One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 8

Wyatt

I slide into the chair across from the reporter, a forced half-smile playing on my lips. The room is small, the walls are a sterile white that seems to press in on me, and there’s a chill that seeps into my bones despite my thick sweater. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the unease.

“Thanks for doing this, Wyatt, especially on a Saturday evening when you could have better things to do,” the reporter says, her voice smooth, practiced.

“Let’s just get this over with,” I mutter, leaning back as I cross my arms defensively over my chest.

She presses a button on the recorder, and its red eye winks at me—a silent sentinel between us that captures every word.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of Chloe. She’s watching us, and this evening, she looks especially stunning. She’s chosen an outfit that accentuates her features perfectly, a sleek, form-fitting outfit that’s both professional and alluring. The color complements her auburn hair, which falls in soft waves around her shoulders. It’s hard not to notice how the skirt hugs her curves, and I’m reminded that our date is looming on the horizon.

I let out a huff as my gaze shifts back to the reporter. For someone who acts like she doesn’t want anything to do with me, Chloe certainly dressed to get my attention today.

“I’d like to start with discussing the articles that have been circulating about your parents’ accident. You’ve never disclosed this information in the past. Were you trying to keep it a secret?”

“Of course not. I just didn’t feel like my parents’ terrible choices had anything to do with my career.”

“I imagine it wasn’t easy growing up with alcoholic parents.”

I take in a deep breath, filling my lungs, and exhale slowly. “I’ll be honest, it wasn’t easy,” I start, the words coming out rough, like they’re dragging over gravel. “Mom and Dad… they loved their bottle more than anything.”

The journalist’s pen glides across the notepad, capturing every word like a net capturing fish in a stream. Her eyes remain fixed on me, unblinking, as if she’s trying to extract every ounce of truth from my soul.

“Sounds like a tough upbringing,” she remarks. “How did you cope with that environment?”

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath me. “Sports,” I reply without hesitation. “Hockey, to be precise. It was my lifeline, my escape from the madness at home. When I stepped onto the ice, everything else faded away. It was just me, my stick, and the puck.”

“And then hockey became more than just a hobby for you,” she observes, glancing up from her notepad. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in the sport.”

I nod, a flicker of pride swelling in my chest. “I pour everything I have into it. Every early morning practice, every grueling workout session—it is all worth it when I step onto that ice and hear the roar of the crowd.”

“How do you think your experience growing up shaped you into the man you’ve become?” she asks gently, her eyes softening with something akin to empathy.

“Every day was a battle,” I admit, the admission tasting like bile. “But I figured out young that I wanted a different life. Hockey became my refuge—on the ice, none of that mattered.”

“Sounds like you had to grow up fast.”

“Too fast. But it made me who I am today.” I take a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “It wasn’t just the ice that kept me sane, though,” I find myself divulging, surprising even myself with the readiness of my truth. “There was this local community center. It became a place where the sound of my skates on the ice didn’t drown out reality, but shaped it. Gave me a perspective and opportunities I never saw before.”

She pauses, eyes catching mine, waiting for me to continue.

“Kids like me, we found something there. A kind of sanctuary. They had after-school programs, hot meals, people who actually cared if you showed up the next day.” My voice is steady, but inside, I’m a tumult of nerves.

“So, does this mean you’re involved in charity work?” she probes, curiosity evident.

“Yes,” I admit. “Because I know what it’s like to need an escape from the life handed to you. That center… it was my lifeline. ”

“Thank you, Wyatt. For sharing your story.” She clicks the recorder off, and the finality of it hangs between us.

I nod, feeling exposed, like I’ve peeled back a layer of myself. “Anytime,” I say, though the word feels hollow, more reflex than truth, as we both stand.

“The article should be up in about a week,” she adds.

“Sounds good,” I reply, forcing a light tone despite the weight of what’s just happened.

Chloe steps forward, her presence steady. She extends her hand with a reassuring smile. “Thank you for doing this,” she says, her voice sincere.

The reporter gives a polite nod and offers me a quick handshake as well before gathering her things and slipping out the door, leaving just Chloe and me in the room.

Every step I take away from the interview table feels like I’m trying to distance myself from something I can’t outrun. The vulnerability, the weight of everything I’ve said, lingers in the air like a stubborn fog.

“Hey, you did well,” Chloe’s voice cuts through my reverie. Her presence is soothing after the intensity of the interview .

“Doesn’t feel like it,” I admit, the vulnerability of the moment still clinging to me.

“The public is going to respond well, I promise.” Her confidence is reassuring.

“You ready for our date?” I ask, shifting the focus from my unsettled feelings to the evening ahead.

She breathes out a defeated sigh. “As promised. Where are we going?”

“Well, I don’t think going somewhere public and making a spectacle would help much with…” I trail off, considering the implications of our high-profile situation.

Chloe’s head tilts, her eyes searching mine. “So, what are you suggesting?”

I smile, her question hanging in the air, ripe with possibilities for the evening that lies ahead.

The elevator dings, its sleek doors gliding apart to reveal my high-rise apartment, an expanse of glass and sharp angles that drink in the LA skyline. The sun is setting, casting a warm glow over marble tiles that seem to radiate their own light. Chloe steps inside, her eyes taking in the minimalist decor with a hint of awe.

