, endless blue today that stretches gorgeously into the horizon.

I watch enviously as a surfer in a black wetsuit catches the perfect wave, carving a smooth line toward shore.

He snatches his board, gives himself a small fist pump for the killer ride, and follows behind a golden retriever that's chasing a tennis ball across the sand, tail wagging all the way up the beach.

My eyes catch on the nearby Beachside Pier, with its candy-striped rooftop and ancient carousel, sitting in the distance, waiting for the morning rush of tourists and locals to flock the boardwalk.

This place is fucking paradise. Pure heaven.

And here I am, stuck listening to this buffoon.

“Morrison!" Colin barks, the vein in his forehead about to burst. "Are you even listening to me?! This is serious!”

I drag my gaze from the window and sigh.

Colin’s face is the color of a bad sunburn, sweat beading along his thinning hairline.

My brothers are sprawled in the leather chairs opposite his desk.

Beck’s leaning so far back he’s practically horizontal, sunglasses perched on his head like he's ready to hit the beach the second we get out of this meeting.

And Mason is sitting straight, the picture of respectful attention, but I see the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Coach Jack Pearson is a silent mountain in the chair beside me, his thick arms crossed over his chest as he watches.

“Sorry,” I say, my voice flat. “You were saying we’re not a circus.”

Colin makes a sound like a deflating tire. “For six weeks! Six weeks of this… this sideshow! You know the media is calling you the ‘Beach Bums’, right?"

From the corner of my eye, I see Beck’s shoulders shake with silent laughter.

“At least it’s catchy,” he offers, his voice dripping with that trademark Morrison mischief. “Has a nice ring to it. Better than ‘The Moron Brothers,’ which is what our junior league coach used to call us.”

“This isn’t a joke, Morrison!”

“We’re six games into the season,” I say, my voice calm and flat. “It’s a new team. New system. These things take time.”

“It’s a new disaster,” Colin counters, leaning forward. “And you’re the captain, Declan. This starts and ends with you."

I drag my attention away from paradise and back to the sweating man glaring at me in the expensive suit.

"Do you know what this is doing to ticket sales? To any future sponsorship conversations we have planned?”

I lean back, shaking my head. “We won last night. Just lead with that.”

“You barely won! After blowing a two-goal lead because your brother—” He jabs a finger at Beck, who grins, “—decided to turn a professional hockey game into his own personal dating show!”

Ah, yes. That.

I shrug one shoulder, fighting off the smile. “It was a good goal.”

Colin slams a hand on his polished desk, making a silver pen holder jump. “I don’t care if it was a goddamn miracle from heaven! The celebration is what people are talking about! Not the win! Not the team! YOUR brOTHER'S TONGUE DOWN THAT WOMAN'S THROAT!”

From the corner of my eye, I see Mason press his lips together, fighting a smile.

Colin spins his laptop around with violent force. “Tell me, Beck. What on earth were you thinking when you did this?”

He stabs the spacebar, and the clip on the screen plays in crisp HD.

The Bear Cave, our home ice, is almost empty and absolutely not roaring.

The deserted stands blur past as the video shows Beck flying down the left wing, a blur of blue and gold dekeing around a defenseman.

The move is so slick it’s almost rude, then he makes it even better with a wrist shot that snaps in top shelf.

It was a bell-ringer. Absolutely beautiful.

And if we had any fans, they would have gone wild for a play like that.

At least the celebration was good.

Oh, fuck. The celebration.

He skates to the glass right in front of one of the only sections with some seated fans, pointing directly at a blonde in a Bears jersey. He throws his hockey stick over his shoulder, turning it into a fishing rod and mimes reeling her in.

The camera zooms in and shows the pretty girl laughing as she leans over the barrier. Beck meets her halfway and a full, very tongue-involved kiss that lasts at least three seconds too long for league standards, plays out for the entire country to witness on live TV.

On the laptop screen, Beck pulls back, winks directly into the camera, and skates away blowing kisses.

“Damn. I look good in high-def.” In the office, the real Beck lets out a low whistle.

“You took a penalty for unsportsmanlike conduct thirty seconds later!” Colin screeches. “They scored on the power play!"

"We lost all momentum," Coach Pearson adds.

“Worth it?” Beck hesitates, still admiring his own handiwork. “She was hot.”

