Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79319 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 397(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Jake
Favorite things and hockey, family, friends.
Least favorite person in the entire history of the Mason Trinsky.
I have my reasons, but since you’re curious, Trinsky is a showboat and a loudmouth. Sure, he’s a great athlete. Good for him. I accept that we have mutual friends and I grudgingly accept that he’ll be a coach at Elmwood Junior’s Camp this summer, however, I plan to keep my distance.
Of course, some wise guy pairs us up for a camping expedition and everything that can go wrong does go wrong.
Guess who I’m stuck with?
Trinsky
Favorite things and hockey, surfing, and my kid brother
Least favorite person in the entire history of the Jake Milligan
Look, I might be in the minority, but if you ask me, Jake is a nitpicking diva who wants everything his way. I hope my NHL team crushes his, and this summer, I want my campers to out-prank his. Childish? Nah, it’s all in good fun.
Until it starts to feel…complicated. I shouldn’t care if he’s happy, should I? I don’t want to be Jake’s friend. I don’t want to have feelings for him at all.
The only thing that matters is hockey. It's all about the puck. Not love.
Or is it?
Puck Love is an MM bisexual, small-town romance featuring hockey’s hottest rivals, a hiking trip gone wrong, and a shot at forever
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
JAKE
“Love your enemies, for they tell you your faults.”— Benjamin Franklin
Hockey wasn’t complicated. It required mad skills on the ice, strategic thinking, and a high tolerance for pain. But the rules were simple:
Get the puck.
Protect the puck.
Drill the puck into the net.
Repeat.
Unfortunately, I had no idea where the puck was. In my defense, it was hard to see with blood dripping into my eye. At least it hadn’t run down my cheek yet, so I had that going for me. Time was ticking, though, and we needed a goal…like, now.
The familiar scrape of sticks, grunts, and juvenile taunts echoed on the ice as my guys jockeyed for dominance. It was a fierce battle to eke out a win before playoffs. Both teams were going, but we needed this W more than the Condors. They’d had a great season and by all accounts, they’d stayed healthy. We were another story.
My team was counting on me to make something happen, but damn it, my head was pounding in my skull and my ribs hurt from LaMarche’s brutal body check. His minutes in the sin bin hadn’t done us any good. We’d missed four shots on goal and had spent the majority of the power play getting outskated by Denver’s superstars, Mellon and Trinsky. Ugh.
Here’s the thing…I’d known Denny Mellon for years, and I loved him like a brother. Not only did he live up to the hype of being one of the greatest to ever play the game, but he was genuinely a good person who used his celebrity to help underprivileged kids, to fund scholarships, and to speak out about mental health issues and his journey as an LGBTQ athlete. He was impressive and completely down-to-earth.
Mason Trinsky, on the other hand, was just a fucking asshole.
No, he was worse. Trinsky was a conceited dickwad with more confidence than sense. He played dirty and mean and had the audacity to laugh off hits like a seasoned fighter while his opponents limped to safety. Trinsky was a forward who played like a D-man. He was rough and single-minded in his determination to do whatever necessary to win.
According to Smitty, my dad’s husband, who happened to be a former AHL pro, I would have liked Trinsky if we’d been on the same team.
I seriously doubted it.
“You okay, Milligan?” Sergei asked in a heavy Russian accent, bumping my shoulder as he signaled for me to cover him.
I grunted. This wasn’t a great time to admit that my chest ached and the boo-boo near my eye might require stitches. That could wait, and at least the refs hadn’t noticed yet. Puck first.
We just had to outmaneuver Denver’s defense to get to Trinsky, who was currently on a mad dash toward our blue line. Sergei and I were fast skaters, so catching up to him wasn’t the issue. Trinsky’s quick reflexes and the fact that he always seemed to suss out impending danger worked to his advantage. It was as if his radar were tuned in to my frequency.
Danger danger, Jake Milligan is closing in. Right flank, two seconds to impact.
Boom! Trinsky passed to Mellon, who deked around our big guy, Madsen, leaving him in a cloud of dust, cartoon-style. Boston converged on Mellon, squeezing him out. That was it, play killed. But no, not Denny. He created an opening out of thin air and pulled a disappearing act that would have made Houdini proud.
There was no one to stop him now. It was Denny against our goalie. And yeah, Ace was good, but Denny was better.
Unless…I stopped him. All I had to do was shake Trinsky and cut Mellon off from behind.
I bolted forward at full speed, blinking wildly as my vision blurred. Get the puck, get the puck. I was close now. Blood rushed in my head, pounding in my ears. I cocked my stick, angled my hips, and—
Trinsky cut me off with a simple hip check. Not hard or even dirty by his standards, but it slowed me down. “Yo, not so fast, Jakey.”
“Fuck yourself.” I growled in frustration, regained my footing, and hurried after Denny.
But Trinsky was glued to my side now, yapping away. Don’t ask me what he said—it was a mix of gibberish and smack talk.
“Dude, what’s up with you? My kid brother skates faster than you. Someone pissed in your Cheerios, huh? I fuckin’ hate Cheerios. Do you like ’em?”
Denny slowed as he neared the goal, stick poised and ready. Ace was in position, but I had one last chance. I darted left, away from Trinsky, but somehow ended up flying in the opposite direction. And I do mean flying.
I hit the boards with a thump and keeled like a rag doll.
Half a beat later, Denny scored.
The arena erupted—lights flashed, music blared, and raucous fans cheered wildly for their hometown heroes.