Page 3 of Pucked Into Position

I shift my legs, feeling tingly all over. Ryan’s smile is breathtaking. He never smiles like that for hockey promos.

In the picture, he and Tucker—both far broader than they were last time we were all together nearly ten years ago—are half-hugging each other while holding ice-cream cones.

Who took this picture? Was it a woman?

A wave of jealousy courses through me, heating my blood. I have no right to feel jealous, but what if his smile was for her and not the camera?

I huff and search for Ryan’s profile, gasping when I see the new promo shots of him on the ice. One is a close up of his face. His helmet covers most of it, except for his eyes. They’re intense and focused, obviously watching the puck.

I imagine him watching me that way. His gold-flecked hazel eyes cataloging every inch of my body, his hands gripping my thighs or my wrists instead of the stick, his muscular thighs straddling my hips, holding me in place.

“Pancake? You alright out here?” Dad’s voice breaks through my fantasy, and I lower my phone and jump.

“Yeah! I’m okay. I was just talking to Tucker.” Ignoring the heat between my legs, I go back inside to tell my parents the good news.

Chapter One

Ryan

“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” I bang my head against the top of the steering wheel.

“What were you thinking?”

I just got out of what felt like the longest PR meeting of my life after an intense pre-season practice, and in said meeting, managed to dig myself into the worst possible hole. Now I’m not only tired and starving, but flustered as well.

I start the car and pull out of the arena parking lot, trying to figure out how to bring up the mess to Lana, who is probably already at the apartment.

Annoyance at Brenda, my PR manager, flares again. She was the one who called the meeting at the last minute, then dragged it out. I’d been planning on picking Lana up at the airport so she wouldn’t have to get an Uber and settle in by herself.

Instead, I’ve just spent the last two hours trying to avoid being set up with some random celebrity influencer because I’m apparently “too broody” according to the PR team.

I don’t get paid to be some happy, go-lucky guy. I’m paid to keep the opposing team from scoring in our net. But Brenda didn’t see it that way, instead she called me a “closed-off, unapproachable liability.”

“We need to humanize you, get you to engage more,” she’d said before suggesting a fake relationship for publicity. Irritated, I’d blurted out that I already had a girlfriend and that she’d just moved in with me.

Brenda pounced on it, excited about all of the golden opportunities that would come with my “girlfriend” being a student and me keeping her out of the limelight until now. I tried to backtrack and said that I want my girlfriend to focus on her studies, but Brenda said I had a week to make the reveal or they’d be calling in the influencers.

I pull into my parking spot and shut the car off. The silence drags me out of my thoughts, and I realize I wasn’t truly present while driving home.

With a groan, I rub a hand over my face. I consider just hiding in the car all night, but my stomach growls and I know I need to get upstairs and eat soon. Gathering my things, I haul myself out of the car and head inside, barely registering the doorman’s greeting as I get into the elevator. My stomach clenches as it reaches the top floor, and I try to convince myself it’s just hunger pains.

I haven’t spoken to Lana in ten years, and now I have to tell her what an idiot I am. What am I even supposed to say?

I stop just outside of my apartment, key in hand, and close my eyes, secretly hoping Lana’s gone to bed already so I can deal with this in the morning. I turn the key in the lock, bracing for what I’m about to find, and when the door swings open I’m immediately greeted with the scent of Chinese food.

When I step inside, I see Lana sitting there at the breakfast table, surrounded by a few white takeout containers. I hesitate in the doorway, not because I’m surprised to see her, but because I’m taken aback by her appearance.

The pictures on her socials don’t do her justice, and every memory I have shatters. The scrawny girl I knew in high school is now a radiant young woman with wide, brown doe eyes. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy bun, and she’s wearing an oversized Rice University t-shirt. She looks every bit the quiet, scholarly library mouse Tucker described.

She looks up as I shut the door, an obvious wave of shyness washes over her and she smiles nervously, her shoulders creeping up to her ears.

The air feels thick and electric between us. I’m rooted in place, my breath hitches as Lana pushes two takeout boxes toward the empty seat across from her.

“Hey, Ryan.” Her voice is soft, melodic and self-conscious. “I hope you can still eat orange chicken and shrimp fried rice. I ordered from a place down the street.”

My breath catches. She remembered. It’s the exact order I used to get when her parents ordered takeout for us during sleepovers.

I let out a low, breathless laugh, reaching up to rub the back of my neck. “Well, it isn’t usually part of my diet, but I’m starving. Thank you.”