One Pucking Secret (One Pucking #1)

Chapter 22

Wyatt

I skate off the ice, the last echoes of pucks and sticks fading behind me as we shuffle into the locker room post-practice. It’s been a week since Chloe and Jasper have moved in, and while we’re getting along well and adjusting to our new dynamic, the media’s fixation on the child I’ve kept a secret is only beginning to die down.

I’m exhausted—physically from the game and emotionally from the constant scrutiny. All I want is to get back to them, away from the vultures that sometimes still camp outside our parking lot. The first thing I do is head for the shower, eager to wash off the weight of the week.

The water is scalding, steam fogging up the glass doors. I let it run down my back, muscles slowly uncoiling under the heat. It’s a brief sanctuary—the hiss of the spray drowns out the world, if only for a moment. But even here, amid the warmth and white noise, my mind doesn’t shut off. It ticks away, always playing the next move, the next game, the relentless pursuit of victory.

I rinse off, sluicing away sweat and the residue of practice. Today’s just another day, I tell myself. Just another hurdle cleared. As I return to my locker, the room buzzes with its usual banter, a cacophony of laughter and clattering equipment. Once I’m dressed, I pull out my phone, fingers tapping out a quick message to Chloe.

Wyatt: Just checking in.

Her reply comes swiftly, lighting up the screen.

Chloe: So far, so good. Thanks again for letting us stay here. I promise you’ll return to a clean home in a bit.

A chuckle escapes me as I thumb back a response. The idea of Chloe bustling around my place, tidying up corners that probably never knew her touch—it’s unexpectedly comforting.

Wyatt: You don’t have to clean, Chloe. I pay someone to do that once a week.

She fires back a text that has me grinning like a fool.

Chloe: A little extra clean won’t hurt .

The words linger, warming me from the inside out. It’s this domestic dance over digital lines that tugs at something deep within—something that looks a lot like what I’ve been craving. Family. It’s a foreign field I’m navigating without a playbook.

Even so, I could get used to it.

“Hey, Banks! Coach wants to see you in his office.” Alec’s voice snaps me back to the present.

I pocket the phone and rise, scanning the room. My teammates are shedding their gear and laughing about plays. Yet there’s a sudden stillness from Alec and Zach, a tension in their shoulders that doesn’t match the atmosphere of the locker room. They’re both watching me, expressions etched with concern, or is it caution?

I give them a nod, the unspoken question hanging between us like a puck in mid-air, waiting for the play to unfold. Then I’m off, walking toward whatever waits behind Coach Reynolds’s door.

I walk through the maze of corridors leading to his office, my heart pounding a staccato rhythm against my ribs. The door shuts behind me with a click that resounds too loudly, and I’m suddenly aware of how much space the silence fills.

“Have a seat, Wyatt,” he directs, gesturing to the chair opposite his cluttered desk.

The leather creaks under my weight as I sit, trying to keep my frame relaxed, but there’s a coil of tension winding tight in my gut. Coach looks at me, his gaze steady, and I know this isn’t about any missed plays or poor performance on the ice.

“Your most recent drug test came back,” he starts, and there’s a weight to his words that has my muscles clenching. “You tested positive for opioids.”

I blink, disbelief halting my breath. “That can’t be,” I say, denial surfacing before I can process his words. “I don’t do drugs.”

“Sorry, Banks. We have to follow protocol.” Coach’s voice is firm, but I can tell he’s uncomfortable. “We need to search your locker.”

I stand abruptly, the chair skidding back a few inches. “There’s nothing to find,” I insist, but the assurance sounds hollow even to my own ears. I’ve always played clean, always stayed clear of anything that could tarnish the game I live for. Yet here I am, caught in the snare of an accusation I can’t fathom .

As we walk toward the locker room, my mind scrambles for answers, but I come up empty, save for the growing dread that this isn’t just a simple mix-up.

“Let’s get this over with,” I mutter under my breath, bracing myself for the scrutiny that awaits.

The metallic clang of my locker door echoes through the tense air as Coach’s eyes sweep the interior, scrutinizing every inch. My teammates’ fall silent, their gazes fixed on the unfolding scene. A staff member begins rifling through my things, and it takes everything in me to keep my cool as he digs into the pockets of the jeans, gym shorts, and sweater that are neatly folded inside.

“Like I said, nothing to find,” I say.

Then the staff member’s hand emerges from my duffel bag, holding an unfamiliar bottle. His fingers tremble slightly as he raises it for everyone to see.

“That isn’t mine,” I say, disbelief and frustration sharp in my voice. The room suddenly feels cold, like the ice we skate on, chilling the trust I’ve built among these walls, these people.

“We have to follow protocol and treat it as if it is,” one of the staff members says, skepticism etched across his face. They don’t believe me. My hands ball into fists at my sides, frustration boiling beneath my skin.

The results of the test are a slapshot to my credibility. “I didn’t take any pills,” I insist, but the words feel weak against the evidence staring back at me. I’m benched—like an injured player, only this time it’s my reputation that’s taken the hit.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath, a curse for the unseen enemy who blindsided me.

“Mr. Banks, we’ll need a blood and hair sample before you go,” a young staff member says, his tone hesitant, like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Yeah, whatever.” Resignation tinges my words. Compliance is the only play I have left. As the team doctor takes the samples, I can’t help but feel like I’m losing a part of myself, leaving it behind in this sterile, unforgiving room.

“Go home and wait to be contacted,” Coach Reynolds finally says, his voice lacking its usual strength.

Without another word, I storm out of the stadium, the evening air biting against my skin. Gravel crunches beneath my feet, but it’s nothing compared to the anger grinding inside. Someone’s setting me up. My mind ticks through every recent interaction, every connection, desperate for answers. And then, unbidden, a face appears in my thoughts—Zach.

Zach, who was there during practice, who knows my habits as well as anyone. He was at the rink with Jasper and Chloe, part of every moment of my life these past few months. I shake my head, trying to clear it. Impossible. Zach’s loyalty has always been unshakeable, his support constant. Yet, as I replay recent conversations, doubt creeps in.

Could Zach…? I shove my hands into my pockets, anger twisting into frustration. “No,” I mutter, a voice barely above a whisper. It’s almost absurd to think he’d betray me. But the seed of distrust has been planted, and whether I like it or not, it’s taking root.