One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 1

Chloe

Eight Years Later

“Chloe!” my best friend, Lainey, calls out from her cubicle, her voice cutting through the hum of the office. It’s a bright Monday morning, with the city starting to warm under the early fall sun. Even in late September, Los Angeles holds onto the last traces of summer heat.

I give her a wave, but she gestures for me to stay put. She rises quickly, red heels clicking against the marble floor as her wavy blond hair bounces with each step.

I furrow my brows. “What’s going on?”

She wraps one long arm around me, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might be listening, then leans in close. “You didn’t hear this from me, but Janelle’s office door was cracked open a while ago, and I overheard her talking about a new assignment. She said it’s a big client, and whoever takes them on will be a shoe-in for VP.”

My attention snaps to full alert. “She did? Did she drop any names?”

Lainey nods her head, her expression serious yet tinged with excitement. “Only your name was mentioned.”

“Thanks for the heads up. If I’m lucky, this is what our meeting is about.” I try to keep my tone even, but my heart is already beating a little faster. This could be big.

“Anytime, girl. But if you get that promotion, you’re taking me with you. Or else,” she teases, her smile breaking through.

I chuckle. “You know I’d refuse to move up without you.” Lainey’s loyalty and support mean more to me than she probably knows, especially since she’s my eyes and ears around the office when I’m not here.

I check the time on my phone. “I should get going. My meeting with Janelle is in a few minutes.”

She shoots me a wink, her blue eyes shining bright in the natural light that pours in through the windows. “Good luck.”

Meeting unexpectedly with Janelle would be enough to make anyone’s stomach do a series of Olympic-level backflips. She runs a tight ship at Luminous Communication, but for good reason—our company is known as the best entertainment PR firm in the city.

We’re the ones celebrities and public figures come to when they’re in dire need of cleaning up their image. The job is high pressure, but I’m used to it, having worked my way up from junior publicist to my current role as Accounts Director.

It’s my job to manage certain client accounts and oversee the teams implementing our strategies and running campaigns. As much as I love my current role, I would give anything to become vice president. I’ve had my eye on it ever since learning that our current VP is retiring.

Reaching Janelle’s office, I pause for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves. I’ve always admired Janelle—her sharp intellect, her no-nonsense approach. Whatever this meeting is about, I remind myself, I’m ready for it. With a final composed exhale, I knock softly on her door.

“Janelle?” I begin tentatively as I enter her office. “You wanted to see me? ”

“Chloe, have a seat,” Janelle motions to the chair in front of her desk, her tone businesslike yet carrying an undercurrent of urgency.

I sit, straightening my posture. Janelle looks at me, her expression serious. “I just got off the phone with Mark Turner. He’s an agent friend of mine. His client is in a bit of a bind.”

I lean forward, intrigued. Clients in trouble are where I shine the brightest. “You know that’s my specialty.” I can’t help but let the hint of pride slip into my voice. “I love clients in a bind. Un-binding is my thing. The bindier, the better.”

Janelle nods, a small smile playing on her lips. “Which is why you were the first person who came to mind.”

“I’m on board,” I reply instantly.

“Knew you would be.” Janelle’s expression turns grim. “Here’s the situation. We have some problematic photos of the client with his former partner at a social establishment. They surfaced online last evening. The imagery is… compromising. It portrays the client in a potentially aggressive light while his ex appears visibly distressed. Now she’s leveraging her influence online, insinuating that he struggles with anger management and was verbally abusive during their relationship. Given her status as a popular influencer, this narrative is gaining traction rapidly.”

I process the information, my mind already turning over potential strategies. “And the client? Is he culpable in this?” I ask, knowing full well the complexity of such situations.

“He denies any wrongdoing,” Janelle responds. “He insists it’s a gross misinterpretation of the facts. He was with some teammates that night, and they all backed up his version of events.”

I lean back in my seat. “So, who’s the client?”

“Wyatt Banks. He’s an—”

“Wyatt Banks?” I interrupt, my voice rising in disbelief. “As in the 29-year-old hockey star? From the LA Knights? Who just joined the team last month?”

Janelle raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in her eyes. “Wow, Chloe. I didn’t take you for a hockey fan.”

My mind whirls. Wyatt Banks—the name sends a jolt through me, stirring memories I thought I’d long buried. Memories of that one night, the connection I thought we had, and then… nothing. He ghosted me. Left me wondering what I’d done wrong.

“You want me to work with Wyatt Banks?” I manage to keep my voice steady, but inside, my stomach churns with all the emotions I’ve tried to suppress.

“Is there a problem?” Janelle’s tone sharpens, picking up on my hesitation.

I need this promotion. More than anything. And if that means working with Wyatt Banks, I’ll just have to swallow my pride and push through. “Of course, there isn’t,” I reply, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “You’re right. I’m… a fan.” I better stop talking before I throw up in my mouth.

“Then I expect you’ll put your all into this contract,” Janelle says firmly. “Mark is a good friend, and he came to us because he knows we’re the best in the industry.”

Her words aren’t just a statement; they’re a challenge, a gauntlet thrown down that I’m more than ready to pick up. “I’m ready to sign whenever you are.”

“Wyatt and Mark will be here shortly.”

“Great,” I respond, mentally rearranging my day to accommodate this unexpected turn of events.

Janelle stands up, signaling the end of our meeting. “Thanks again, Chloe. I know you won’t let me down.” Her words carry a weight of expectation, a belief in my abilities that has always driven me to push harder, reach further .

