Pucking The Goalie

1. Jax

Chapter one

Jax

She asked for Liam Steele’s number on the way out.

I paid the fucking check anyway.

Fourteen months on Bumble and that’s my damn highlight reel.

The AC in my car is getting its ass kicked by Florida in October. It’s trying. I’ll give it that. Not winning, though.

Could’ve been worse.

Could’ve been Brody’s problem.

I sit there a second with both hands on the wheel, staring through the windshield, letting the cold air hit my face.

Two people with nothing real between them, pretending otherwise over ninety-two dollars of food I don’t remember tasting.

She wasn’t an asshole. An asshole would’ve been easier. An asshole gives you something to push against.

This was careless. A woman across the table realizing I wasn’t the door she wanted opened, so I opened it anyway. Paid the check. Told her to get home safe.

Let her leave with her dignity because one of us should.

That app’s full of that. People looking for access. A story. A name close enough to touch so they can tell themselves they got somewhere.

That one’s on me. I knew it ten minutes in, right after she said she didn’t really watch too much hockey, then asked what Liam was like when the cameras weren’t on.

I put the car in drive.

Brick is out of Fancy Cat, and maybe one of us can have a decent night.

Nine PM. The store’s quiet the way I like it. Nobody performing. Nobody trying too hard. Just people in bad lighting getting what they came for and heading home.

I roll my right shoulder on the walk in. Automatic. My body dealing with something it’s been dealing with long enough it doesn’t ask me first. I roll it again.

Still there.

Fine.

I keep walking.

I head for the cat food aisle.

Brick has opinions. Specific. Non-negotiable. He communicates all of them through silence and disrespect. I tried another brand once. He sat next to the bowl and looked at me like I’d embarrassed him in public.

That cat picked me at the shelter by stepping out of the cage, sitting next to my leg, and acting like the paperwork was already done.

I respected that immediately.

I turn the corner into the aisle, spot the last can of Fancy Cat, and grab it before anybody else can.

One problem solved.

I drop it into the basket and start to turn.

Something clips the side hard enough to knock the whole thing sideways out of my hand.

The basket hits the floor.

The can goes airborne.

What the hell—

A small body darts in, quick hands up, and catches it clean.

I stop.

She straightens with the can in her hand like this is a perfectly normal way for two adults to act in a grocery store.

Dark curly hair. Green eyes. Tight little curvy body. Small enough that most people probably underestimate her right up until they lose.

I look at the basket on the floor.

Then at her.

Then at the can.

“That was in my basket.”

“It left your basket.”

“You knocked it out.”

“And I caught it.” She tucks the can against her side. “Which feels relevant.”

No apology. No awkward smile. Nothing.

“You always tackle strangers over cat food?” I ask.

“You always this slow?”

That almost gets me.

I pick up the basket and set it upright. Shelf’s empty now.

Brick is going to be a pain in the ass about this.

“I had it first.”

“You had it briefly,” she says. “Then you lost control of the asset.”

I look at her.

She looks right back.

She’s got a whole argument ready to go at nine PM in a grocery store over cat food, and not one ounce of doubt behind it.

Hot little menace.

“That’s not how theft works.”

“It’s not theft if possession changed in motion.”

“That’s not a law.”

“It should be.”

“Huh… is that how you see it.”

“Rock paper scissors,” she says.

“For the can.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Only fair way to settle it.”

I could argue. Could push it. Could take the damn thing back.

I don’t.

Partly because I’m not getting into a tug-of-war with a hot woman over cat food under fluorescent lighting. Partly because she’s looking at me like she’d enjoy me trying.

“Fine.”

She wins.

Quick.

Sure of it.

“Fair and square.”

“Sure.”

“You agreed to the terms.”

“I’m aware.”

She starts toward the registers, then looks back over her shoulder.

“Pet store on Fourth has the same brand,” she says. “Cheaper, too.”

That gets me.

She doesn’t hand it back. Doesn’t pretend she should. She takes the can like a criminal and still gives me directions like she has manners buried under all that attitude.

“Good luck with your cat,” she says.

“Yeah. You too.”

Then she’s gone. I stand there a second, basket in hand, looking at the empty shelf.

Hell of a Tuesday.

I grab the shit brand, check out, and head back to the car.

I replay the catch on the drive home. Clean hands. No hesitation. Like she already knew the can was hers before either of us touched it.

Brick meets me at the door. He immediately clocks the bag.

“Don’t,” I tell him.

He doesn’t say a thing, which somehow still feels judgmental. I put the bowl down. He inspects it like I’ve handed him a trust exercise instead of dinner. At first he turns his nose up. Then, thankfully, he eats it anyway.

At least one of us can adapt.

He keeps eating. No acknowledgment. No gratitude. Same as always.

That’s a damn cat for you.

I sit on the couch and he climbs onto my chest like he owns the place. Which, to be fair, he does. Settles there. Stares at me.

“I know,” I tell him. “Not my best work.”

He blinks at me.

“New buzz cut didn’t help either.” I scratch behind his ear. “Half the team says I look meaner. I say I look like I lost a bet.”

He keeps staring.

I tell him how the date went. How it ended.

He’s unimpressed. Fair enough.

Then I tell him about the hot little thing in the cat food aisle. Tight little curvy body, quick hands, mouth made for starting arguments. Looked at me like losing had never once entered her mind.

“You would’ve liked her.”

Brick goes still. Then blinks slow and starts purring like he knows exactly what I’m saying.

“Yeah,” I say to the ceiling.

She had no idea who I was.

That’s the part that sticks.

No angle. No extra warmth. No recalculating. Just a hot little menace with fast hands and a smart mouth who took my cat’s food and kept moving.

Most people want something from me and dress it up.

She didn’t.

She wanted that can.

And looked me dead in the eye while she took it.