One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 3

Chloe

Wyatt. His name alone triggers a cascade of emotions I can’t quite corral.

I’m surprised at the intensity of it all. The way my heart skips when his image flickers across my mind. After eight years, he’s still as handsome as ever, if not more so. The years have been kind to him, carving out sharper lines of maturity and an allure that’s hard to ignore.

I never expected seeing him again would affect me like this, stirring memories that were buried but never fully forgotten. It’s as if he’s standing right here, his presence filling the room, suffocating the small space between the past and the present. I take a deep breath, inhaling the comforting scent of vanilla and old books, but it does little to calm the storm that’s suddenly raging inside me.

The late afternoon sun filters through the window of my West Hollywood apartment, casting soft golden light across the living room where I sit. I’m curled up on the faded armchair, a mug of lukewarm tea cradled in my hands offering little comfort as my thoughts swirl like leaves caught in a gentle breeze.

The sharp ring of the phone slices through my thoughts. It’s Lainey. “How did the meeting with Wyatt go? You left before I could get any details.”

“He seems willing to do whatever it takes to clean up his image, but it’s definitely going to take some work,” I reply, trying to sound more composed than I feel.

“Yeah, but he swears it’s all a misunderstanding.”

“Do you believe him?”

“I’m still undecided, but the Wyatt I knew wouldn’t have been capable of something like that.” I find myself defending him, even as I question my own judgment.

“Not well. Because I pretended like I didn’t know him,” I admit, feeling a twinge of regret.

“You’re kidding! Why?”

I lean back against the couch and cross my arms over my chest. “It’s his fault.” I reply, exasperated. “He just smiled at me like we’re old friends. ”

“Okay, okay. I’m just saying, take it as a compliment. If it sucked, he wouldn’t have been happy to see you,” Lainey offers, trying to lighten the mood.

“But if it was good, he wouldn’t have ghosted me.”

Lainey has a point, though. Wyatt did look good, better than good. It’s going to be a challenge, pretending that our past connection, that intense night we shared, never happened.

“Fair point. But if I’m going to handle all of this successfully and score that promotion, I’m going to have to pretend like that night never happened anyway,” I say, trying to convince myself more than her.

“Kind of hard to pretend, don’t you think?”

I lower my head, feeling the weight of the situation. It’s true, how can I erase a night that changed my entire life, that’s intrinsically linked to the present in a way Wyatt can’t even begin to fathom?

There’s a heaviness in my chest as I recall the way he carried himself in the conference room today—confident, assured, every inch the professional athlete, but also withdrawn. That’s not the Wyatt I knew.

I shouldn’t feel this pull, this tug toward a man whose life has become a constellation far removed from my own simple existence. Yet, despite my better judgment, there’s an attraction, a magnetic draw that I can neither deny nor fully understand.

Peering down at my smart watch, I realize that I’m running late. “Shit. Lainey, I have to go. I need to get Jasper.”

“Sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow,” is the last thing she says before she hangs up.

In a flurry of urgency, I rise from the couch, my mind still reeling from the encounter with Wyatt. I slip my feet into my shoes, a comfortable pair that’s seen better days but perfect for the quick dash down the street. Grabbing my house keys from the small bowl by the door, I make a mental note to not forget I need to sign that field trip form for Jasper.

The door closes behind me with a soft click, and I hurry down the familiar hallway of my apartment building. The scent of dinner cooking in neighboring units fills the air, a comforting reminder of the everyday lives unfolding around me.

Stepping outside, the air is a welcome embrace, the fading sunlight casting long shadows on the pavement. The bustle of Hollywood seems a world away as I walk briskly, my pace quickening as I approach the bus stop a block from my apartment. The familiar sights and sounds of the neighborhood envelop me, the rhythmic hum of traffic, the distant laughter of children playing. The school bus is already there.

“Shit,” I whisper, quickening my pace.

As I join the other waiting parents, Jasper steps off the bus, the wind tousling his black hair. He’s breathless and sweaty from horsing around with his friends on the bus, cheeks flushed with the vigor of youth, but it’s his eyes that halt my thoughts—a cerulean blue so deep they could drown all the logic I’ve clung to.

Jasper. My son. And Wyatt’s.

“Mom!” His voice is sweet, a single note hanging between us as he rushes over to give me a hug.

