Page 1 of Puck Fest
CHAPTER 1
DANNY
Puck Festis supposedto be the easy part of the season.
No hitting, no checking, just skating around with kids and signing autographs while sponsors get their photo ops. The kind of community outreach that’s easier than conditioning drills and makes the league happy.
I’m good at this stuff. Good at making people laugh, good at talking to kids who think we’re superheroes just because we can skate backward. Good at being Danny Masterson, team clown, guy who keeps things light even when everything’s falling apart.
What I’m not good at is keeping my mouth shut when someone crosses a line.
“Sign my jersey!” A kid shoves a Raptors sweater at me, grinning like I just made his whole year.
“You got it, buddy. What’s your name?”
“Eric!”
I scribble my signature with some encouraging message about working hard and following dreams, hand it back. The kid runs off to show his mom, and I’m already looking for the next one.
Riley Collins is a few feet over, signing a stick for a kid whocan’t be more than seven. He’s got that look rookies get at events like this — terrified to say the wrong thing, terrified to say the right thing wrong. Nineteen years old, called up from Cleveland three weeks ago, hasn’t said more than ten words to anyone on the team. Tate’s been trying to draw him out, but the kid keeps to himself.
I make a mental note to invite him to dinner with the guys this week. He’s gonna burn out if he doesn’t loosen up.
That’s when I hear it.
“Your kind doesn’t belong on the ice.”
The words cut through the crowd noise like a blade. I turn, scanning for the source.
There. Some asshole in his thirties, beer gut hanging over his jeans, pointing at Tate Barnes while his buddies laugh. Tate’s twenty feet away, talking to a group of kids about goaltending technique, completely unaware.
“You hear me?” The guy’s voice gets louder. “We don’t want people like you representing our team.”
The crowd around him goes quiet. People pulling their kids back, phones coming out. This is about to be a problem.
I’m moving before I decide to move.
“Hey.” I step between the asshole and Tate, keeping my voice level. “You need to leave.”
“Or what?” He’s drunk. I can smell it from three feet away. “You gonna protect your little boyfriend?”
“I’m gonna give you one chance to walk away.”
“Screw you. I paid to be here. I can say whatever the fuck I want.”
Behind me, I hear Tate’s voice. “Masterson, it’s fine. Just ignore him.”
It’s not fine. It’s never fine.
“Last chance,” I tell the drunk idiot. “Walk away.”
He shoves me instead.
Not hard, but enough. Enough that everyone sees it, enough that phones are recording, enough that I have about threeseconds to decide if I’m going to be the bigger person or the guy who makes headlines.
Then he moves toward Tate, a menacing look on his face. His hands are out like he’s going to shove him, too.
I don’t think. I grab him by the shirt and throw him into the barricade separating fans from the ice. Not hard enough to really hurt him, but hard enough that he goes down and stays down.
