Wanna Puck? Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Wanna Puck?

  Layla Valentine

  Ana Sparks

  Contents

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Wanna Puck?

  Want More?

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Theirs To Share

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Want More?

  Wanna Puck?

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Copyright 2017 by Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter 1

  When the morning sun glowed red through my eyelids, I awoke in a panic. My alarm hadn’t gone off. Why didn’t my alarm go off? I had been dreaming about a dwindling bank account, angry editors in my inbox, something about a fire…?

  I shook my head. The dream was gone, but the panic remained. I pushed a thick mass of wavy chestnut hair out of my face and scrambled through my thoughts, trying to locate the source of my anxiety. Had I missed a deadline? No, everything had been turned in on time. Was something due?

  That was when it hit me. There was nothing due, because I had nothing in my queue. For the first time in nine weeks, I had no papers to write and no projects to complete.

  “Well, let’s fix that, shall we?”

  I jumped out of bed and tossed my blankets haphazardly over the pillows. Good enough. A shower and a steaming cup of coffee later, I was curled up on my oversized desk chair, sorting through messages.

  “Payment processed, payment processed… Come on, doesn’t anyone have some new work for me?”

  I scowled as I scrolled, willing my inbox to burst forth an invitation to write. The last thing I wanted to do was go begging for work; at this point in the game, the work came to me. As one of the top-rated freelance journalists in Portland, I felt a bit offended when I had to scramble for work. Sometimes, though, there was no way around it.

  With a sigh, I got out of my chair to refill my coffee, unwinding my hair from the terrycloth turban I had wrapped it in.

  Walking around my apartment helped me relax. I had worked hard over the last few years to afford something like this, and it was every bit as wonderful as I had imagined it would be.

  The high vaulted ceilings brazenly displayed their naked beams, arching high over tall windows that overlooked the city. Thick, rose-colored carpet cradled my toes as I padded through my green-papered hallway to the bathroom.

  This room had been the selling point for me all those months ago—the deep claw-foot tub with its wide shower head, the shell-shaped sink drizzled in sparkling shades of pink, the tiles on the wall depicting vintage art in miniature. Utterly feminine.

  “Oh, do we have a bite?” I asked the air as I wandered back into my room just in time to hear my computer chime.

  We did! Or, rather, I did. My heart jumped just a little as I read the sender’s name—The Portland Crier, a news outlet notorious for catapulting small-time freelancers into big-time careers.

  I had written an article for them the previous month, a fluff piece about how fandom culture was the lifeblood of the city, which had only received lukewarm feedback from the editors and had only appeared on the back page of the local distribution. I had not expected them to seek me out for anything else so soon, and excitement trickled through my veins as I opened the message.

  “Hockey?” I said, wrinkling my nose as the excitement melted away. “They want me to write a piece on hockey? Damn it, Jim, I’m an investigative journalist, not a sports writer!”

  Jim DeLeary apparently knew that.

  Ms. Ramos,

  This assignment is unique to your particular talents. The Portland Harriers have been making headlines for years, and we at the Crier are not in the habit of regurgitating old news. However, there appears to be a wrinkle in the team itself, in the relationship between two players by name of Dante Drake and Joel Palmer.

  Drake has been the team’s star player for over a decade, and has been the number one hockey athlete chosen for advertising campaigns over that same period. Palmer is a newcomer to the game, but looks to be replacing Drake as the fan favorite. Advertisers have taken notice, and Palmer has recently received more contracts than anyone on the team apart from Drake.

  Rumor has it that Drake and Palmer are at each other’s throats in private. I ask that you get to the bottom of it, to confirm or deny the rumor in as much gripping detail as you are able. The piece need not be technical to the sport; we are far more interested in the interpersonal relationship between the two players…

  To sweeten the pot, Jim was sure to mention—twice—that this article would have a title spot on the front page. It would also be featured on the website, which had over three million subscribers. I was pretty sure that would be my largest audience to date, and the thought nearly made me accept the offer before I had finished reading it.

  He went on to describe the two men’s individual histories and clues into their personal lives; both were single and neither had children. Dante was married to the game. Joel was rumored to be married to a party lifestyle.

  “Star of the team for over a decade,” I mused as I read Dante’s track record. “And apparently already on cereal boxes when I wa
s still in high school. I knew I should have paid more attention to those bios…”

  Joel, though he was still a virtual baby in the arena, had already proved himself to be both photogenic and energetic, making him the new favorite choice for advertisers everywhere.