“Hey, buddy.” I manage a smile as I wrap my arms around him, pushing back a tide of emotion. “Have fun at school today?”

“Yeah, we played soccer during PE!” He’s animated now, every inch the athlete his father was born to be. Wyatt’s legacy lives in those nimble feet, that determined spark in his gaze.

“Sounds fun,” I say, tucking an errant lock behind his ear, my fingers lingering on the softness of his skin. But it’s not just his skin or his hair; it’s the shape of his face, the arch of his brow—Wyatt’s features echoed in miniature. I clear my throat as I look ahead. “Let’s get you home.”

“Are you okay, Mom?” Jasper tilts his head, studying me with unsettling perception.

“Of course.” The lie tastes bitter, necessity forcing it past my lips. “Just thinking about work.”

He nods, and we continue our walk back to the apartment. I can’t help but be grateful he’s oblivious to the weight of secrets I shoulder. Each step is a reminder of what hangs in the balance—the life I’ve built for him, carefully curated away from prying eyes and the stain of scandal.

When we arrive home, Jasper skips into the living room. With his backpack in one hand, I use the other to close the door softly, leaning against it as if it was the one thing keeping the walls I’ve erected around our world in place. Wyatt’s image has buckled under public scrutiny, tarnished by whispers and judgment, and I’m afraid of what that darkness could do to Jasper’s innocence if my secret is discovered.

“Mom, can we have pizza tonight?” Jasper’s voice floats in from his bedroom as he gets changed out of his school clothes .

“Sure, pizza sounds perfect.” My response is automatic, but inside, the gears are turning, locking down decisions I must live with.

Jasper deserves a life free from the shadows of the past, a future untainted by mistakes that aren’t his. I’ll be the buffer between him and the world if that’s what it takes.

And in that moment, I reaffirm my silent vow—to protect, to hide, to shield. Even if it means keeping him from the man who unwittingly gave him those captivating blue eyes.

It’s deep into the night now, a time when the rest of the world quiets down, but my mind races faster.

At the kitchen table, I pour over articles, interviews, press releases—anything that can give me insight into Wyatt’s public persona. Each click is a step toward understanding, each headline a puzzle piece in the grand scheme of redemption I am trying to construct.

Wyatt, the enigmatic center forward, has always seemed to skate around scandals effortlessly, leaving the media hungry for more. Yet now, there’s a split in the ice under his feet—the fans divided, some passionately defending him while others echo the critics’ whispers.

“Relationship with your fans,” I murmur, typing notes into a burgeoning document. “Key to recovery.” My fingers tap rhythmically on the keys, orchestrating a plan from the chaos. We need to thaw his icy exterior, reveal the man behind the athlete. The thought of making Wyatt relatable almost makes me smile. It’s akin to softening a glacier with a hairdryer. But it’s possible—I have to believe it’s possible.

“Community outreach” I type, envisioning Wyatt amid a swarm of kids on a makeshift rink, sharing laughs and life lessons. “Charity events, fan Q&A sessions.” Each idea forms a thread, a connection between Wyatt and the world beyond the arena walls.

And then there’s social media—a whole different beast. Wyatt’s presence needs to shift from sterile updates to something more personal and relatable. “Takeovers, live tweets, candid stories.” Every suggestion feels like a step toward showing a more human side of him, and the challenge sparks something inside me.

I lean back, rubbing the tension from my temples as I survey the strategy laid out before me. It’s comprehensive, bold—perhaps too much so. Doubt nibbles at the edges of my confidence, but I push it away. This isn’t just about Wyatt. It’s about safeguarding Jasper’s future—a future Wyatt may never be a part of—and keeping his world bright, unmarred by the stain of controversy.

If anyone can sway the influencers of the sports industry, it’s me. Perhaps I can also reach out to the team’s media manager to get an idea of what events are coming up that we can use to our advantage. I’m sure the LA Knights have a PR team that can give us a helping hand and some material to shine a better light on Wyatt as well.

I save the document and close the laptop, the sudden darkness enveloping me. In the stillness, I find resolve. Wyatt’s road to redemption starts with this plan—my plan—and I am ready to defend it with all the fervor of a mother protecting her cub.

With a final glance at Jasper’s peaceful form through his cracked bedroom door, I retreat to my own room and let the curtain of sleep fall over me, the blueprint of Wyatt’s future etched firmly in my mind.