Pucking Hearts

Chapter 2

The Rakers Highflyers' locker room buzzed with pre-practice energy, a cacophony of equipment clatter and boisterous chatter. Amidst the chaos, Jett Moore sat quietly in his stall, methodically taping his stick with the precision of a surgeon. At 24, he was the team's rising star, a centerman with hands so soft they could cradle a raw egg at full speed without cracking it.

"Yo, Jett!" Ricky Thompson, the team's boisterous winger, called out. "You coming out with us tonight? Got a bunch of puck bunnies lined up at O'Malley's!"

Jett looked up, a small smile playing on his lips. "Thanks, Ricky, but I'll pass. Got a date with my couch and some game tape."

Ricky rolled his eyes dramatically. "Man, you're killing me! When are you gonna let loose a little?"

"Y'all make us suffer through hell practice for your tabloid-worthy shenanigans," Jett quipped, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. "I'm just prepping my poor, innocent muscles for the Coach's revenge tour. Maybe I should start a support group - 'Survivors of Rykers's Nightlife: The Morning After Skating Club'!"

From across the room, Dax Elliott, the team's veteran defenseman, watched the exchange with a mixture of amusement and irritation. At 32, Dax was the old guard, a blue-liner with more blocked shots than most guys had goals. He respected Jett's talent, but something about the kid's demeanor always seemed to get under his skin.

"Don't you worry about Moore," Dax called out, his voice gruff. "Pretty sure his idea of 'letting loose' involves color-coding his protein shakes."

The locker room erupted in laughter, but Jett just shrugged, unfazed. "Hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, old man. Might help with those creaky knees of yours."

As the team filed out onto the ice, Coach Martinez pulled Jett aside. "Nice work out there yesterday, kid. That no-look pass to Ricky in the third? Pure gold."

Jett nodded, his eyes serious. "Thanks, Coach. But I should've buried that breakaway in the second. Won't happen again."

Martinez clapped him on the shoulder. "That's what I like to hear. Now get out there and show 'em how it's done."

On the ice, Jett was poetry in motion. His skates carved the surface with fluid grace, his stick an extension of his body as he dangled through defenders like they were standing still. During a particularly intense drill, he deked past three players before roofing a backhand shot that left even the goalie shaking his head in disbelief.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Moore," Dax snarled, his face contorted with rage and a hint of jealousy. "You think you're hot shit, don't you? Prancing around like you own the damn ice. Makes me want to puke. This is a team sport, you selfish prick. Try passing the puck once in a while instead of jerking yourself off out there, you narcissistic little cunt."

Jett's eyes blazed with defiance, his jaw clenching. "Sounds like someone's feeling threatened. What's wrong, old man? Can't keep up with the new blood?"

Dax's face turned an alarming shade of purple as he skated closer, looming over Jett like a storm cloud. "Listen here, you cocky little prick. I've won more games than you've played in your entire pathetic career. You're nothing but a flash in the pan."

Jett didn't flinch, instead rising to his full height and meeting Dax's glare head-on. His voice was low and dangerous when he spoke. "Big words from a has-been. Why don't you put your money where your mouth is? One-on-one, right here, right now. Let's see if you can back up all that trash talk, old man."

They were nose to nose now, the tension crackling between them like electricity on ice. Jett's breath caught in his throat as he suddenly realized how close they were, Dax's intense gaze boring into him. There was something in that look that made Jett's heart race, and it wasn't just adrenaline.