Centuria Books · Pucks Property
Pucks Property — Read the First Chapter
The team’s ice-cold fixer contracts a fake romance with its most dangerous player—and every clause in the deal is designed to survive the moment it stops being fake.
Look, Dont Touch
Look, Don’t Touch
My reflection in the arena glass is sharp enough to cut. Good. In this industry, dull edges get you slaughtered, and I stopped bleeding for other people a long time ago. I adjust the lapel of my blazer—Saint Laurent, pitch black, armor for the modern gladiator—and listen to the frantic, percussive rhythm of my stilettos on the concrete.
Control. That’s the drug. I don’t want the applause I used to chase when I was spinning on the ice; I want the silence that comes after I fix the unfixable. My desire is simple: to take a jagged mess and smooth it until it shines. My fear? That the chaos is the only thing that actually makes me feel alive anymore.
Beside me, Arthur Miller, the Boston Bruisers’ PR director, looks like he’s one bad tweet away from a cardiac event. He’s clutching a paper bag like it holds the nuclear codes.
“He threw a vending machine, Hallie,” Arthur wheezes, his face a blotchy map of red anxiety. “A whole vending machine. Inside the visitor locker room in Philly. Do you know how much a commercial vending machine weighs?”
“Eight hundred pounds if empty. Nine-fifty if fully stocked.” I don’t break stride. The VIP entrance to the TD Garden looms ahead, a maw of steel and security checkpoints. “Did he get the Snickers bar?”
Arthur makes a choking sound. “The press is calling him ‘The Butcher of Broad Street.’ Again. The Board wants his head on a platter. They want to trade him to Arizona. Arizona, Hallie. Hockey goes to die in the desert.”
“Relax, Arthur.” I stop at the security gate, flashing my credentials. The guard nods, terrified. People usually are. “He sees a catastrophe; I see a puzzle with a six-foot-four, foul-mouthed solution. Bishop Graves thinks he can punch his way out of a problem? Cute. He’s never met a woman who turned her trauma into a tax bracket.”
I check the Cartier tank watch on my left wrist. Three minutes until the scheduled sit-down. Three minutes until I walk into that locker room and leash the beast.
“Wait here,” I tell Arthur. “Take a Xanax. Or two.”
“Where are you going?”
“Fresh air before I step into the testosterone tank.”
I push through the heavy glass doors to the loading dock area. The Boston winter greets me with a wet, slushy kiss. The air smells like diesel fumes, freezing harbor water, and impending snow. It’s gray, miserable, and exactly the kind of weather that matches my mood.
I need a moment. Just one. To center myself before I have to deal with a man whose reputation involves structural damage and orbital fractures. I reach into my purse for my phone to check the latest stock drop, but a movement near the dumpster catches my eye.
A flash of orange.
I pause. The wind whips hair across my face, stinging my cheeks.
There it is again. A tiny, pathetic mewl.
Near the overflowing recycling bin, a ball of wet fur scrambles for purchase on the icy asphalt. A kitten. It can’t be more than six weeks old, shivering so violently it looks like it’s vibrating.
A delivery truck rumbles around the corner, reversing toward the dock, its backup alarm beeping a warning that the driver clearly isn’t heeding. The massive tires crush slush, rolling backward. The kitten freezes, back arched, hissing at a tire twice the size of my apartment.
“Hey!” I shout, waving my arm.
The driver doesn’t see me. Why would he? I’m five-foot-nothing in a land of giants.
The truck keeps moving. The kitten slips, paws scrabbling uselessly on a patch of black ice, sliding directly into the path of the wheel.
Damn it.
Logic screams at me. You are wearing twelve-hundred-dollar shoes. You have a meeting that defines your fiscal quarter. That is a stray animal that probably has ringworm.
My body doesn’t listen to logic. It never has.
I launch myself off the curb.
My heel catches in a grate, snapping with a sickening crunch. I don’t stop. I stumble, ignoring the jolt of pain in my ankle, and dive onto the filthy, oil-slicked pavement. The asphalt tears through the knees of my suit pants.
I scoop the kitten up a split second before the mud flap slaps the air where the creature just stood.
