Puckless (Hockey Heroes Book 1), page 1
PUCKLESS
DECLAN RHODES
Copyright © 2023 by Declan Rhodes
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
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Declan Rhodes also previously published under the pen name Grant C. Holland.
CONTENTS
1. Ethan
2. Ryan
3. Ethan
4. Ryan
5. Ethan
6. Ryan
7. Ethan
8. Ryan
9. Ethan
10. Ryan
11. Ethan
12. Ryan
13. Ethan
14. Ryan
15. Ethan
16. Ryan
17. Ethan
18. Ryan
19. Ethan
20. Ryan
21. Ethan
22. Ryan
23. Ethan
24. Ryan
25. Ethan
26. Ryan
27. Ethan
28. Ryan
29. Ethan
30. Ryan
31. Ethan
32. Ryan
33. Ethan
34. Ryan
35. Ethan
Epilogue - Ethan
Also by Declan Rhodes
About the Author
ONE
ETHAN
“Watch this!” I called to my teammates. The ice rink’s chilly air bit at my ruddy cheeks as I prepared for my new trick. It was only my latest effort to add a little spice to the monotony of our practice sessions—this drill and that drill—everywhere an incessant drill.
I crouched low like a snow leopard preparing to pounce and pushed off with all my strength, my skates gliding over the newly-groomed ice like oil on glass. I gathered speed as the sharp edges of my skates cut into the frozen rink, sending a spray of frosty particles into the air.
On two feet, I spun in a tight spiral. It was a nod to my mom’s figure-skating past and a prelude to the coming spectacle—a toe loop jump, no toe pick required. I reveled in the opportunity to showcase my talent.
“Showoff,” Nate playfully teased, his dark eyes twinkling with amusement. Built like a bulldog but with the spirit of a playful puppy, he was my closest friend both on and off the ice. We shared a boundless enthusiasm for mischief, always eager to embark on the next harebrained adventure, no matter how outlandish it seemed.
“Jealous?” I shot back a playful smirk with a twinkle of mischief in my eyes. Without missing a beat, I launched into a series of lightning-quick crossovers, my powerful thighs propelling me forward with an exhilarating surge of adrenaline.
“Okay, okay, we get it, Puckless. You’re awe-inspiring,” chimed in Marek, a recent import from Czechia, his eyes rolling in a mixture of amusement and playful exasperation.
Ah, the nickname. It originated from a mortifying incident where I shamelessly celebrated scoring a goal while the puck lay serenely at center ice. I detested the name at first, but I’d come to accept it as a charming term of endearment, a gentle sign of the affection of my teammates.
“There’s a certain finesse to my footwork,” I said, my pride swelling like a mighty wave rolling toward the shore. Six feet of steel and sinew, I was a forward known for netting the puck with a resounding thwack, leaving goalkeepers slack-jawed and livid. There were whispers that they sometimes feared me and my shots.
“Maybe you can impress Ryan with your fancy moves,” Nate suggested, nodding toward the side of the rink. My gaze followed his gesture, settling on the figure of Ryan Parker—a sports journalist who had taken to shadowing—or rather, looming over—our team lately for an article he was writing.
He’d kept the subject matter a secret, but I figured it was another slash-and-burn portrait of the sad sacks at the bottom of the league standings. I knew he needed to hurry and complete his piece because we wouldn’t be cellar dwellers for long. We were ready to fight tooth and nail to escape being kicked around by the rest of the league.
Ryan stood poised and focused with a tablet clutched in one hand as he scribbled away, his lean form draped in a dark winter coat. A stray lock of his tousled brown hair fell across his forehead, framing green eyes that shone like emeralds in the stark lighting of the arena.
Unlike my bruiser teammates, he had a slim, elegant, but not fragile look. It captivated me. I liked guys who knew how to dress better than the average hockey player and were smart—Ryan looked smart.
I liked intelligent guys who could talk about subjects other than sports. I was happy to just listen to them tell me about their interests. I’d gone to bed with my fair share of graduate students from the big university in town, but when they found out I didn’t know much about anything other than hockey, the one-night tumble in bed was enough for them.
“Think he’d care about some silly trick?” I asked my teammates, uncertainty creeping into my voice. Ryan stirred thoughts inside me—intrigue, curiosity, and even attraction. I didn’t like Nate making me look because then I’d have to figure out a way to stop staring.“Only one way to find out what he thinks, huh?” Nate winked, his unwavering support apparent even if my antics threatened to make a spectacle out of me.
“Alright, here goes nothing,” I muttered, breathing deeply to steady myself before launching into the spin and jump combination.
As I glided toward the center of the rink, my skates sliced through the frosty ice crystals with practiced ease. I felt the weight of my teammates’ expectant stares. Summoning all my resolve, I called out, “Hey, Ryan!”