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply with a confidence I’m not entirely sure I feel. But there’s no room for doubt if I want this promotion. Which I do, more than anything.

As I exit Janelle’s office, everything seems different, charged with a new purpose. Any minute now, I’ll be sitting across from Wyatt Banks.

My chest tightens at the thought, a swirl of anticipation and dread mixing in my gut. It’s not just the memories of what happened between us, though those are hard enough to face—it’s the vulnerability. The unanswered questions. The hurt that still simmers beneath the surface, no matter how much I try to bury it.

And now, I have to delve into a story that the public has only seen one side of. It’s my job to find the other side, to craft a narrative that can change perceptions, alter opinions.

But can I separate my emotions from my work? Will I be able to pull it off without breaking?

This is it, my chance to prove myself. Wyatt Banks might be a challenge, but I’ve never backed down from one before. Yet this feels different, like the stakes are personal this time—not just professional. And that scares me more than I want to admit.

Lainey is already on her feet at her cubicle, her eyes locking onto mine with an inquisitive gleam. “Hey, what happened in there? Are we about to have a 29-year-old VP around here?”

“Wyatt Banks happened.”

“What?” Lainey’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “What about Wyatt?”

I glance around the busy office, acutely aware of prying ears. “Let’s talk in there,” I suggest, nodding toward an empty conference room. Once inside with the door safely closed behind us, I take deep breaths to steady myself.

“Wyatt’s gotten himself into some heavy shit and needs a publicist to clean up his mess. He’s on his way over here with his agent right now.” The words feel surreal, even as they leave my lips.

Lainey’s eyes widen. “No fucking way! Won’t this be the first time you’ve seen him since you two hooked up that night in college? What are you going to do?”

I shrug, a gesture that feels more like a defense mechanism than a response. “My job, I guess. What else can I do? If I don’t work with Wyatt, I won’t get that promotion. ”

“But he ghosted you. Are you going to be able to handle it?” It’s a question I’ve wrestled with for years in the silent hours of the night. What I would do if I ever saw Wyatt again? After all this time, I still hadn’t decided.

“I have no other choice,” I reply, a faint sense of resignation in my tone. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for the talk. I’m going to prepare for the meeting before he gets here.” My words are final, a silent plea for understanding. Thankfully, my best friend knows me better than anyone and gives me exactly what I need.

“You’ve got this, Chloe.”

As Lainey leaves, I find myself momentarily alone, the quiet of the room wrapping around me like a cocoon.

Leaning against the cool wall, I unlock my phone and take a long look at the images and social media posts: Sonia’s tear-streaked face, Wyatt’s mouth wide open, presumably mid-shout, his hands raised aggressively. The snapshot paints him as the villain in a story that’s spiraling out of control—a story I can’t reconcile with the man I remember.

“Blown out of proportion,” I murmur to myself, the words a soft puff of vapor in the chilled corridor. My thumb hovers over the screen, the flood of comments and shares beneath that damning photo like a riptide dragging Wyatt’s reputation under.

I’ve built careers from fewer, resurrected reputations thought long past salvaging. But this is personal—Wyatt, with his brooding presence and a heart I never quite managed to unlock, now the center of a scandal that stands between me and my promotion.

“Allegations,” I whisper, trying the word on for size, but it feels foreign, ill-fitting. Sonia’s claims of verbal abuse and anger issues echo around my skull, discordant with the memory of Wyatt’s calm, collected demeanor. Yet, what do I truly know? One night—eight years ago, a brief footnote in the novel of Wyatt Banks’s life—hardly gives me enough insight to judge a man’s character. Doubt lingers, like a splinter lodged in my resolve.

The door clicks open and jolts me back to reality.

“Chloe?” the front desk receptionist says, peeking around the doorframe and pulling me from my research. “Wyatt Banks and Mark Turner are in the conference room.”

I nod. “Coming.”

On my way to a different, but identical conference room, I square my shoulders and smooth the fabric of my blazer, a silent mantra playing on a loop in my head: Stay immune to Wyatt Banks.

The cold metal of the doorknob beneath my palm calls me back to the present moment as I linger outside the room. With a deep breath, I push through the door, stepping into the lion’s den. The chatter falls to a hush as all eyes land on me. There he sits, Wyatt Banks, as imposing as ever—wavy black hair, over six feet tall with a body built by relentless sportsmanship, and those piercing blue eyes that once held promises of something more.

But I’m not the woman he left behind. Not anymore. I stand taller now, feeling the quiet strength in my bones, knowing that whatever happens next, I’m in control.

He rises, a half-smile curling his lips as if pleased by my presence. The sight of him stirs a tempest within me, but I cage my emotions, locking them away. I can’t afford to let the past cloud my judgment. Not now.

But the sight of Wyatt, with that half-smile suggesting genuine happiness to see me, kindles a fire of indignation within. It’s as if the years of silence, the ghosting that left me alone and vulnerable, meant nothing to him.

I refuse to let him see how deep the wounds go, how his absence left a void filled with unanswered questions and a secret too heavy to bear alone.

“Chlo—” he starts, the recognition clear in his voice, but I’m faster.

“Mr. Banks,” I interrupt with icy detachment. “My name is Chloe Reed. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” Every syllable is a brick in the wall I’ve built around my heart, a barrier to protect not just me, but the part of him he doesn’t even know exists.

This is business, I remind myself.