I roll onto my hip, clutching the hissing ball of fur to my chest, gasping as the truck slams a heavy brake. The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
“Watch it, lady!” the driver yells from the cab, oblivious to the murder he almost committed.
I flip him off without looking.
My blazer is ruined. There’s dirty slush seeping into my silk blouse. My ankle throbs a dull, rhythmic beat.
“You enter the world looking for trouble, don’t you?” I mutter to the thing in my arms.
The kitten looks up at me. One eye is crusted shut, the other a brilliant, terrified green. It’s soaking wet, skeletal, and smells like garbage juice. It’s the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen.
I pull it closer, shielding it from the wind with my body. “Yeah. Me too, kid. Me too.”
The roar of an engine cuts through the noise of the city. Not a delivery truck this time. Something deep, throaty, and expensive.
A matte black Ford Raptor, lifted so high it creates its own weather system, prowls around the corner and screeches to a halt next to the delivery bay. The vanity plate reads BRUISER 88.
Of course.
The driver’s door opens, and the atmosphere shifts. The air suddenly feels thinner, charged with static.
Bishop Graves steps out.
I’ve seen the photos. I’ve watched the tapes. But reality is a different beast entirely. The camera adds ten pounds? Please. The camera diminishes him. In person, he is a tectonic event.
He wears a charcoal suit that strains dangerously at the seams, the fabric fighting a losing war against the sheer density of him. His thighs are tree trunks, thick cords of muscle threatening to split the expensive wool with every step. The jacket pulls tight across a chest broad enough to land a plane on, tapering down to a waist that hints at violence and stamina.
He’s not handsome in the way models are handsome. He’s devastating. A harsh jawline covered in dark scruff, a nose that’s been broken at least twice, and a scar cutting through his left eyebrow that gives him a permanent look of dangerous skepticism. He moves with a predator’s grace—heavy, deliberate, taking up space like he owns the oxygen we’re both breathing.
My mouth goes dry. It’s a biological response, stupid and primal. My brain catalogs him as a client, a liability, a paycheck. My body catalogs him as a threat I want to climb.
He rounds the hood of the truck, his expression thunderous. He ignores me completely, heading for the VIP door. He doesn’t even register the woman sitting in the slush.
“Graves,” I say. My voice is steady, despite the fact that I’m currently freezing my ass off on the ground.
He stops. Slowly, he turns his head.
His eyes are the color of a frozen lake—pale, icy blue, and utterly devoid of warmth. He looks down at me, taking in the ruined suit, the broken shoe, the dirt on my face.
“You’re in my spot,” he rumbles. His voice is gravel grinding on glass. Low. vibrating in the pavement beneath me.
“Your spot?” I scoff, struggling to get my good foot under me. “I didn’t realize you marked your territory on the loading dock. Though given your behavior lately, I shouldn’t be surprised.”
He takes a step closer. He’s huge. He casts a shadow that swallows me whole.
Then, he stops. His gaze drops from my face to my chest.
Heat flares in my cheeks. “Eyes up, defenseman. I charge by the hour.”
He doesn’t look up. He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at the trembling, wet lump in my arms.
The scowl on his face falters. Just a fraction. A crack in the granite.
He crouches.
Up close, he smells like cedar, expensive soap, and the distinct, metallic tang of cold air. His hand—large, scarred knuckles, fingers thick enough to snap a stick like a toothpick—reaches out.
I brace myself. If he touches me, I’ll bite him. I don’t care who he is.
But he doesn’t touch me.
One large, calloused finger gently strokes the top of the kitten’s head. The motion is shockingly tender. Careful. Like he knows exactly how much power he holds and is terrified of using it.
“Runt,” he murmurs. The roughness is gone from his voice, replaced by something rougher, deeper, but infinitely softer.
The kitten leans into his touch, a tiny purr vibrating against my ribs.
“It almost got hit by a truck,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can check them. “He didn’t see it.”
Bishop ignores me. He uses his thumb to gently wipe a smudge of dirt from the kitten’s ear. For a second, the violence that radiates off him vanishes. He looks tired. He looks… human.
“Tough luck, little guy,” he whispers. “World’s a bitch.”