Just as I saw him look up, I took a deep, determined breath and picked up speed.
“Jump! Jump! Jump!” chanted the guys from one end of the rink.
Seconds later, I launched into the intricate spin, with the world appearing to rotate around me in a blur. And then, defying gravity, I propelled my muscular frame into the air, executing the toe loop flawlessly. In that suspended moment, the universe seemed to hold its breath; every eye in the arena focused on my every move.
Coming down, I was ready to skate out with flawless precision, but instead of nailing the trick, my skate caught an unexpected groove in the ice. My balance wavered, and panic gripped my chest as I tried to regain control.
It was futile. Executing a smooth landing was a lost cause. Inevitably, my body careened wildly and dropped me on my ass. I slid across the ice and collided with the unforgiving boards in a resounding crash that echoed throughout the arena.
“Ouch! That’s gotta hurt,” Biedler called out. It was a voice of concern mixed with an undercurrent of laughter.
“Smooth move, Underwood,” added Marek.
My cheeks burned with embarrassment, but I pushed myself away from the boards with my feet, determined to shake off the mishap. Unfortunately, I hadn’t realized my body’s momentum on the ice. I slid uncontrollably across the slick surface like an upended tortoise using his shell as a makeshift sled.
“Whoa there!” I heard Ryan exclaim, though the roaring in my ears muffled his voice.
In a peculiar twist of fate, I suddenly stopped right at his feet. My heart hammered a thunderous rhythm in my chest, and for a moment, I could only focus on the sound of my ragged breathing.
Still sprawled unceremoniously on the ice, I glanced up to find myself staring directly into Ryan’s mesmerizing green eyes. A jolt of electricity coursed through me as if someone had slammed my heart with a defibrillator. The intensity of our magnetic connection startled me, and for a moment, I forgot about the cold seeping into my uniform.
“Uh—hi?” I managed to offer, my voice feeble and strained in a desperate attempt to salvage the remains of my shattered dignity.
“Hi yourself,” Ryan replied, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Quite the dramatic exhibition.”
“Didn’t exactly go as planned,” I confessed. I suddenly felt foolish for even attempting a move designed to be executed with entirely different skates.
“Well, not every story goes as expected,” Ryan mused, his tone thoughtful and introspective. His fingers tapped against the sleek surface of his tablet, the sound punctuating the silence between us. “But sometimes it’s those twists of fate that make life interesting.”
Summoning what little remained of my pride, I slapped the ice and pushed myself up to a sitting position. I didn’t mean to, but it was impossible not to stare at how his muscular calves filled out his jeans.
“Need a hand?” Ryan asked, his voice warm and smooth like a mug of hot cocoa on a snowy day.
“Uh, y—yeah,” I stammered. My cheeks reddened again as I realized how ridiculous I must have looked, tangled in my own limbs like a distorted human pretzel.
Ryan reached down, his gloved hand firmly gripping mine. As he pulled me to my feet, an unexpectedly warm sensation swept over me, followed by something stirring between my legs. Fuck—can’t be—must be the drama of the moment.
“Thanks,” I muttered, and I avo
“Hey, don’t sweat it,” he replied. His little grin lit up his features like a lighthouse beacon in the dark night of my humiliation.
I scrambled to my feet and shook my legs to ensure everything was still attached. “Sorry if you were worried I might take you down, too.”
“Well, this is one way to break the ice, huh?”
I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep within. The pun was well-placed. “I guess so.”
“Nice to hear that, Ethan. You’ve got a sense of humor under all of that bravado. It’s good to add a little levity to life.” He winked at me, and his warm expression made my heart beat a little faster.
“Maybe there’s more to me than meets the eye,” I mused, finding myself drawn to his easygoing nature.
“Or maybe there’s more to both of us,” he countered. I watched as his gaze drifted down my body, lingering for a fleeting second—that felt like an eternity—on the most essential parts.
I started gesturing toward the rest of the team like a man guiding a plane in for a landing. “I’ve got to—well, you know—umm—practice over there,” I said, fumbling around to string together a few coherent phrases.
Just as I turned to skate back to the guys, I heard Ryan say, “Looking forward to—” he paused, “talking later.” I glanced back at him, but he was already focusing on his tablet.
I pushed off and picked up speed while I headed for the other end of the rink.
“Don’t quit your day job, Puckless!” shouted Biedler. “Stick to scoring goals!”
Marek snickered, “The master of grace.”
As I rejoined my teammates, their teasing comments barely registered in my ears. My world had shifted on its axis, and it had nothing to do with them. It had everything to do with a mysterious writer named Ryan Parker.
