Page 1 of Puck Off, She’s Mine

Chapter One

Cara

Igrew up watching hockey with my dad and brother, so taking the job covering the Houston Lonestars was a no-brainer. But my boss forgot to mention that my workday would begin promptly at ass o'clock in the morning, on the opposite side of Houston.

It's not an ideal situation, but I'm an optimist. At least, I try to convince myself that I'm going to turn into an optimist the entire way to the arena.

By the time I make it across the city, the sun isn't even up yet, and my internal pessimist has not agreed to this new status quo. She wants coffee and her bed. She's also not entirely convinced I'm prepared to take on a team of professional athletes by myself.

But I've gotten good at ignoring her in favor of my delusions, so I drag myself into the arena anyway, fully prepared to grill Coach Mitch on what to expect from the team for the season. My notebook is full of questions I want to ask. My phone is fully charged and ready to go. For once, my hair is cooperating.

I've got this.

"What the fuck?" I stumble to a stop inside the arena, blinking all around. The place is empty. As in, I'm the only one here.

So…maybe I don't have this.

"Where is everyone?" I pull out my phone to check the schedule, though I'm positive I didn't get the day and time wrong. I didn't. Practice started at five this morning at the practice arena. That's here…now. "Weird."

I assumed the lot was empty because the team parked somewhere else. Maybe I was wrong about that?

I shove my phone back into my pocket, glancing around. The practice arena is a lot smaller than the Toyota Center, but it's nice. Murals are painted on the walls, with spectator bleachers arrayed on the opposite side of the ice.

I hesitate for a long moment and then decide to cut across the ice to reach them. Might as well get comfortable to wait. The team has to show up for practice sooner or later, right? Right.

I tiptoe out onto the ice like I'm doing something wrong. Am I? No clue. Maybe walking on the ice in street shoes is a mortal sin akin to walking on Madame Tulane's floor at the dance studio where I tried—and epically failed—to learn ballet as a kid. But if the Lonestars didn't want me walking across the ice, they really should have put the visitors' entrance beside the bleachers.

My feet slip.

Okay, so maybe cutting across the ice is a bad idea.

I decide to stick close to the boards, keeping one hand firmly planted against the wall as I slowly circle around. By the time I'm halfway, I'm out of breath from concentrating so hard. Walking the long way would have been easier. And safer.

One day, I'm going to learn to stop taking shortcuts. They never work in my favor. Like the time I decided to troop through the woods because I thought it'd be faster than walking all the way around campus to my apartment. You know who troops through the woods? Psychos, serial killers, and big ass bears, that's who. I got lost, almost eaten by a bear, and rescued by a man who I'm pretty sure was friends with both Davy Crockett and Jack the Ripper at different points in his ancient history. He asked if I wanted to see his collection of teeth. They weren't animal teeth, I'm sure of it.

Zero stars, would not recommend.

"Hey! Watch ou—"

"Oof!" A ton of bricks slams into me, smashing me against the boards. My feet slip and slide, my hands grasping for purchase. I find it…but it isn't the boards I grab. Oh no. It's a jersey. Currently attached to a man.

"Jesus," a deep voice growls half a second before massive arms wrap around me, flattening me. My face presses into his hard chest, my nose grinding against the bottom edge of a hard shoulder pad. All I smell is sweat, laundry soap, and spice. All I feel is the frantic thudding of my own heart and the heat of his giant ass body engulfing mine.

Where the hell did he even come from?

"Where did you come from?" he asks as if I'm the one who snuck up and flattened him, his voice dangerously close to my ear. Goosebumps rise all over my skin, and I'm not entirely sure if they're because I like his voice, because he's too close, or because there's a frisson of heat working where one most definitely should not be working.

"Get off," I grumble, trying to shove him off me. All I manage to do is slip and slide again. I grasp for the boards, making sure I grab the wall instead of him this time, and then pull away, straightening to… Good lord. I blink instead of glare.

Phoenix Michaud is gorgeous in his photos. Up close and way too personal, he's even worse. Better. Whichever means he looks like he was invented just to test the celibacy vows of women and gay men the world over.

He towers over me, all six-foot-something of him in a jersey and gear, a wicked smirk dancing on his full lips. Stubble covers his square jaw, something deep and beautiful lurking in his dark blue eyes. He's a younger, slightly smaller version of his father, Jonas Michaud, a hockey great who retired two decades ago.

Like his dad, Phoenix is one of the best in the league. He's a workhorse with no quit and a stellar reputation. I've always wondered if he works as hard as he does to live up to his dad's name or if that's just who he is. Maybe now that I'm reporting on the team, I'll get the opportunity to ask.

I don't think now is the time, however. I have more pressing questions. Namely…why is he so damn big? And why is he grinning at me like that?

I hear movement behind us, but it doesn't really register. All I can focus on is the giant in front of me. He really is unfairly beautiful.