Pucked Up Love

I never planned on falling for a guy who smelled like frozen sweat and bad decisions. But here I was, standing in a hockey rink that felt like the inside of a walk-in freezer, watching my life implode in real time.

My name is Avery Kane, and until three weeks ago, I lived in sunny San Diego where the only ice I dealt with came in my iced latte. Then Dad got the dream job: head coach of the Evergreen Eagles, Minnesota’s junior hockey powerhouse. Translation: pack up everything, say goodbye to my friends, my beach reads, and my dignity, and move to a town where the high school mascot is literally an angry bird on skates.

“Ready to see the boys in action?” Dad asked, clapping me on the shoulder like I was one of his players. He was already in coach mode—whistle around his neck, clipboard in hand, hair sticking up from the static of his beanie.

“Define ready,” I muttered, shoving my hands deeper into my pockets. My boots squeaked on the rubber mats as we stepped inside. The air hit me like a slapshot: cold, metallic, and thick with the smell of rubber pucks and teenage ambition. The rink stretched out below us, a gleaming white battlefield where twenty guys in green-and-white jerseys were already carving circles into the ice like they owned gravity.

I slumped onto the lowest bleacher, pulling my hood up. My phone buzzed—my best friend back home, sending the fifth crying emoji of the morning. I fired back: This is cruel and unusual. Send help. Or pizza. Preferably both.

On the ice, the team moved like a pack of wolves. Fast. Loud. Terrifyingly coordinated. Sticks cracked against pucks. Someone shouted, “Left wing, Callahan!” and every head turned toward Number 17.

Oh no.

He was… annoyingly perfect. Tall, even in skates. Shoulders that looked like they could bench-press a Zamboni. Dark hair curling out from under his helmet, and when he yanked it off for a water break, his face was all sharp jawline and cocky grin. Knox Callahan, team captain and local legend, according to the three different people who’d already warned me about him in the grocery store.

Dad blew his whistle. “Callahan! Quit showboating and run the power play again!”

Knox laughed—actually laughed—and flicked the puck to a teammate so smoothly it looked choreographed. Then, because the universe clearly hated me, the puck took a weird bounce off the boards and rocketed straight toward the bleachers.

Straight toward me.

I had half a second to think, This is how I die, before it smacked the metal seat next to me with a sound like a gunshot. I yelped, jumped up, and promptly slipped on a rogue chunk of ice that had somehow migrated onto the floor. My arms windmilled. My dignity took a nosedive.

A gloved hand shot out and caught my elbow before I face-planted.

“Whoa, easy there, new girl.”

I looked up—way up—into eyes the exact color of the ice behind him. Blue. Freezing. Way too amused.

Knox Callahan was even taller up close. And he was grinning like he’d just scored the game-winner.

“I’m fine,” I squeaked, yanking my arm back. My cheeks were on fire despite the negative-degree temperature. “Just… practicing my interpretive falling.”

He chuckled, low and warm, which should not have been allowed in this weather. “Solid form. Eight out of ten. Deductions for lack of follow-through.” He scooped up the traitor puck with his stick like it was nothing. “You’re Coach’s kid, right? Avery?”

I narrowed my eyes. “How do you know my name?”