Give Me The PUCK!

Noah’s P.O.V

I was late.

The second I stepped into the rink, still tugging my gear bag over my shoulder, Coach O’Rourke’s glare snapped onto me like a laser beam. 

“Princess Carter!” he barked, hands on his hips. “You planning to set a goddamn example by strolling in whenever the hell you feel like it?”

I bit back a groan. This was definitely not the start I needed. Knowing he hated excuses as much as he hated milk in his coffee, I schooled my features and gave Coach a slight nod. “Sorry, coach,” I said, setting my bag down by the bench. “It won’t happen again.”

“It better not.” he snapped. “Captain or not, you don’t get a free pass. Hustle up now, we’ve all been waiting for you.”

There were a few scattered laughs before he turned away, muttering something about discipline, and I exhaled sharply. The guys were all watching me, Jaxon included. He seemed very worried and mouthed at me. ‘Talk later?’

I ignored him and started to change into my gear right there on the rink. I wish I could have the excuse that I’d been drunk and overslept but the truth? I hadn’t slept a fucking wink all through the night and it came to bite me in the ass by dawn. A particular set of green eyes kept flashing in my mind and the way its owner spat. “Golden boy!” with so much hatred before stomping off.

Sucking in a deep breath, I fastened my lace and adjusted my pads until it was firm and skated out to meet my team. Coach was now standing off to the side, expecting me to do what I did best. It took everything in me not to seek out those green eyes even though I could feel them burning holes into the side of my head. I refused to let him affect me on the ice.

“Arctic Blades!” I called out, tapping my stick against the artificial ice rink. The guys soon joined me, surrounding me in one tight circle. “We’ve got a lot to prove this season and it starts today. First practice of the season. Last year, Forget it. We may have won the state championship but it was barely by a fucking inch. This year, we play like winners and bring home the National Championship by a large margin!”

A couple of the guys nodded. A few muttered their agreement, but it wasn’t enough. Locking my stick between my knees--it was bad luck to drop it, I placed my arm around the neck of the guys closest to me and leaned in closer. 

“I don’t care if you’re new, old, a rookie, or a fucking O.G. We are not leaving this ice today until we are sweating through our eyes. You with me?”

The response was louder this time and I could see them building confidence.

“Let’s go!” My co-captain and best friend shook his black hair and the rest of the team echoed him.

“Alright!” I yelled. “Arctic Blades!”

“Forge the fire!”

“Louder!”

“Forge the fire!”

The rink practically shook with their voices and for the first time since I dragged myself out of bed this morning, I felt like I belonged in my own skin.

After we skated out and tapped our sticks, practice began and it was brutal. Coach had us running suicides, weaving through cones, and firing off rapid shots at the net. The air was filled with scrapes of blades and the smack of pucks.

Sweat poured down my back as I skated hard, feeling like a king in my domain. I may hate this but fuck was I a great player. Periodically, I glanced at Dorian who was on the Rookie section, and Christ, he was insane on the ice. If I thought I was a king, Dorian might as well be a fucking god. 

Though he’s just one of the left-wingers, once he has the puck in his grip, he starts weaving through heavyset defensemen and forwards. Once he gets a tiny opening, taps the back of his stick against the puck and sends it right into the fucking net, a move only someone in the fucking NHL should have mastered. 

And I wasn’t the only one who noticed. Every single O.G. in our section paused for a millisecond, watching him with jealousy and admiration. That’s my fucking boy–-or not. Fuck. 

Finally, Coach selected five guys, including Dorian from the rookie team to join us older players for a real square-off. He split us into teams–Red for defense, Blue for offense–Dorian ended up on my line. I was playing center for team blue and Jaxon was for team red.

“Work together out there,” Coach said, looking directly at me. “I don’t want to see any lone wolves.”

I wished I could say I glanced at all my linemen to make sure we were on the same page, but as soon as I swiveled my head to the back, my eyes narrowed on the fiery green eyes glaring at me through the bars of his helmet. 

The whistle blew, and we were off.

It started fine. Our first few plays were clean—passes connected, and the puck moved fast. But then Dorian started playing against me.

I passed to him near the blue line, expecting him to carry it up the ice. Instead, he hesitated, just long enough for the defense to close in.