Mason clears his throat, his voice dry as desert sand. “She also knew the way back to the mansion, apparently. The walls are thin, Beck. Some of us try to sleep.”

Beck flashes him a middle finger, still grinning.

Colin looks like he might actually combust. “This is exactly what I’m talking about! You’re acting like this is some extended beach vacation with a side of hockey!”

Ah. There it is.

Beck snorts. “I mean, the beach part is a pretty sweet perk. You gotta admit.”

I don’t admit it out loud, but fuck yeah, it is.

That was the whole point. Beck sold me on this gig with three things: the beachside mansion we get to live in for pennies, the year-round sunshine, and the fact that we'd be the face of a brand-new franchise in a beach town wouldn’t have the same pressure-cooker expectations as an original six team.

It was supposed to be easy. Show up, play hard, go home to a palace overlooking the Pacific.

No media scrums dissecting every shift. No legacy breathing down our necks.

Just… coasting through life in a way we never did as kids.

But then we started losing. A lot.

And now Holden is sweating through his shirt, and the 'beach vacation’ is looking more like a sinking ship.

Coach Pearson’s quiet, gravelly voice cuts through the room. “The league has had enough.”

We all turn to him.

“They didn’t invest in Beachside for a novelty act,” he continues, his eyes moving from Beck to me.

“They invested for a professional hockey team. The attendance numbers are soft. The buzz is the wrong kind. And if we don’t make a significant improvement this season, if we don’t at least show progress toward playoff contention… ”

He lets the sentence hang, but we all know what he’s not saying.

We're not fucking stupid.

The NHL doesn’t keep failing franchises around for the scenery. If the Beachside Bears don’t start winning, they fold. Poof. Gone. Our easy ride vanishes, along with the mansion, the beach, and the first thing in my life that felt like a reward for all the years of being the responsible one.

For the first time, I feel a slight pull in my gut. Not panic. Just… irritation.

"So what are you saying?" I ask, making sure to lock eyes with Colin and not the stunning beach behind him.

“You need to engage,” Colin grunts, seizing on the opportunity of rare compliance. “All of you. The community. The fans. The media. You need to make people believe in this team again. You need to give them a reason to care beyond the novelty of hockey players who can surf.”

He drags a hand down his face, suddenly looking every one of his fifty-something years. “Which is why ownership’s making changes. We're bringing in new hires. A fresh strategy. You will cooperate. You will be available. And you will all smile for the cameras. Am I understood?"

I look at Beck. He's grinning, already imagining the chaos. I look at Mason. He gives me a slight, resigned nod.

Cooperate? Smile for some cameras? Do whatever gets us out of this fucking office and keeps the mansion.

"Fine," I say, pushing out of the chair. "We'll cooperate."

How hard can it be?

Holden blinks, like he was expecting more of a fight. "Good. That's… good. That's all I'm asking."

I head for the door. Beck and Mason fall in behind me.

"Oh, and Declan," Holden calls out.

I pause, hand on the doorknob. "What?"

"You're the captain. It's your job to lead them." He gestures to my brothers who are five steps closer to the beach than I am right now. "Don't make me regret this."

I don't bother responding. I just pull the door shut and step out into the hallway, my brothers spilling out in front of me.

"So," Beck says, sliding his sunglasses down onto his face like we're not still standing inside the building. "You think we should hit the gym after that meeting? Or we still doing Happy Hour at Breakers?"

I pull my brothers beneath my arms and head for the exit. "What the hell do you think?"

And just like that, we're laughing together, the whole meeting evaporating behind us like it never happened. We pile into Mason's shiny black Range Rover, and head for the cold beer waiting for us.

I've successfully spent all afternoon not giving a single fuck about Colin Holden’s office theatrics.

I lean against the weathered wood of Breakers’ main bar, watching Mason line up another dart. He’s too careful. He always has been. His throw is smooth and precise, and the dart lands in the triple twenty.

“Too easy,” he says, smirking over his shoulder at me.

Beck snorts from his perch on a barstool, loosely working on his third beer. “Says the guy who practices this shit. It’s pathetic, Mase. Get a hobby.”

“Says the guy whose hobby is getting penalties for public indecency,” Mason fires back without looking.

I take a long pull from my bottle, the cold bitterness perfect against the late afternoon heat still clinging to the salty ocean air.