Pucking Around: A Why Choose Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 1)

I skate into my starting position. Left defense. Parallel to me, J-Lo skates to a halt. We meet eyes and nod. He’s dialed in, ready for the puck drop. In front of us, Langley, Sully, and Karlsson are in position too.

I look down the ice to the Toronto defenseman across from me and my blood runs cold. No. 60, Brett Marchand. He’s a big fucker, built like a rugby player—broad shoulders, thick neck. And he hits like a truck.

I’ve played against him twice a year for years. It would have been more if I played for an Atlantic Division team. Thank god the Rays were placed in the Metro Division. After tonight, I won’t have to see this asshole again until the end of the season.

The crowd is going wild, on their feet for the start of the game. The puck drops and it’s like all my senses zap into laser focus.

Do your job.

Fuck, Toronto is a great team. They win control of the puck, and the forwards fly down the ice. J-Lo and I spring into action. I know Mars is behind me, waiting in the crease, a giant among men. To get to him, this center has to get through me.

Hard check. I slam him with my shoulder, working him off the puck. I send it rocketing down the ice towards a waiting Langley. The kid skates off, flying faster than a bullet. He reminds me so much of Caleb, it’s scary.

The crowd boos as Langley tries to make a pass that is intercepted by Marchand. He does his job, passing it forward. He’s the definition of a grinder. He’ll leave the fancy puck handling to the forwards.

The Toronto offense push us hard, bringing the puck back across center line. J-Lo stays forward, and I hold back.

“Eyes sharp!” Mars calls at me. “Watch 27!”

As he says it, the puck is passed to Mäkinen and the Finnish winger blasts forward, trying to fake me out like he’s going for the center approach. He darts right instead, ready to skate along the wall. I’m right on top of him, closing off his shot window. He grunts, passing the puck back instead.

I stay on him, skating backwards as we both move in on Mars and the goal. His forwards are in a brawl with Sully and J-Lo, fighting for control of the puck.

“Clear it!” Mars bellows.

I hold my position at the top of the crease, ready to block any approach.

“He’s coming down the middle!”

I’m ready, giving their center a full-frontal smash and crash, working the puck away from him and sending it flying down the ice feet ahead of Karlsson. He races after it, feet slicing the ice.

“Good clear,” Mars calls behind me.

I nod, watching for J-Lo before we make our move. He gives the signal and we both fly towards the bench. Morrow and Novy are ready for the shift change, leaping over the boards to take our place.

“Hey, watch 27!” I call at Morrow. “Mars says he doesn’t score tonight.”

Morrow nods, racing off to fill my spot as Karlsson loses his fight with Marchand and the pucks goes blasting down the ice towards the Rays goal.

Less than two minutes in, and this already feels like a goddamn dog fight.

Sweat pours from my forehead, drenching my undershirt, stinging my eyes. Start of the second period and I feel like I’ve been on this ice for three fucking hours. Score is 2-1. We’re up by one. Mars is pissed, but at least Mäkinen didn’t score the Toronto goal.

The Bear has officially come out to play. He’s ruthless, calling shots and working us ragged as we pick up the slack from our tired forwards. But we’re still fifteen minutes to intermission.

Mars is playing offensively tonight, leaving the net more than I’ve seen him do in recent games. He surges forward, meeting Mäkinen at the crease. Mäkinen wasn’t expecting it. He fumbles his shot and Mars bats the puck away just in time, sending it over to Langley.

But Langley is too far ahead of it. He turns to chase after it but Marchand is there like a freight train, plowing through him. Langley goes spinning down to the ice and I swallow a scream of rage. I can’t breathe as I wait for him to scramble to his feet, dazed but unharmed. He’s racing after Marchand, trying to stop him before he shoots to pass.

I’ve got Mäkinen covered, leaving J-Lo to take point at the crease with Mars. I want him back. I don’t like him playing out like this, not with Marchand on the ice.

“Mars, get in the box,” I shout, my panic getting the better of me.

I shove Mäkinen harder than I need to, but it’s enough to have him reeling back. It buys me a few precious seconds to move in towards the goal.

“Mars, get back, I got it!”

He needs to get back in the goal. I want him safe in the net. I can’t fucking breathe with him out like this. But he’s determined to play out, ready to push back against these fierce forwards. It’s a good strategy. The man is a giant. He’s fucking terrifying. He’s keeping them on their toes, making them take their shots from farther back.

Just when I think Sully and J-Lo have the puck cleared, a few things happen at once. Sully takes a hard shove from behind. Then J-Lo gets tripped up and nearly loses his balance as his skate catches on the end of No. 34’s stick. It sends him slipping to the side of the goal, leaving the path to Mars open.