“What the hell?” I snapped as the puck was stripped away by Jaxon, making the red team tie with us.

But Dorian didn’t answer, skating back as if nothing had happened.

Next play, I called for the puck, open near the crease. He gave a deadpan blink and then fired off a low-angle shot that missed me entirely but to others would seem as if I was the one who couldn’t catch it.

“What the fuck, man?” I shouted, skating up to him.

He smirked, but it was downright evil.  “Guess you’ll have to work harder, Captain.”

It kept happening. Every time I tried to set us up for a scoring chance, he either fumbled it or went rogue, making it look like I was the one off my game.

By the time the first half of scrimmage ended, my chest was heaving, and my jaw was clenched so tight it hurt.

“Carter!” Coach snarled as we skated off. “Did you nap off your brain as well?”

“No sir,” I muttered, my face burning.

I could feel Dorian’s eyes on me as I walked to the bench, his smirk practically searing into my back.

After regrouping and downing a bottle of water, Coach blew his whistle and we lined up, facing each other as the puck lay on a neutral line between us. Jaxon held my gaze, a smirk twisting the sides of his lips, usually, I would have returned it but I was too keyed up.

The coach’s whistle broke into my thoughts and I immediately hustled for the puck, skate blade slicing over the rink. Thank fuck, my hockey stick connected with it. I began skating forward, narrowing my eyes on the small space between Matt, Red team defenseman and the net. Just a few more seconds…just a few more, I was a good fucking runner and my reflexes were even better. As Matt lunged for me, trying to knock me off, I swerved to the side, the puck still by my stick. 

Just as I made to slam my winning shot, the puck was stolen from right behind my stick and the breath knocked out of my lungs. Someone had cleared my legs from under me, causing me to hit the ice so hard that I blacked out for an entirety of 2 seconds. When my eyes blinked back open, I saw Dorian sneering at me before he skated off. 

What the fucking shit?

Hands soon started patting my shoulder, helping me up and I saw it was the captain, glaring at me.

I opened my mouth to explain but right then, Dorian wound his stick up around his shoulder height and swung it back down, hitting the ice before the puck, sending the disc flying into the net at the speed of light. A fucking slapshot.

Coach blew his whistle to end practice just then and I trudged to the bench, shaking with anger. Why had he fucking done that? 

And from the cheers he was getting, nobody seemed to notice! 

This was enough to confirm my worries. Dorian didn’t like me. I’d go out on a limb to say he hated my fucking guts. But why? I barely knew the guy as it was and he's clearly got a fucking vendetta against me.

I wanted to be mad at him, God knows my entire soul shook with it. But those fucking green eyes of his reminded me of someone I’d known and I would rather fall on a blade than be mad at that boy.

When the guys started going to the locker room, teasing each other,  I picked up my gear bag and helmet, moving to follow them but a sharp bark had me halting.

“You got a second, Carter?” Coach O’Rourke asked but it wasn’t even phrased like a question. I had no choice but to concede. The next twenty minutes were spent in his office where he grilled me about how I’d played like a loser and by the time I was dismissed, a lump had formed in my throat and I hated how small I felt.

The locker room was mostly quiet when I finally got there but my eyes still scanned the room for one person.

I needed to talk to him. Figure out what his deal was. If he had a problem with me, fine—but this team didn’t have room for the kind of shit he pulled on the ice today.

I’d just reached my own locker when Dorian walked in from the showers.

Completely naked.

My breath caught. I hadn’t even heard the fucking water running or I would have guessed…and left. Rivulets of water glistened on his body as he dried his blood-red hair, towel blocking his view of me.

He was...

Jesus Christ.

Broad shoulders tapered down to a lean, muscular frame with sharply defined abs that would give a Greek god a run for their money.

I should’ve looked away. Hell, I wanted to look away. But my eyes betrayed me, tracing the line of his arms, the cut of his hips, and the way every muscle seemed to move under his skin like it was carved from stone.

I felt heat rise in my face, creeping down my neck.

And lower until–

Oh, fuck.

I clenched my jaw, feeling a rush of embarrassment and nausea as I turned on my heel, practically running out of the room.