Poetry On Ice (Totally Pucked, #1)

by Jesse H. Reign

He teases me like that until I don’t know the day of the week. Until I don’t know what city I’m in. Who we just played. Whether we won or lost. The only thing I know is that I want more.

He was the best player I’d ever played against by a long way. He was huge. And dark. And enigmatic.

God, I looked up to him. Once, at junior league hockey camp, I hit a really good backhand, and Decker said, “Nice shot, McGuire,” and I swear to God, I felt like I was floating.

That off-hand comment from Decker was all it took to make me believe I had what it took to go pro.

It’s mortifying to think of it now, but I even told my mom all about him. I told her he was the best, a nice guy, a great player. I obviously misread him. I took a couple of meaningless conversations and a compliment or two and built it into a charged friendship in my mind.

I left the picture of him up forever. I only took it down when it became absolutely clear to me that he was a dick.

This isn’t a murmur. It isn’t uncertain, and it can’t be ignored. It isn’t a low rumble, and it isn’t skin deep. It’s bone-deep. It runs through my marrow, heating it and making it sizzle. The question has been asked and answered. I know what I want. I know who I want.

I want Ant Decker.