Puck Proposal - Wilcox Wombats Book 3 (Ebook)

My hockey career is on fire, so when my best friend from high school (and the girl I'd always want) shows up on my doorstep in trouble, I have a choice: turn her away (not likely!) or propose.

Back then, Josephine Baxter was the unattainable debutante who took pity on the kid from the wrong side of town.

We were unlikely best friends. And she was the girl I’d never have. At least not like that.

Five years later, Joey shows up on my doorstep on the same day she’s supposed to be getting married with a plea for help.

Of course, I take her in. And when her tight-laced, controlling parents show up, demanding she return and go through with the wedding?

I tell them we’re engaged.

She’s the girl I always wanted, the one who was always out of my league.

And now that she’s here, wearing my ring and sleeping in my bed? It feels like destiny. But we both know it can’t last.

Because guys like me never end up with the girl.

Puck Proposal is a full-length, standalone hockey romcom in the Wilcox Wombats series.

CHAPTER ONE
JOHN SAMUELS

It was bordering on darkness when I got home from the gym, nearly exhausted. June was the off season, which gave me a few months to build myself up, to hone my skills and my body. A few months to deserve the opportunity that had come my way late last season when Stephano Mizzoni left the Wombats, making me the youngest starting goalie in the FHL. 

Living up to the expectations the team had for me would be tough, and more than that, I didn't want to let Mizzoni down. His approval--his friendship--was hard won, and I respected him. A lot. Still, the expectations I was most worried about were my own. 

I'd worked my ass off for this chance. 

And now, like my dad loved to point out, it would be pretty damned easy for me to blow it. 

I guided the sleek black truck I'd just acquired into the garage. It almost didn't fit, thanks to the truck being huge and the garage being relatively tiny. But it didn't matter. They were both mine, outright. Everything I had was mine, and I'd earned it all myself. 

The engine purred to a stop and I shut it off, letting myself sit for a bit, doing my best to live in the moment, to appreciate where I was. What I had achieved.

But fuck, Dad's voice was always in my ear, and I wondered, at what point would it all be enough for him? Or at what point would I stop caring what he thought? I wanted to make the All Star team this year, to show him that I had support—even if it wasn’t from him.

I hopped out and grabbed my gear, blowing out a long breath and doing my best to clear my head as I stepped inside the house and hit the button for the garage door.

I went weeks without falling back into the pit of self-recrimination that Dad had helped me dig as a kid. But then I'd talk to him, and he'd find ways to push me back in.  

"Your brother's getting married," Dad had announced this morning when I'd called him to check in. "Can you believe it? He built a brokerage and a house, and now he's gonna build a family." The pride in Dad's voice was unmistakable and, as always, it leveled me. When my father spoke to TJ, did he sound this proud about me? 

I already knew the answer. 

TJ was the miracle kid. The baby who was delivered blue and still, but who magically came back to life against all odds. He was the star athlete, the star student, and being three years older than me meant everything he achieved marked the first time a Samuels kid ever did anything. Leaving me always trailing behind. 

"He told me, Dad." I'd already talked to TJ, who was thankfully less enthusiastic about reciting all of his many incredible attributes than my father was. Teej and I were friends. Always had been. It wasn't his fault he'd been born first. Or that our mother had died giving birth to me. 

That was just the luck of the draw. 

Hank came prowling around the corner as I stepped into the entryway between the garage and the laundry room, his sleek gray head leading the long athletic body. He dropped to sit directly in front of me and tilted his head to the side, looking up at me with deep green eyes and letting out a single long mmm-ow. 

"Hey buddy." I dropped my gear and leaned down to scoop up the cat, who looked up into my face and put his front paws on my neck. "How was your day?" 

Hank was more dog than cat, but he was also self-sufficient when I traveled with the team for games or left for long hours to run the annual camp I'd built for kids. He was a perfect companion for me—always proud of me, always happy to see me. He'd arrived on my doorstep as soon as I'd bought this house, and I suspected he might have lived here before and been abandoned. I'd asked around the neighborhood and taken him to be scanned for a chip, but no one had been able to help me locate his family, and Hank seemed pretty convinced he lived with me. 

So I let him. 

It was nice coming home at the end of the day, having someone eager to spend time with me, willing to listen. 

Even if that someone was a cat. When you'd scrambled for every bit of attention you'd ever managed to receive, you weren't picky about where it came from. 

I showered and cooked, settling myself next to Hank on the couch at the end of the day and flipping on some old tape to review to keep me company. Sometimes I went out with a few of the guys from the team—Mario and Van usually. We were the youngest, and I guess we felt most comfortable together. Joining the Wombats was a lot to wrap your head around, and stepping in to stand next to some of the best players in the league was tough. Those of us who were new looked out for one another, helped each other. 

But those guys had families to visit, girlfriends to spend time with. 

I was just glad I had Hank, even though it was kind of hard to get used to his favorite spot to watch television, which was behind me on the top of the couch, his paws kneading my head. 

