Puck, Marry, Kill (Dirty Puckers #2)

Prologue Dominic

Prologue

Dominic

“What the fuck did you just say to me?” I spit the words out so quickly that there’s no chance to stop them. Not that I would’ve, even if I could’ve.

My heart is racing too fast, pounding against my ribs. My hearing is down a long hallway, hollow and echoey. And my eyes are wide open, which is why I see the instant Coach Leverson registers both my rude tone and my disrespectful cussing.

“Now, look here, son . . .” he starts, sounding like he’s placating a too-willful-for-his-own-good, stubborn asshole of a child. Which I might be. I’m not arguing that possibility.

“Don’t ‘son’ me after telling me I’m getting traded, when I helped this team win the fucking Cup last season.

A few very short months ago.” Did he forget?

How could he have forgotten? I sure haven’t.

It was the biggest, brightest, best moment of my life.

The culmination of a dream I’ve had since I was a kid.

Coach closes his mouth, the clack of his yellowed veneers making a sound of finality that matches the steely look in his tired eyes.

“Why?” I hiss.

It’s starting to sink in—I, Dominic Lee, am getting traded from the best team in the league, the one where I’ve played for years, to one of the league cellar dwellers.

Okay, that’s not fair. Coach said I’ve been traded to the Blizzard, who we played against in the finals last season, but there’s no argument to be made about it, they’re lower on the hockey stick than we are.

Not we. Because I’m no longer an Ice Hawk. I’m a Blizzard.

Me, fucking traded? What upside-down, topsy-turvy world is this? If this is a nightmare, I’m ready to wake up. Now. I curl my toes in my boots, digging them in and hoping the slight pain will raise me from sleep, but other than a cramp in my big toe, nothing happens.

“Dom, I know this comes as a shock to you,” Coach says placatingly.

“It was a shock to me too. Definitely a decision made above my head, and I tried to keep you. Know that, son.” He pins me with an earnest look, but it only slightly eases the sense of betrayal starting to take root in my gut.

“The Blizzard are having some turnover this year and they need you to do for Kipson what you did for Mahoney.”

My brows draw together sharply. “What?”

I’ve done a lot of things for Griffin Mahoney, the right defenseman for the Ice Hawks, but more importantly my brother from another mother.

Most recently, that has included only attempting to kill him after I found out he was fucking my sister.

I say attempt not because I stopped, but because my sister, Penny, stopped me with an announcement that they’re dating, in love, and blah, blah, blah.

Not my best moment, but now that we’re all good, we can laugh about it.

As long as they don’t talk about their sex life.

“What do you mean do for Kipson what I did for Griffin? I don’t have another sister and I’m pretty sure Griffin doesn’t share,” I say flatly. It’s a joke, but also . . . not. Unsurprisingly, Griffin is head over heels for my sister, which translates to protective as hell.

Coach leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers in front of his chest. “What do you know about the Blizzard?”

“They’re not the Ice Hawks,” I declare flatly. “They’re not the current champs. That’s enough.”

Coach tilts his head, staring at me in disappointment, before he carefully says, “That’s true.

They’re not like the Hawks in a lot of ways.

” I don’t know what that means and he doesn’t explain further.

Instead, he shares, “Kipson got divorced right before the finals last year. He’s not doing well.

Some might say he’s spiraling, and that’s putting it mildly.

” Coach frowns hard like that’s a generously kind description of Kipson’s current state.

Realization dawns.

“Shiiiit. Kipson is thinking of quitting?”

Mike Kipson is good at two things—popping nifty wrist shots that seem to curve around goalie pads in midair, and staying out of the spotlight.

The man’s a wizard with the puck when he’s on.

All I know about him is how to go up against him in a game.

But peripherally, I know he’s in the prime of his career, with years of ice time left.

Unless injury or mental shit, which is surprisingly a big part of success in hockey, takes him out.

“Not if you can stop him,” Coach declares. “He’s down bad. Thinking of running off to Nebraska or somewhere to chase after his girl.” Coach makes it sound like the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard of.

“That sucks for him. Really, it does. But it’s not my problem. I saved Griffin because he’s my brother.”

Coach shrugs. “Looks like your family’s growing. Congrats, it’s a boy.”

Coach has jokes? Now? When he’s telling me that my dream of back-to-back league championships is dead in the water?

“Fuck.” The curse isn’t directed at Coach this time. I’ve got my wits about me enough to know that’s unacceptable. But directing it at the ceiling isn’t much better.

“I’m sorry, Dominic. But if you want to keep playing—which we both know you do—this is happening.”

I take a measured breath and slowly exhale as resignation sinks in. Meeting Coach’s eye, I admit, “I don’t want to go. This is home for me.”

He nods in understanding. “I know, kid. But this is the name of the game in pro hockey. You go where they pay for you to be.” Admittedly, a bit of a cynical outlook, but he’s not wrong.

“Just don’t do too good of a job saving Kipson.

I plan on the Hawks winning again this season, with or without you. ”

The subtle jab makes me smile tightly, back on confident ground. “Good luck with that, Coach. You know the only reason we won last year was because of me,” I brag, aiming for my trademark cockiness but coming up short.

“I know,” he agrees, smiling warmly. We both know it was a team effort that required every Hawk doing their part, but I appreciate him letting me save face a little bit because this feels like I’m being dismissed as the weak link, the one they don’t need.

“It won’t be the same here without you, Lee. The Blizzard is damn lucky to get you.”

He stands and holds his hand out. I rise, taking his hand in mine and shaking it firmly. “It’s been an honor, Coach.”

“The honor’s all mine. Now go kick some sense into Kipson and I’ll see if I can getcha back next season.”

It’s nothing more than a polite pleasantry, but it does keep a tiny light of hope lit in my soul. Maybe I can get back home—to my team, to my family, to my life—soon.