One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 5

Chloe

“Post a picture,” I tell Wyatt over the phone, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

“Of what?” His voice is groggy, yet edged with that familiar defiance. There’s a rustle on the other end, the sound of sheets and sleep being cast aside.

“Are you still in bed?”

“Of course I am! The sun’s barely even up.” His irritation is clear, and I glance at the clock. It’s just after 6:45 a.m. on this early Thursday morning.

“I figured you’d be up early for practice,” I tease.

“Practice starts late today,” he mutters. “Decided to sleep in for once.”

An idea hits me. “Why don’t you snap a picture of the sunrise then?”

“Absolutely not,” he grumbles. “My life is not a photo op. ”

“You don’t have a choice, Mr. Banks.” My words are ice over a steel resolve. “Remember our agreement?”

There’s a pause, a crackling silence that stretches thin over the line. Then, “Fine. But for every post you want on my feed, you owe me an answer. One question about you—no lies, no omissions. And call me Wyatt, since it’s clear you remember me.”

A memory flickers, unbidden— the night we hooked up, when laughter was easy, and curiosity filled the spaces between us. We asked each other so many questions that night, a connection sparking, only to be severed before it could fully take hold. The way my heart skips now, knowing he remembers too, is infuriating.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, keeping my tone cool. “But sure, I’ll answer your questions.”

“Good. Check your feed first thing tomorrow morning.”

True to his word, the following morning, while I’m still in bed, I check. It’s the first picture in my newsfeed—an explosion of pastel hues over the horizon, the city just waking up beneath it. And then comes his message, a notification that blinks like a challenge .

Wyatt: What have you been doing since graduation? Married?

Chloe: Hmm, graduation? I kept my head down, graduated, and started working at Luminous.

A simple truth, yet safely distant from the present.

Wyatt: No love life in the past eight years?

He writes back immediately.

Chloe: One question per post.

I remind him.

I lock my phone and stare at the darkened screen. My reflection stares back from the glass, shadowed and uncertain.

“Don’t let it get to you, Chloe,” I whisper, tossing my phone on the bed beside me. “You’ve handled worse than this.”

The gymnasium buzzes with the energy of a basketball game, balls bouncing and sneakers squeaking on the polished wood floor. It’s a Saturday afternoon, and I stand on the sidelines, trying to stay unnoticed as I take videos and photos with my phone. Wyatt’s out there, fluid and focused, weaving through a swarm of teenagers—boys and girls alike—who orbit him like eager satellites.

Over the past week, every new post on social media has been followed by his probing questions—his price for compliance. And each answer I’ve given has been a careful dance, revealing just enough without giving too much away.

“Come on, guys! Defense!” Wyatt’s voice cuts through the noise, authoritative yet encouraging. His blue eyes are alight with competitive fire, though it’s more friendly than fierce, warming rather than scorching.

I snap pictures as he dodges a teenage opponent, muscles coiling and uncoiling with the grace of a panther. The respect he commands is admittedly adorable. These kids hang on his every move, every instruction. They trust him implicitly—a sentiment I find myself wrestling with.

“Nice shot, Malik!” Wyatt applauds as one of the boys sinks a basket, and their faces light up with pride. Something tightens in my chest, a knot of something like admiration.

I keep shooting, but the images I capture show more than Wyatt’s athletic prowess. They’re snapshots of character, of someone who hasn’t let fame harden his heart .

“Chloe, you getting what you need?” Wyatt calls out. There’s a twinkle in his eye that says he knows exactly how disarming he is right now.

“Every shot,” I assure him, my voice steadier than I feel.

He points a finger at me. “Don’t post them until I see ‘em.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Banks.”

He smirks, then turns back to the game. “Let’s go, two more minutes!”

The whistle blows a few minutes later, signaling the end of the game, and the teens gather around Wyatt, basking in the glow of exertion and camaraderie. As I lower my camera, I catch sight of his broad back, T-shirt clinging to him with the honesty of sweat.

And I remind myself again, like a mantra against the rising tide of his charm. Keep your guard up, Chloe. Remember why you’re here.

The basketball bounces away, and laughter fades as Wyatt gathers the teens into a semi-circle on the bleachers. I hover near the periphery, lens focused on more than just the play of light and shadow across their faces. A girl with braids leans forward, biting her lip before she speaks .

“Hey Wyatt, what’s with that picture online? The one where you’re fighting with a girl? She says you have a temper,” she asks.

Judging by the teens’ awkward reactions to her question—a snicker here, a swat on the girl’s arm there—they’re itching to know the truth, but no one else was brave enough to ask. I brace for a flash of anger, a crack in his composed veneer, but Wyatt only nods, a gesture of respect for the courage behind her question.

“Thank you for bringing it up,” he says, his tone even, eyes calm as a lake in summer. “That picture doesn’t tell the whole story. It’s important to remember that things aren’t always what they seem on social media.”

He pauses, making sure he has their attention. Every pair of eyes is locked on him.

“Violence is never, ever the answer—especially not against someone you care about. What’s being said about me isn’t true. Losing your cool, getting physical… it’s something I would never condone. And even though someone is trying to say I have a temper, I definitely don’t.”

Huh. No mention of Sonia. At least nothing negative. Come to think of it, he didn’t speak an ill word about her in a single meeting we’ve had so far. It’s as if he’s handling all of this from a neutral perspective, one driven by the facts, not emotions.

