Pucked Up

Chapter 1

Ryan

The bass thrums through my body as I push through the crowd, drink in hand. Chicago's hottest nightclub, Vortex, is living up to its reputation tonight. The air is thick with the scent of alcohol and designer perfume, and the dance floor is a writhing mass of bodies.

"Ryan! Over here, man!" I hear a familiar voice call out. It's Mike, one of my teammates from the Chicago Storm. He's waving at me from a VIP booth, surrounded by a group of stunning women.

I grin and make my way over. "Ladies," I say, giving them a wink as I slide into the booth. "Hope you don't mind if I join the party."

A blonde to my left giggles. "Not at all, Ryan. We were just talking about you."

"All good things, I hope," I reply, taking a swig of my drink.

Mike leans in, his words slightly slurred. "Dude, we're about to start a game of strip poker. You in?"

I hesitate for a moment. Tomorrow's an off day, but Coach has been riding my ass lately about my partying. Then again, when has that ever stopped me?

"Fuck it," I say, flashing my trademark grin. "Deal me in."

The next few hours are a blur of cards, shots, and increasingly less clothing. I'm down to my boxers, but I couldn't care less. The adrenaline of the game, mixed with the alcohol pumping through my veins, has me feeling invincible.

"Full house, ladies," I announce, laying my cards on the table. The girls groan good-naturedly as they shed another layer.

That's when I notice the flashes. At first, I think it's just the club's strobe lights, but then I see them–paparazzi, their cameras aimed right at our booth.

"Shit," Mike mutters, trying to cover himself up.

I laugh it off, too drunk to care. "Let 'em look," I say, standing up on the table. "They want a show? I'll give 'em a fucking show!"

The girls cheer as I start dancing, my nearly naked body on full display. In the back of my mind, I know I'll regret this tomorrow, but right now, I'm riding high on the rush.

"Ryan, maybe we should call it a night," Mike suggests, looking worried.

I wave him off. "The night's just getting started, buddy! Who wants to do body shots?"

More cheers erupt from our booth, and soon I'm lying on the table, a line of salt on my abs and a shot glass balanced on my chest. A redhead leans over me, her tongue tracing the salt before she takes the shot.

"Your turn," she purrs, switching places with me.

I'm vaguely aware of more camera flashes as I do the shot, but I'm too far gone to care. The night stretches on, a haze of alcohol, skin, and pulsing music.

The next morning, I wake up to a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like something died in it. I groan, rolling over in bed, and nearly fall off the edge. This isn't my bed. Where the hell am I?

I crack open an eye, taking in unfamiliar surroundings. Hotel room. Fancy one, by the looks of it. There's a lump under the covers next to me, and a quick peek confirms it's the redhead from last night.

"Fuck," I mutter, sitting up slowly. My phone is buzzing incessantly on the nightstand. I grab it, wincing at the bright screen. Twenty missed calls and about a hundred text messages. This can't be good.

I open the first message, from Mike. It's a link to a tabloid article with the headline: "CHICAGO STORM'S BAD BOY RYAN REEVES’ WILD NIGHT OF DEBAUCHERY!"

"Shit, shit, shit," I hiss, scrolling through the article. There are photos. Lots of photos. Me playing strip poker, dancing on the table in my underwear, doing body shots off multiple women. It's a PR nightmare.

My phone starts ringing again. It's Coach. I take a deep breath and answer.

"Hey, Coach--"

"What the fuck were you thinking, Reeves?" Coach's voice booms through the speaker, making my head throb even more.

"I--"

"Save it. Get your ass to the arena. Now. Management wants to talk to you."

The call ends abruptly. I sit there for a moment, my stomach churning from more than just the hangover.

"Everything okay?" The redhead is awake, looking at me with concern.

"Yeah, just... work stuff," I lie, getting out of bed. "Listen, I gotta run. Thanks for, uh... last night."

She smiles. "Anytime, superstar. Call me if you want a repeat performance."

I nod absently, already focused on damage control as I gather my clothes and head for the door.

An hour later, I'm sitting in the Chicago Storm's management office, facing a room full of angry faces. Coach is there, along with the team owner, Mr. Thompson, and our PR director, Sarah.

"Do you have any idea how much damage you've done?" Mr. Thompson asks, his voice eerily calm.

I swallow hard. "Sir, I--"

"You've embarrassed the team, jeopardized sponsorship deals, and set a terrible example for our younger fans," he continues, cutting me off. "This isn't the first time you've pulled stunts like this, Ryan, but it damn well better be the last."

Coach steps forward, his face red with anger. "I've warned you about this behavior, Reeves. You're one of our best players, but that doesn't mean jack shit if you can't keep your act together off the ice."

"I'm sorry," I say, knowing how weak it sounds. "It won't happen again."

Sarah, the PR director, snorts. "You're damn right it won't. Because if it does, you're off the team."

My head snaps up. "What? You can't be serious!"

Mr. Thompson leans forward, his eyes boring into mine. "We're dead serious, Ryan. One more incident like this, and we'll terminate your contract, no matter how many goals you score. Are we clear?"

The reality of the situation hits me like a body check. My career, everything I've worked for, is hanging by a thread. "Crystal clear, sir," I manage to say.

"Good," Mr. Thompson nods. "Now, Sarah will brief you on how we're going to handle this mess. You'll follow her instructions to the letter, understand?"

I nod, still reeling from the threat of losing everything.

Sarah takes over, her voice all business. "We're going to release a statement apologizing for your behavior and announcing that you'll be entering a short-term rehabilitation program for alcohol abuse."

"Rehab?" I sputter. "But I don't have a drinking problem!"

Coach scoffs. "Could've fooled me, kid."

Sarah ignores my protest. "It's either this or we suspend you without pay for the next month. Your choice."

I slump in my chair, defeated. "Fine. Rehab it is."

"Smart choice," Sarah says. "We'll set it up for a two-week program. In the meantime, you're to lay low. No clubs, no parties, no women. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it," I mutter.

As I leave the office, my mind is racing. I need to find a way to fix this, to prove to the team that I'm not just some party boy who can't be trusted. But how?