  Jim suspected that this was the root of the trouble between them, and was far more dramatic than anyone had let on so far. He wanted me to go digging for the juiciest truth. He didn’t say it outright, but I got the impression that he wanted to publish a potentially career-ending exposé.

  I wouldn’t fabricate such a thing, but if the story was there…

  “Why not?” I bobbed my head around as I weighed the pros and cons, and decided to take a look at my potential interviewees.

  “Oh! Hello, Dante,” I said appreciatively as his picture popped up on the screen.

  His caramel-colored skin brilliantly offset his crinkling, green-heavy hazel eyes, and his thick black hair clung close to his head in tight little waves. He had a dimple in his left cheek, a soft boyish feature which dramatically contrasted with the ruggedness of his many-times broken nose.

  “Well, sugar, if you smell as good as you look, I might interview you twice just for the hell of it. Now, the other one… Joel Palmer, right? Yeah. Oh, you’re cute too.”

  He was far younger than Dante, with a cocky grin illuminating his lightly freckled face. His brown hair was buzzed in a style reminiscent of the military, and his muscular arms were tattooed from wrist to shoulder. Even in the photograph, his dark blue eyes were twinkling mischievously, giving me the impression that he would dare me to a race just to watch me run.

  “Sold, Jimmy,” I said cheerily as I typed up a reply. “A two-week deadline and a couple of demigods to interview. Best way to start a Monday.”

  Chapter 2

  Human interest stories were all well and good, but I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself in front of three or four million readers. I spent the rest of the morning learning everything there was to know about hockey, from game rules to player hierarchies and history. It wasn’t the first time I had given myself a crash course in something I had previously held no interest in, and I was sure it wouldn’t be the last.

  By the end of it, I had developed a legitimate—if only slight—interest in the game itself. Not enough to go buy a fan jersey, but certainly enough to make the next couple of weeks enjoyable.

  My computer chimed again with a response from Jim. A rink-side ticket with my name on it was attached, for the team’s opening game that evening. The message itself had me raising an eyebrow.

  Livia,

  Spoke to the manager. You’re interviewing Palmer and Drake tonight.

  “Cutting it kind of close, aren’t we, Jim?” I asked out loud.

  I wrote a quick reply, thanking him, then returned to my research. I wanted to know exactly what I was looking at when I watched the game—as much to see why these two in particular stood out, as to assuage my boredom over the course of the game.

  “Not that it’s definitely going to be boring,” I told myself. “It could be a lot of fun! Don’t sell the game short before you watch it.”

  In spite of my firm admonishment, I found my attention drifting as I clicked through online videos of hockey games. I could, on an intellectual level, appreciate the skating skill, but under the football-like padding, there was little else to hold my attention.

  One video caught my eye; the title was full of capital letters and exclamation points, declaring proof of a deep-seeded rivalry between Palmer and Drake. I clicked on it, intrigued.

  The video was dark, and for a moment I thought it wasn’t working. Then, I heard the laughter, and realized that I was looking at a locker room door. It opened slightly to reveal a group of muscular men in various states of undress, crowded around one young guy in street clothes.

  “What the hell?” he shouted.

  He turned, and from his profile I identified him as Joel Palmer. He held his uniform in his hands, and was staring at it in disgust. The person behind the camera furtively moved around the group to show the problem: Palmer’s uniform was covered in smears of something that could have been barbecue sauce…or something much worse.

  “Which one of you assholes did this?” he demanded.

  Loud guffaws answered him, echoing mockingly in the locker room.

  “Hey, don’t get mad at us, kid. If you’d showed up for practice, you would have had time to wash it.”

  The voice was low and smooth as silk, even over the crappy audio. It sent a warm shiver through my core, activating my inner huntress. I scanned the faces, looking for the owner of the voice. The camera flicked up briefly, just long enough to show a glimpse of bare, caramel-colored chest.

  I swallowed hard as my belly turned over in a delicious twinge of desire. Oh, yes, I was going to enjoy interviewing Mr. Drake.

  “That’s bullshit!” Joel shouted, throwing his uniform to the floor. “You did this!”

  He pointed an accusatory finger at Drake, who slapped his hand away with a bored expression. Joel pulled back to throw a punch, but was blocked by his teammates. Someone came in the door, then, yelling at the team to get their act together, and the camera shut off.

