Page 1 of Lucky Mother Pucker

Chapter 1

Leo

“You played like shit last night.”

I clench my jaw to keep from responding to my dad’s insult. That’s exactly what he wants, for me to lose my cool so he can look like the calm, all-knowing hockey expert. But I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

So I just sit there quietly and sip my cup of black coffee. I try not to wince when I swallow. Plain black coffee tastes like piss. I’d give my left arm for a splash of milk or cream or a sprinkle of sugar. But that’ll just earn me a lecture about nutrition from my dad, and I’m not in the mood for that.

“I scored a point and got three assists,” I say, my tone on the edge of pointed. He’s hell-bent on tearing me down, but I’m not going to take it. I’ve done that enough times. I’m not gonna cause a scene, but I’ll push back against his bullshit criticism.

His frown shifts into a glare. “Do you want a cookie, Leo? A pat on the back? A parade thrown in your honor?”

The muscles in my shoulders tense at his taunting tone.

“You’re supposed to play well. It’s in your blood. Anything less than an excellent performance from you on the ice is unacceptable,” he lectures.

I let out a slow, quiet exhale, wishing I could be anywhere but here in this coffee shop, getting my ass chewed by my dad.

If a stranger were to glance over at us right now, they’d think we’re a normal father and son, sharing a cup of coffee and quiet conversation on a busy weekday morning.

But we’re not. Not even close.

My dad’s always been like this. Hypercritical. Cold. Always ready with an insult about my skills as a hockey player.

Because that’s the first thing he sees me as—a hockey player. The fact that I’m in his son lands in a distant second.

I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s been like this my whole life. The second I could walk, he had me in skates on the ice with a stick in my hand. My destiny was written before I could even speak. I was Rocco Peretti’s only son, so I was going to be a star hockey player, just like him. He’d make sure of it.

My dad was one of the top hockey players in the NHL until a knee injury ended his career when he was thirty-two. Ever since then, he’s made it his mission to make me a top-level player. My entire childhood was hockey. When I wasn’t playing in various leagues as a kid, I was always at the rink for lessons with coaches and trainers. I spent my school breaks and summers at training camps. When other teenagers were at parties or dances, I was at home resting between games.

Because if Rocco Peretti couldn’t have the long-lasting professional hockey career he planned for, he was going to make damn sure his son would.

“I’m not into celebrating people for doing the bare minimum, Leo,” he says, his tone low and hard.

“I know,” I mutter.

“How many times do I have to tell you? Coddling isn’t going to get you anywhere. Coddling isn’t going to make you play better. Coddling isn’t going to give you the thick skin you need to play professional hockey.”

I grit my teeth so hard that the back of my skull aches. I’m going to end up with a tension headache. Just fucking great.

“In less than a year, you’ll graduate from Hollis, and you’ll be playing for Vegas,” he says. “You think they’d be impressed at your performance last night?”

I shrug, glaring at him. “No one on the team reached out to me to complain about how I played. You’re the only one.”

His mouth curves up into a bitter smile. “I see. You’re a college hockey star, so that must mean you know better than your old man, right?”

He leans closer, careful to keep his voice down. If there’s one thing my dad refuses to do, it’s sully his public image. He’s a beloved hockey legend who everyone adores. The public doesn’t know that he’s actually an asshole who’s never once told me he loves me. They don’t know he hasn’t hugged me since I was a little kid. They don’t know that I can’t remember the last time he complimented me. The last time he told me “good job” after a game.

“You looked lazy out there last night against Syracuse,” he mutters. “You were slow on your transitions. You were a full second behind their forwards every time you tried to cover them. You couldn’t guard the goddamn net to save your life. You call yourself a defenseman?” He scoffs. “I felt like I was watching a toddler try to keep up with the big boys.”

An angry, empty feeling courses through me. Nothing I do is good enough.

“You think you’re hot shit because it’s your senior year, and you’ve been drafted into the pros? You think you can slack off, huh?”

“That’s not what I think,” I bite.

He shakes his head and glances off to the side, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He hasn’t played hockey professionally in almost two decades, but you’d never guess it based on how he looks. He’s still in top shape. He trains every day. He’s probably one of the fittest, healthiest people in his age group.