There’s a gravity to his words as he speaks to the teens, a sincerity that draws a silent circle around them. I feel the truth of it settle in the space between us, an unexpected bridge.

“Plus,” a boy with a crew cut interjects, “everyone knows Wyatt’s one of the least penalized players. You hardly ever fight on the ice, right?”

“Only when the other guy starts it,” Wyatt replies with a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Exactly.” The boy nods, looking around at the others, as if this settles everything.

I make a mental note to verify Wyatt’s penalty stats. My PR instinct twitches. There’s more to this story, layers I’m only now beginning to peel back.

“Alright, everyone, time to head out,” Wyatt announces, his voice echoing through the gymnasium.

The sound of laughter and chatter fills the air as the kids begin to gather their belongings, a flurry of activity marking the end of the day’s events. They move like a small, energetic wave toward the lobby and then out into the parking lot. The gym gradually empties, the noise dissipating into the cool evening air, though a few kids still linger.

“These kids really look up to you, don’t they?” I comment, genuinely impressed. Wyatt’s connection with them is clear—he’s more than just a coach or mentor, he’s a significant presence in their lives.

“I’ve made a point of getting to know each of them since I started volunteering here. Malik’s a senior, headed to Long Beach on a basketball scholarship,” Wyatt replies with a hint of pride.

He nods toward a girl still tying her shoelaces by the bleachers. “That’s Emily. Lost her dad a couple of years ago, but she’s one of the toughest kids I know. She’s got a hell of a shot too.”

It’s touching, really, to see this side of him—a side that’s not just about hockey or his public image. He’s invested in these kids, their lives, their futures.

I can’t help but feel a newfound respect for Wyatt. It’s a side of him the media doesn’t see, a contrast to the persona often portrayed. “Hey, need a hand?” I offer, stepping forward to help clean up the remnants of the day .

“Sure,” he answers without turning, gathering basketballs into a bin. I grab a dry mop to run over the court.

“So, why volunteer work? You could be doing anything with your free time,” I probe, watching as he stacks cones with meticulous care.

He shrugs, a motion that seems too casual for the weight of his words. “Places like this… they were my refuge growing up. Every city I’ve lived in, I try to give back.”

“Because of hockey?” I venture, leaning on the mop.

“Because of life,” he corrects me, meeting my gaze squarely. “Hockey was just a part of it.”

There’s a story there, written in the lines of his face, in the way he handles each piece of equipment—a respect for humble beginnings. I find myself recalibrating, the sharp edges I assigned to Wyatt Banks blurring into softer shades of gray.

“Thanks for helping today. Ready to head out?”

“Sure,” I reply, echoing his earlier response, and realizing with a jolt that there’s more to Wyatt Banks than I thought—more than I was prepared for .

The evening chill bites at my skin as we step out of the community center, the sky a canvas of deep indigo. Wyatt’s presence beside me is a solid heat, an unspoken challenge to the night’s cold whisper.

“Still playing the stranger game, Chloe?” he murmurs, his voice low in the quiet that wraps around us as he joins me at my side.

I pull my jacket tighter, feigning indifference. “What do you mean?”

He moves closer, and I catch the faint scent of his cologne—a soothing blend of pine and something indefinably warm. The proximity sends a shiver down my spine, one not born of the cold. “Need a reminder?” His tone is teasing, but there’s something serious beneath it.

My heart stumbles, traitorous and frantic. I should push him away, make some snarky remark, but the way his gaze locks onto mine makes the words dissolve before they can form. “There’s nothing to remember—”

Before I can finish, his lips are on mine. It’s a collision of heat and sensation, a kiss I shouldn’t want but can’t resist. My resolve crumbles, and in that split second, all I can think is how much I want this. His hand slides to the small of my back, pulling me closer, and instead of pushing him away, I lean into him, drawn by the force of what’s always been there between us.

But just as quickly as it started, he pulls back, leaving me swaying in the sudden absence of his touch. He opens my car door with a gentle nudge, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Goodnight, Chloe.”

My name falls from his lips like a velvet caress, and the sound unravels something inside me—something I thought I’d buried a long time ago. Flushed and breathless, I slide into the driver’s seat, but I can’t escape the way he said it, like it was a promise, a memory, a secret only we share.

It takes me back to a time when I let myself believe we could be something more. But that was eight years ago. A different world. A different me. And a different Wyatt—one who disappeared, leaving me to pick up the pieces.

But now?

Now, there’s Jasper. The boy with his father’s eyes. The boy Wyatt doesn’t know exists. And that kiss? That kiss is dangerous because it reminds me too much of what I wanted, of what we almost had.

I shouldn’t have wanted it. I hate that I did. But that doesn’t stop the truth. My heart and body betrayed me the moment our lips touched, craving something that will only end in pain.

I can’t want this. Not when there’s so much at stake—Jasper’s safety, my peace of mind. I tried to contact Wyatt, tried to tell him about his son, but he never responded. Ghosted me. Ignored me when I needed him most. Why would this time be any different?

As I drive away, the city lights blur past, but all I can think about is him. Anger flares, hot and sharp, as I grip the steering wheel. Is this just a game to him? Am I just some forgotten chapter he’s flipping through again? But even as the questions gnaw at me, I can still feel the ghost of his kiss on my lips.

And the worst part is, I don’t know if I regret it. I should. But I don’t.