“Why are we here?” she asks, her green eyes fixed on mine, searching.

“Thought I’d cook for us.” I shrug, trying to play it casual, though the adrenaline in my veins betrays me. “Better here than some restaurant with paparazzi breathing down our necks.”

“Good thinking,” she says, slipping off her shoes, her bare feet padding softly against the cool wood floor.

“Let me get that,” I offer, reaching for her jacket. My fingers brush against her arm, and an unexpected jolt runs through me as I hang her jacket beside mine.

I lead her toward the kitchen, a stainless steel and black granite oasis. I wash my hands, glancing over at my well-stocked pantry. Chicken parmesan with steamed veggies—it’s simple but with just enough effort to hopefully impress her.

“Need help?” Chloe’s voice is light, but there’s a readiness in her stance, a willingness to dive into the task.

I shake my head, turning to face her with a smile tugging at my lips. “Just sit back and have a sparkling water.” I grab two bottles from the fridge, placing them on the island. “I’ve got it covered.”

She hesitates, her gaze flicking to the stove before meeting mine again. Eventually, she grabs a bottle of sparkling water, cradling it in her hands. She takes a tentative sip, her eyes following my movements with an intensity that has nothing to do with the food.

The clink of cutlery and the hiss of chicken in the pan create a comfortable rhythm in the room. Every so often, our eyes meet, and something unspoken lingers in the air between us, like a dance neither of us is ready to name.

I flip the chicken, the breadcrumbs already turning a crisp golden brown, filling the kitchen with a savory aroma. Chloe leans against the counter, framed by the dimming light spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, the cityscape transforms into a sea of twinkling lights, mirroring the night sky above.

“Never took you for a chef,” she quips, a playful glint in her green eyes that matches the teasing tone of her voice.

I smile lightly, focused on coating each piece evenly. “My parents weren’t around much to cook, so I had to figure things out.” The words hang in the air for a beat, but I keep my hands moving, shaking off the excess crumbs .

“Self-taught?” She tilts her head, as though seeing a side of me she hadn’t before.

“Something like that.” I meet her gaze, and we share a brief moment of understanding before she turns her attention to the simmering sauce.

The mood lifts, light as steam rising from the pot, as I transfer the chicken to a hot skillet. It sizzles on contact, a clear sign that dinner is in full swing. Chloe moves to grab silverware from the drawer, her motions smooth and surprisingly natural in my space.

“Let me help set the table,” she offers, her voice light but determined.

“Chloe—”

“It’s the least I can do. Please,” she insists, flashing a smile as she waves the forks like a peace offering. I relent with a nod, amused by her persistence.

“Alright,” I concede with a grin. “But I’ve got the rest.”

We move in tandem, her laying down napkins and arranging the utensils while I plate the food: golden-brown cutlets topped with rich herb tomato sauce and a generous sprinkle of melted cheese, steamed veggies on the side, adding a pop of color.

“Looks amazing,” she breathes out, genuine admiration warming her words .

“Just wait until you taste it,” I say with a grin, feeling how the moment shifts, the simplicity of it pulling us closer in ways I didn’t expect. We settle across from each other at the glass table, the soft glow of the pendant lights casting a warm, intimate glow over the space. Every bite, every glance between us, turns the meal into more than just food—there’s an unspoken exchange, where the past brushes up against the possibility of something more.

The time flies by, and soon, the last bits of conversation fade into a comfortable silence that wraps around us. We move to the living room, sinking into the soft cushions, the air between us both easy and charged with a tension we can’t ignore.

My hand hovers over my phone, selecting a playlist with the care of a curator handling ancient artifacts. Music spills into the room, soft and inviting.

I rise. “Care to dance?” I ask, extending a hand toward her.

Chloe’s laughter, tinged with disbelief, rings out before she covers her mouth with her fingers. “You’re serious?” Her eyes sparkle with mirth, but also something else—hesitation, maybe .

“Deadly,” I say, winking at her. “We only ever worked on one class project together, but I remember you mentioned you loved dancing. I never got to see you in action. Unless you’re bad at it…”

“I’m not a bad dancer.”

“Then dance with me.”

Chloe takes my hand, her grip warm and steady. We move together, slowly finding the rhythm. The song builds—a melody from years ago—and her steps falter as recognition dawns. It’s her song, the one with the haunting guitar riff she loved back then.

“Is this the Three Angry Ladies?” she asks, her eyes wide with surprise.

I chuckle. “Sure is. I thought you loved them.”

“I haven’t listened to this song since that night—” She hesitates, her voice catching slightly, like she’s not ready to go down that road.

We continue to sway, the music wrapping us, pulling memories to the surface. After a long pause, her voice softens, almost blending into the melody. “I didn’t want to remember it, Wyatt. I didn’t want to remember you.”

Her words hit harder than I expect. “Why?” I ask quietly, my pulse quickening with the need to understand .

She bites her lip, her eyes dropping for a moment before meeting mine again. “Because I was hurt. You didn’t return my calls. After everything… you just disappeared. Then you got drafted, and that was it. I never saw you again.” Her voice is thick with frustration and the weight of the past, the question hanging between us like the last note of a song.

My gaze locks onto hers, a thousand explanations fighting to rise, but the words stay lodged in my throat, frozen on the edge of revelation.