Puck Me Softly (Puckboys Unleashed #4)

Chapter 1

Damien

“Mr. Harrow! Mr. Harrow!” The reporters chant my name over each other like rabid dogs snarling at a chain-link fence.

“That was a hard loss, Harrow. How will the Tigers survive this?”

“Like we do every loss,” I snap.

I don’t know why I’m always the one doing press. I’m the least charismatic person alive.

My teammate, Atlas Connors, puts his arm over my shoulders. He slightly squeezes my bicep, like we’re friends and he’s trying to communicate something just between us.

“Don’t mind him. Harrow wears his heart on his sleeve!” He flashes an award-winning smile that dazzles the crowd more than the camera flashes.

The reporters laugh. Atlas’s charm always calms them down. It’s disgusting, honestly. Not because it works, but because it looks effortless.

He stands there in front of a wall of microphones and cameras like he was born under a spotlight—dark blond hair still damp from the shower, brown eyes warm and bright, smile soft enough to make everyone in the room lean closer. The perfect golden boy.

The kind of man people want to root for.

I’m the opposite—too sharp, too cold, too pissed off even when I’m not pissed off. Six feet of bad attitude and resting murder face. The only reason the fans like me is because they think anger is mysterious when a man has decent cheekbones.

They wouldn’t like it so much if they knew the truth. If they knew there’s nothing mysterious about me. Just ugly things buried deep enough that no one can smell the rot.

“Atlas, you had two assists tonight,” another reporter says, immediately shifting focus, just like Atlas knew they would. “What happened in the third period?”

Atlas’s hand stays on my shoulder.

I hate it. I should shrug him off, but his grip is light. Not trapping or demanding, just there.

Like a barrier between me and the crowd.

“We lost momentum,” Atlas says smoothly. “That’s on all of us. Not one guy. Not one bad play. We didn’t finish clean, and the Wolverines took advantage of that.”

It’s a good answer. Polished. Safe. Boring. The kind of answer PR teams dream about.

I stare at a spot above the reporters’ heads and try not to think about how loud the room is. How close to me everyone stands. How every camera feels like an eye pressed right up against my skin.

Someone laughs too loudly, making my jaw lock.

Atlas’s thumb moves once against my shoulder. Barely there.

I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

He doesn’t look at me. He just keeps smiling at the reporters like he’s not quietly keeping me from snapping. That’s the problem with Connors: he seems to notice every little thing about me.

Things people aren’t supposed to notice.

“Damien,” a reporter calls, dragging my attention away from Connors. “You took a rough hit in the second. Any comment on the no-call?”

“Refs miss things,” I say.

Atlas jumps in before anyone can poke at that bruise. “We’re not going to blame the officials. We had opportunities, and we didn’t capitalize on them. That’s what we’ll focus on moving forward.”

Another perfect answer.

My skin starts to crawl. I can still feel the ice under me from the hit. The boards at my back. The roar of the crowd pressing down like a boot to my throat. I’d rather take another check than stand here under these lights.

At least on the ice, pain makes sense. Press doesn’t. Press is smiling when you want to bleed. Press is swallowing every wrong answer before it comes out. Press is standing still while strangers yell your name and pull at the edges of your life like they’re entitled to it.

“Damien, fans are calling this the Tigers’ worst loss of the season. Do you agree?”

“Yes.”

Atlas coughs beside me.

The reporters perk up.

I should stop there, but of course I don’t. “We played like shit.”

A brief silence, and then the room erupts. Atlas squeezes my bicep again, harder this time.

Then he laughs like I said something charming instead of true. “What he means is that we didn’t meet our own standard tonight.”

“No,” I mutter. “I meant we played like shit.”

Atlas turns his smile toward me, bright and lethal. “And we love his honesty.”

The reporters laugh again. Somehow, he saves it. By the time we finally get out of there, my shoulders are so tense they ache. The hallway outside the press room is colder, quieter, blessedly emptier.

Atlas drops his arm from my shoulders.

The warmth of him disappears so quickly it annoys me.

Which annoys me more.

He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You know, one of these days you’re going to make our PR manager cry.”

“Good.”

“She’s nice.”

My nose turns up. “She tells me to smile.”

“She’s trying to make you look approachable.”

“But I’m not approachable.”

Atlas looks over at me, and his grin softens into something smaller. Less camera-ready.

“No,” he says. “You’re really not.”

I don’t know why that doesn’t sound like an insult coming from him.