He’s out too far. I can see it from here.

“Mars, get back!” But my shouting can’t help him.

Making a bold choice, Mars leaps, throwing himself backwards and flat, dropping to the ice with his feet at one end of the goal, arms stretched out to the other, stick clattering down.

He takes a spray of snow right in the grill of his mask as the Toronto forward does a pirouette, his shot blocked by Mars’ full-body defense. The forward trips over J-Lo, sending them both down to the ice.

The shot was blocked, but now Mars has to recover for the rebound. He scrambles, his body curling in so he can get back up on his knees. He can’t protect the goal like that. Can’t see what’s coming from the left.

But I can.

“Mars!” I cry out. I’m tearing up the ice, Mäkinen forgotten in my wake. But it’s too late. I’m too slow.

Marchand goes skating in too fast, straight into the crease, puck on the end of his stick, and slams into Mars. The puck follows Mars over the red line as he goes backwards inside his own net. I hear his cry of pain, that deep voice piercing through me, rattling my very bones.

My goalie is hurt.

Mars is hurt.

Rule number fucking one in hockey? Never touch the goalie.

With a roar of rage, I fling my stick aside, dropping my gloves. I’m gonna make this man bleed if it’s the last thing I do. I barrel right into Marchand, tackling him down to the ice. And then I’m an animal. I see only red as I punch every part of him I can reach. My fists crunch against his helmet as he cries out, wrestling with me.

I’m not alone for long. Every Ray on the ice has dropped his gloves. Never touch the fucking goalie. They descend like hounds on the scrap of rotten meat that is Marchand. The ref and linesmen finally descend, blowing their whistles and grabbing for anyone they can reach.

I’m the last one at the bottom of the pile, straddling Marchand as I punch him in the fucking teeth.

“That’s enough,” Sully yells, his arms around me as he pulls me off. It takes him and a lineman to do it. I resist them both, cursing and jerking my arms.

“Five for fighting!” the ref yells at me. “Get in the box, 42!”

“Fuckin’ pussy ass bitch,” Marchand mutters, spitting blood onto the ice. Then he looks up at me, a big, laughing smile on his face.

“You’re fucking dead!” I shout, busting free from the hold Sully had on me.

“No—Compton—” He scrambles after me, Langley lunges too, grabbing me before I can drop back down on Marchand.

“That’s it, 42! You’re out!” The ref shouts. “Get off the ice!”

The fans are going nuts, the sound of whistles shrill in my ears, and then it’s like I suddenly remember where I am. “Mars!” I cry out, my head swiveling around as Sully and J-Lo drag me over to the bench.

“He’s fine,” J-Lo mutters.

I can’t leave this ice until I know. “Mars!” I call out again. “Mars!”

He’s on his knees, his mask flipped up, talking to the lineman. At the sound of my shouts, he looks my way and nods once.

Thank fucking god.

Meanwhile, Marchand is skating to the penalty box, blood streaming out of his nose onto his white Maple Leafs jersey. The Rays fans boo him, while on this side of the ice they scream and cheer for me. It’s a hollow victory. No victory at all, really. He’ll be in the box for five minutes and then back on the ice, while I’m out of the game. I can’t protect Mars anymore. Can’t protect my team. I’m a worthless fucking piece of shit who can’t keep anyone safe.

“Jake!”

I close my eyes, unwilling to turn my head. I can’t face her. Can’t see the disappointment in her eyes. She watched it all. She watched Mars take the hit. She watched me fail to protect him. She watched the fight.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Compton?” Coach bellows. “Get off the damn ice. Now!”

Sully and J-Lo let me go, and I step through the open hatch onto the bench. Morrow has already hopped the boards, ready to take my place.

“Get back out there and refocus,” Coach calls. “Everyone get your heads out of your asses, and let’s play some damn hockey!” He rounds on me, finger in my face. “I don’t know what the hell has gotten into you tonight, but if that fight didn’t put you on the bench, I was gonna do it myself. You’re a goddamn mess, Compton. Get back in that locker room and take care of your face. Price!”

I wince, closing my eyes.

“Yes, sir?” she calls, moving down the bench behind the guys.

“Go with Compton,” Coach barks. “Make sure he hasn’t broken any bones in his seven-million-dollar-a-year hands!”

“Yes, sir.” She looks up at me with such a face of shock and confusion.

I can’t fucking stand it. Spinning away from her, I stomp down the hall towards the locker room.