As the video from last season's last game rolled, I picked up my phone and called Mizzoni. There was one play in the last period I hated watching. I knew I’d let a stupid one past me, and I still wasn’t sure how I’d do it differently. But Mizzoni would know. It was three hours earlier in California, so I knew he'd still be up. 

"Hey, Samuels," he said. 

"Mizzoni. How are you?" 

"Honestly?" he asked, a smile in his voice. "I've never been better. How are things in Wilcox? How's the team?" 

"Pretty good," I said. "Just trying to stay in shape, work out some kinks before next season." 

"I saw the last few games, John. There aren't a lot of kinks. You're a great goalie. And you know how hard that is for me to say." 

"I appreciate it. The words, and how hard it is for you to say," I laughed. "I just don't want to take the chance for granted." 

"Yeah, well, there's something to be said for time off too." 

I turned myself on the couch, moving my head out of Hank's attentive grip. He let out a meow, and hopped down into my lap, shooting me a green-eyed glare before curling into a circle and tucking his head. "I think I need to use the time to get better. I just don't want to blow things." 

"Most players take at least a month off the skates. Your body needs the rest." 

I blew out a breath. "I know it sounds kind of superstitious ..." I began. 

"Oh here we go. Okay, what is it?" 

"I just have this feeling if I let myself relax, everything will vanish. Like if I spend a day off skates, if I just let my guard down, it's all going to be gone when I try to step back on the ice." 

"That's kinda fucked up. The talent is in you, not in some magical practice you're undertaking, which, by the way, will also set you up for an injury if you're not careful. Take it from someone who's been there." 

"Yeah...I do appreciate your advice..." 

"But you're not gonna take it." 

"I'll try. I will. In fact, I wanted to see if I could get a little more of it."

“Oh yeah?”

“Did you watch the home game last season against the Storm Chasers? I let one through in the third period?” 

“Ohh, yeah, that was a rough one.” 

“I was just watching it again, and I still can’t see how—”

“John.”

“Yeah?” I scrubbed a hand over my face. Mizzoni’s voice had taken on the ‘tough love’ quality and I sensed I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

“Let it rest. We all let one in now and then.”

“Yeah, but if I figure out how to do better, then—”

“How many times have you rewatched that play?” 

“A lot.” 

“Then you already know. Man, you’ve gotta take it easier on yourself. Tomorrow. No skating.” Mizzoni's voice had become lower, a growl, and I remembered how intimidating he'd been when we'd first met. Of course, back then, he'd been worried I was going to take his position on the team. 

His worries had been well founded, as it turned out. 

"I'll just do a light day. I'm not going to lift tomorrow. I’ve got stuff to do for camp anyway—a lot more kids coming this year." 

"Well that's good," he said. "But the workouts..." I could almost hear Mizzoni's disapproval in his breath, though he said nothing else. His silence made me feel like I should explain myself. Like if I just told him how important it was that I hang onto this opportunity, that I prove I'm worthy of it, he'd understand. But he was already talking. 

"Hey, man, I have to go. Hillary's got this thing tonight I promised I'd go to." 

"Yeah, totally. Sorry to keep you." 

"No, I'm glad you called. Just... John?" 

"Yeah?" 

"Take it easy on yourself, okay? You're fucking talented. That's not going to vanish overnight." 

"Yeah, okay. Thanks. Tell Hillary hi for me." 

"I will." 

We hung up and I let Mizzoni's words seep in around the anxiety I couldn't seem to shake. I knew he was right—I'd gotten this far. But I could do more. Better. And that wouldn't happen if I let my guard down. When I got where I was going, I'd rest. 

Hank raised his head and narrowed his eyes at me, as if he could read my thoughts and didn't approve any more than my mentor did. 

"Go back to sleep," I told him. Hank let out a little meow and then dropped his head again. 

On the screen, the clash between the Wombats and the Storm Chasers unfolded, and I tensed, anticipating the goal I had let slip past me in the dwindling moments of the third period. I tapped the remote, reducing the playback speed to dissect my error in agonizing detail. The play developed: their center, a fucking wizard with puck control, seized a breakout pass and dashed across the blue line, evading our defenseman with a slick deke. He barreled into the offensive zone, eyes flicking between me and his winger on the rush, keeping our defense guessing.

As he approached the faceoff circle, he feinted towards the boards, luring Simpson to overcommit. With a swift cut back to the center, he created just enough space for a clear shot. I was anchored in the crease, my stance ready. But he unleashed a low, sizzling wrist shot, and I knew in that second I'd made a critical error. I'd shifted too far left, and there was no time to correct. I cringed as I watched myself thrust my right leg pad out, but it was too late. The puck slid through the narrow gap of the five hole.

The red light blazed behind me, a glaring reminder of my lapse. The sting of that moment, the sharp pang of failure, surged through me all over again. Not enough. In that moment—In so many moments—I'm just not fucking enough.

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