We walk toward the locker room together, our footsteps echoing down the hall. I keep my hands in my pockets so no one can reach for them. Fans sometimes hover near the restricted areas after games, begging for autographs or pictures, pushing too close before security moves them back.

I know they don’t mean anything by it. That’s what people always say: they don’t mean anything by it. As if intent changes the way my body reacts. As if knowing a knife isn’t meant for me stops me from flinching when it flashes.

Atlas slows beside me when we pass a group of staff members. They call his name. He smiles, waves, and says something easy and warm.

“Harrow, tough loss,” one of the arena sponsors says, stepping into my path with his hand out. “Hell of a hit you took, though.”

I stare at his hand for one second too long, like he has a poisonous snake up his sleeve.

Atlas slides in before it gets awkward.

“Mr. Keller, good to see you,” he says, taking the man’s hand instead. “You coming to Friday’s game?”

Just like that, his attention shifts, and I can fucking breathe again. I keep walking.

Atlas catches up a few steps later.

Neither of us says anything until we’re almost at the locker room door. It takes effort to look at him.

“Thanks,” I say. Cold. Flat. Like the word got dragged across gravel before leaving my mouth.

Atlas blinks, then smiles.

Not the big one. Not the one for cameras.

This one is worse.

It’s real.

“Anytime, Harrow.”

Coach runs us like we personally offended him.

Which, to be fair, we probably did.

The whistle shrieks. Skates dig into the ice. Stop, turn, go again.

“Faster!” he barks.

My legs feel like they’re filled with wet cement, but I push anyway. Harder. Sharper. The kind of skating that burns my lungs raw and makes my vision narrow at the edges.

Punishment practice.

We deserve it.

Across the ice, Atlas is…smiling. Like torture is his kink. He has that same easy energy as always, like he didn’t spend last night getting torn apart by media and fans and his own expectations.

“Come on, Harrow,” he calls, skating backward in front of me. “Don’t die on me now.”

“I’m not dying,” I grit out.

“You look like you’re considering it.”

“Shut up.”

He laughs.

I don’t get how he does this—how he shrugs things off like they don’t stick. Like losses don’t burrow under your skin and rot there. Like people shouting your name, your mistakes, your failures doesn’t echo in your head long after the arena goes quiet.

Coach blows the whistle again. “Again!”

Fuck him.

We reset at the line. My chest heaves, sweat dripping down my back under the pads. The ice beneath me is chewed up from repetition, lines carved in from blades hitting the same paths over and over again.

I stare down at it.

White.

Scratched.

Endless.

And for a second…

It’s not this rink.

It’s darker.

Quieter.

A frozen lake stretched out under a heavy sky, snow packed down unevenly around the edges, the air so cold it burns when I breathe it in. No boards. No lights. No noise except the wind cutting through the trees.

No one watching, yelling, or expecting anything from me.

Just me and the ice.

I used to skate until my toes went numb. Until my fingers stung so bad I couldn’t feel the stick in my hands. Until the only thing left was the rhythm—push, glide, cut, repeat.

Out there, I didn’t have to think.

Didn’t have to hear my father shouting. Didn’t have to see the men who came around when the money ran out. Didn’t have to pretend I didn’t understand what was being asked of me before I was old enough to say no.

Out there, it was quiet.

Safe.

I miss it, which is stupid. Because everything else tied to that place—everything else tied to that time—is something I’d burn to the ground if I could.

“Damien!” Coach’s voice snaps through the memory like a crack in the ice. “Move!”

I push off hard, the lake gone in an instant. My blades bite into the rink again, sharp and controlled, my body falling back into motion without thinking.

Atlas falls into stride beside me.

“You spaced out,” he says, not even winded.

“No, I didn’t.”

“You did. Monty said your name twice, and you didn’t flinch.”

I don’t answer.

He bumps his shoulder lightly into mine. “Where’d you go?”

“Nowhere.”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire.”

“Focus,” I snap.

He smirks. “Whatever you say, boss.”

We run the drill again. And again. And again, until my legs are shaking and my lungs feel like they’re on fire and even Atlas finally shuts up.

Coach blows the whistle one last time. “That’s it. Off.”

Relief hits fast and heavy.

I coast to a stop, bending forward slightly, hands braced on my knees as I drag in air. Sweat drips from my hair, from my chin, soaking into the ice below me.

The team starts peeling off toward the locker room, chatter picking back up now that the punishment’s over.

The locker room is loud—guys complaining, laughing, throwing gear around. I strip off my helmet and toss it into my locker. A bolt of pain shoots up my neck, and I wince.