My heart does something traitorous. It stutters. I watch the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheekbones. I watch the way his massive hand dwarfs the tiny animal, offering protection without asking for anything in return.
“He needs a vet,” I say softly.
The spell breaks.
Bishop’s head snaps up. The ice is back in his eyes, harder than before. The vulnerability slams shut behind a steel door. He straightens to his full height, towering over me, making me crane my neck until it hurts.
He looks at my ruined clothes, my broken heel, and finally, my face. His lip curls. It’s not a smile. It’s a dismissal.
“You’re the fixer,” he says, the kindness completely erased from his tone. “Fix it.”
“Excuse me?”
“The suit. The cat. Your face.” He gestures vaguely at me, disgust radiating off him in waves. “You look like a wreck.”
“I look like this because I was saving a life while you were probably busy intimidating a vending machine,” I snap, struggling to stand on one foot. Pain shoots up my leg.
He laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound. “Saving a life? You’re a suit, lady. You don’t save things. You bill them.”
He turns his back on me.
“Hey!” I shout. “I’m Hallie Vance. We have a meeting.”
He doesn’t stop walking. He reaches the door, yanking it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.
“Get lost, Vance,” he throws over his shoulder. “I don’t do babysitters. And I definitely don’t do charity cases.”
The door slams shut behind him.
I stand there, one shoe on, freezing wet, holding a shivering kitten that smells like death. Anger, hot and bright, flares in my chest, melting the chill.
Oh, he thinks he’s the big bad wolf? He thinks he can chew me up and spit me out like a puck bunny with a bad dye job?
I look down at the kitten. “You’re coming with me.”
I kick off my remaining shoe, leaving twelve hundred dollars of Italian leather in a puddle of sludge. I turn and limp toward the door, stocking-footed and soaking wet.
Bishop Graves wants a war?
Game on.
*
The security guard at the inner checkpoint stares at me.
“Ms. Vance?”
“Don’t,” I warn, shifting the kitten to my left arm so I can wipe the mud off my credential. “Just open the door.”
I navigate the labyrinth of the arena bowels. The smell changes here—stale popcorn, rubber mats, sweat, and adrenaline. It’s a scent that used to make me nauseous before competitions. Now, it smells like money.
I find the PR office. Arthur is pacing a hole in the carpet. He stops when he sees me. His jaw unhinges.
“Hallie? My god. What happened? Were you mugged?” He spots the kitten. “Is that… is that a rat?”
“It’s a dependent,” I say, marching past him to his desk. I grab a box of tissues and start drying the kitten off. “Call a vet. The expensive one on Newbury. Tell them I’m coming in an hour.”
“An hour? The meeting is in two minutes! The owner is already in the luxury box. Graves is heading up there now.”
“I know.” I look down at my ruined pants. My nylons are shredded. My blouse is see-through where the wet snow hit it. I look like I lost a fight with a snowblower.
Perfect.
“Arthur,” I say, my voice calm, deadly level. “Do you have a spare jersey?”
He blinks. “Uh. Yeah. A promo one. Why?”
“Give it to me.”
He scrambles to a cabinet and tosses me a black and gold jersey. It’s huge. An XL. I pull it on over my ruined blouse. It falls to my mid-thighs like a dress. It smells like factory plastic.
I look in the mirror on the wall. My hair is wild, windblown, dark curls escaping the severe bun I started the day with. My makeup is smeared. I’m barefoot. I’m wearing a hockey jersey that creates a tent around my small frame.
I look vulnerable. I look chaotic.
But in my eyes? That steel is still there.
“Watch the cat,” I order Arthur. “If it dies, you’re fired.”
“I don’t work for you!” he squeaks.
“You will if you don’t keep that thing warm.”
I spin on my heel—well, my heel-less foot—and march out.
The elevator ride to the owner’s suite takes forever. I use the reflective metal of the doors to check my teeth. No lipstick. Good.
The doors slide open.
The suite is expansive, overlooking the empty ice. The rink below glows under the high-intensity lights, a pristine sheet of white waiting to be carved up.
Three men are in the room.
Reggie Miller, the team owner—a billionaire with a comb-over and a drinking problem.