TWO
RYAN
The deafening crash rattled the walls of the arena. Ethan Underwood, a force to be reckoned with and the undeniable star of the Madison Mitts, collided with the ice, hurtling toward the boards in a whirlwind of flailing limbs and flying ice chips. And there he was, sliding toward me, a fallen titan, his majestic presence momentarily humbled.
Suppressing a chuckle, I extended a hand to help him up in a gesture of camaraderie and sportsmanship. As he rose to his feet, the full scope of his physical prowess unfolded before me. Cute would be an inadequate description for Ethan; he exuded raw power and athleticism. Broad shoulders, sculpted arms, and a chest chiseled from countless hours of relentless training were testaments to his unwavering dedication to his sport.
Despite the display of his physical power, I found myself drawn to his gaze. Ethan’s blue eyes hinted at a vulnerable spirit lurking within, a subtle clue only a discerning eye could detect. As an up-and-coming sports journalist, it was my job to spot those hidden notes, to read between the lines.
In his gaze, alongside the fire of determination, danced a flicker of uncertainty, a shade of shyness. It was as if, for a fleeting moment, the confident athlete faded away, leaving a more reserved and hesitant version of himself in his wake.
I did my best to inject a little humor into the situation, and he bantered back. I’d never heard even an obscure rumor about the Mitts’ star forward Ethan Underwood being gay, but there he was flirting with me. He had hearts in his eyes, and I felt a wave of lust rise in my gut.
I sternly reminded myself to maintain a professional approach, refocusing my attention on the tablet clutched in my hand.
Ethan skated back to his buddies, and I finished my prep for an impromptu question-and-answer session with Nate Reyes, the Mitts’ top defensive player. I’d scheduled it to take place in the locker room after practice.
My primary job as a rising sports journalist was covering minor league hockey, weaving the players’ daily triumphs and tribulations into captivating narratives for a respected national publication. I was based in Madison, Wisconsin, which gave me easy access to all the Central Division teams, and I was a convenient plane flight from all the rest in the league.
In addition to my regular contributions, I’d been assigned a feature piece on the Madison Mitts, my new hometown team. A full-length article was always an opportunity to impress the grizzled old gray-haired heads in sports journalism.
“I reckon we have a fighting chance this year, Ryan,” Nate declared confidently, his body reclining against the cold metal of his locker. “Every one of us is pouring our hearts into every game, and our teamwork has never been stronger.”
I responded with a retort as sharp as the decisive crack of a hockey stick making contact with the puck. “And what precisely do you believe you have a chance at, Nate? We’re halfway through the season, and the Mitts are still languishing at the bottom of the league.”
While I listened for the response, I glanced around the locker room. It was a chaotic blend of sights and sounds. The noise of equipment being shed echoed through the expanse. Helmets and pads clattered onto the benches, discarded like the armor of weary warriors. Used water bottles and towels littered the floor.
“Give us some credit,” Nate laughed, the sound of his voice reverberating off the lockers. “We’re setting our sights on a respectable third position, guaranteeing a spot in the playoffs. And next year, we’ll be contending for the crown.”
“Unless you or Ethan get called up,” I suggested.
“Well, there’s that—yeah.”
Nate was an imposing presence on the ice, a fortress of strength, with only his warm, disarming smile offering a respite from his rugged exterior. His dark brown eyes, soulful and penetrating, served as a stark contrast to his hardened visage. A hockey stick and puck tattoo adorned his bicep, an indelible emblem of his lifelong dedication to the sport.
His sense of humor and quick wit made him a favorite among his teammates and fans alike, not to mention the hoard of journalists who waited with bated breath for his post-game interviews. His charisma was as much a part of his identity as his physical prowess.
“So, Nate, what’s your game plan to get to the playoffs?” I asked, shifting my focus back to the present.
His grin widened, “Ryan, it’s not rocket science. We leave everything on the ice. We trust one another. No matter how high the odds pile up against us, we won’t back down. And we remember to have fun when we’re out there. That’s our secret sauce.”
When I looked up, I noticed that Ethan had decided to join us—at least as a silent observer. He stood just behind Nate, his feet shuffling awkwardly, his gaze darting over his teammate’s shoulder. I immediately sensed his motive—he wanted to steal glances at me without anyone else catching on.
“Any more specifics about this climb to the playoffs?” I asked.
Ethan distracted me with his fidgeting, but something was endearing about how uncomfortable he looked, so unlike the fearless player opponents and fans alike saw on the ice. His disheveled head of brown hair added to the air of awkward innocence.
A dull thrumming filled my ears as I listened to Nate’s response. He talked about discipline, rigorous practice sessions, fine-tuning skills, and the unrelenting pursuit of excellence.
Like me, he soon sensed that we weren’t alone. Mid-sentence, Nate spun around, nearly colliding with Ethan. “Jesus, you scared the hell out of me.”