  Pensively, I leaned back in my chair and tapped my chin with a finger.

  “Oh yes, there’s definitely drama here,” I murmured. “Man, I wish I could be a fly on the wall in that locker room.” For a multitude of reasons, I had to admit.

  My body was telling me that I had been single far too long. My mind, its partner in crime, whispered that I was more likely to get the truth if I had Dante Drake addled and naked in my bed. Like a sultry spy out of a movie, a master seductress. I laughed at myself and checked the time. I had three hours to figure out my angle and choose an outfit.

  “The rink will be cold,” I told my closet. “But the interview room should be warmer…”

  With that thought, I chose a bright, fiery red shirt with a significant cleavage advantage and a pair of black fur-lined leggings. Knee-high boots would balance the outfit nicely, as the top flared over my hips.

  Satisfied, I moved on to my face and hair. My look would neatly serve dual purposes today, I hoped. Distract them enough to slip up and give me something I could use, and maybe snag me a date with Dante Drake. Or Joel Palmer, I conceded. He might be young, but he sure was easy to look at.

  Chapter 3

  I shivered in spite of my thick leggings and fluffy white parka. Cold seeped up from the concrete floor, biting at my thighs, courtesy of the blue plastic chair I was uncomfortably perched on. The thick glass in front of me was scarred, flecks of reddish-brown embedded in the deepest scratches.

  Some of the ice fights I had come across during my research surfaced in my mind’s eye and I shuddered. For as much as I wanted excitement today, I was avidly hoping that I wouldn’t have the misfortune of watching someone’s teeth fly out of their head. For the first time in my career, I wished the press box was a little farther from the action.

  The crowd behind and across from me seemed to disagree. A roaring surge burst forth as the players skated out onto the ice, some with their heads down focusing on the game ahead, others playing up the crowd with sweeping arm raises and cocky grins.

  My two interests appeared to be the latter sort. Drake skated a perfect oval around the rink, raising his fists in solidarity with his fans, and in mock-aggression at the fans of the opposing team. The Toronto Tanks, I reminded myself. An interesting juxtaposition to my ideas; Toronto always made me think of peaceful autumn colors, friendly faces, and a wide azure sky. A tank, it seemed to me, would find no comfort there.

  “Whoa…never mind that,” I muttered to myself as the Tanks took the ice.

  They were every bit as large and imposing as their name suggested, almost dwarfing the Harriers. A trick of the light, I decided, as the Harriers’ uniforms were white and blue, fading into the ice, while the Tanks’ were brown and forest green, making them look like mobile evergreens.r />
  I could almost smell the testosterone in the air as the two teams faced each other. Like dogs, I thought, growling warnings over their territory. I didn’t even see the puck drop, but all of a sudden, the posturing beasts collided—sticks swinging, skates slashing. A tussle, a roaring crowd, and then the Harriers broke free with the puck firmly in their grasp.

  In spite of my misgivings, I found myself swept up in the excitement of it all. To my relief, there were no fights, merely a few scuffles which the referee prudently ignored. Drake and Palmer weaved in and out of my line of sight, each playing magnificently as far as my untrained eyes could tell. They passed when needed without ego, and their team scored again and again.

  I noticed an interesting dynamic, however, and scribbled a note with shivering fingers. The Harriers were well-trained and worked as a unit, for the most part. Palmer seemed to go off on his own more often than the rest, not quite in sync with his teammates, but his brilliant plays seemed to almost make up for it. I scribbled another note.

  By the end of it, in spite of my numb fingers and chilly toes, I was glad that I had come. Watching them play in person gave me insights that I couldn’t have gleaned from mere video—the tension in Palmer’s body when Drake took the lead, or the carefully blank expression on Drake’s face when Palmer scored. There was definitely something lingering under the surface, and I couldn’t wait to find out just what it was.

  After the winning shot by the Harriers, I made my way down into the tunnel which lead to the official rooms surrounding the rink. Thousands of footsteps thundered above me as I moved through the hall, and I was soon stopped by a guard at a door.

  “Press,” I said with as much authority as I could muster.

  He glanced suspiciously at my press pass, then stepped aside. I couldn’t tell you why that still made me nervous. After five years of being official press, getting backstage to anything still felt like a scam.