Coach Anderson—a man who looks like a thumb with a mustache.
And Bishop.
He’s sprawled on a leather sofa, legs spread wide in a display of arrogance that takes up half the seating area. He’s holding a water bottle like he wants to crush it.
When I walk in, three heads turn.
Reggie chokes on his scotch. The Coach’s mustache twitches.
Bishop freezes. His blue eyes rake over me, from my barefoot toes to the oversized jersey swallowing my body. His gaze lingers on the hem of the shirt, right where it hits my thigh. For a split second, his pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue. A muscle feathers in his jaw.
“What the hell is this?” Reggie sputters. “Arthur said he hired the best. You look like a…”
“Like a fan who got lost on the way to the bedroom?” Bishop supplies, his voice dripping with mock sweetness.
I don’t flinch. I walk straight to the empty leather armchair opposite Bishop. I sit down, crossing my legs. I don’t try to hide the bruises on my shins or the dirt on my feet.
“I look like the reality of your situation, gentlemen,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. “Messy. Unpredictable. And currently, the only thing standing between you and a PR disaster that will make the vending machine incident look like a charity gala.”
I turn my gaze to Bishop. He’s watching me with a mix of confusion and something darker. Something hotter.
“You left me in the slush, Graves,” I say softly.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I told you to get lost.”
“And yet, here I am.” I lean forward too, mimicking his posture until we are feet apart. “I saved the cat. I took the hit. And I’m still standing. Which is more than I can say for your reputation right now.”
Bishop’s eyes narrow. He hates me. I can feel it rolling off him like heat from a furnace. He hates that I’m here, he hates that I’m seeing him in trouble, and he hates that he noticed my legs.
Good. Hate is a passion. I can work with passion. Indifference is what kills you.
“You think you can handle me, Vance?” he challenges, his voice dropping to that dangerous rumble again. “I break sticks. I break bones. I break little things that get in my way.”
I hold his stare. I don’t blink. I let the silence stretch until the air in the room feels tight enough to snap.
“I’m not a stick, Bishop,” I say. “And I don’t break.”
Reggie clears his throat nervously. “So. The plan?”
I don’t look away from Bishop. “The plan is simple. Bishop is going to become America’s Sweetheart. We’re going to rehabilitate his image. Charity events. Hospital visits. And… a relationship.”
Bishop barks out a laugh. “A relationship? With who? Who’s dumb enough to date me?”
I smile then. It’s sharp. It’s the smile of a woman who just realized she holds the winning ticket.
“Me,” I say.
The room goes dead silent.
Bishop stares at me. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. The air between us crackles, thick and heavy.
“You?” he sneers. “You’re not my type. I like women who don’t look like they file their taxes for fun.”
“And I like men who don’t need a leash, but we don’t always get what we want.” I stand up. “It’s a fake relationship, Bishop. We sell a lie. The Beast has been tamed by his prim, proper agent. We fake dates. We fake smiles. We fake a love story that the press will eat up with a spoon.”
“I don’t do fake,” he growls, standing up to meet me. He towers over me again. The heat of him is overwhelming.
“You do if you want to stay in Boston,” I counter, craning my neck. “Unless you want to pack your bags for Arizona? I hear the golf is nice.”
He glares down at me. His chest heaves with a sharp intake of air. He’s furious. trapped.
And he is looking at me like I’m the only goal he’s trying to score.
“Fine,” he spits out. “But don’t expect me to be gentle.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He leans down, his face inches from mine. “One slip up, Vance. One crack in this little armor of yours, and I’ll bench you permanently.”
“Try me.”
He stares at me for a heartbeat longer, his gaze dropping to the pulse fluttering in my throat. Then he pushes past me, storming out of the suite.
Reggie sighs, pouring another drink. “Well. That went better than expected.”
I look at the empty doorway where Bishop Graves had been standing. My skin still prickles where his attention touched it.
I sink back into the chair, my knees shaking just a little.
I lied. I might break. But I’ll make sure he enjoys the show when I do.
Illegal Contact
Iturned the handle.
The heavy oak door to the GM’s office swung inward on silent hinges, revealing a room that smelled of stale coffee, expensive lemon polish, and impending doom.