PUCK ME ON ICE

Chapter 3

Ryder’s POV

“Ryder…” Rebecca murmured, her voice breaking. “I’m—”

I cut her off with a kiss, swallowing the rest of whatever excuse she was about to give. She melted instantly, fingers digging into my shoulders as her hips rolled against my hand. Her breathing fractured into those sharp, needy little gasps that always went straight to my d**k.

A cocky grin tugged at my mouth. I slowly withdrew my fingers, holding her hooded gaze while I slid them between her lips. She didn’t hesitate—sucking them clean with a soft, filthy moan that made my blood run hotter.

“Good girl,” I murmured, voice rough. I pulled my hand away and dropped onto the mattress beside her, chest still heaving.

She rolled onto her side, propping her chin on her hand, cheeks flushed. “That was… seriously incredible.”

“I’m damn good at what I do,” I said, flexing my fingers with a smirk.

Rebecca laughed, flopping onto her back to stare at the ceiling. “You absolutely cannot let my boyfriend find out about this.”

I barked out a laugh and turned my head toward her. “Wait—who is your boyfriend again?”

She smacked my chest, and we both cracked up. A few minutes later she was slipping out of my bed, stretching like a cat before tugging her clothes back on.

“We’re doing this again, right?” she asked, leaning over the mattress as she buttoned her jeans. Her smile was hopeful and just a little wicked.

“Anytime you need a release, you know where to find me.” I braced myself on my elbows and shot her a slow wink.

Pleased, she kissed my cheek and slipped out the door. The second it clicked shut, my phone started vibrating like it was personally offended.

“Get your ass to the rink! Now, King!” Coach’s voice blasted through the speaker so loud I yanked the phone away from my ear.

“Shit.” My eyes flew to the clock. I was very late.

I threw on my gear in record time, grabbed my keys, and flew out the door. Tires screeched into the athletic complex lot five minutes later. The familiar blast of freezing air hit me as I pushed through the heavy doors and jogged toward the ice.

Coach was by the boards, deep in conversation with Tristan. I took a breath and approached.

“Coach, I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to be late. I was… stuck reading the Bible.”

Coach turned slowly, arms crossed, face unreadable. “The Bible, Ryder? That’s your excuse today?”

“Yes, sir.” I kept my expression as innocent as possible.

Tristan coughed, failing miserably at hiding his smirk.

“I’ll get ready right now,” I added, already shifting toward the locker room.

“Office. Now,” Coach ordered, turning on his heel.

Tristan stepped in front of me, grinning. “You’re in massive trouble, Captain.”

I rolled my eyes. “Weren’t you passed out after that party last night? How are you even functional?”

He just smiled, offering zero explanation.

“f**k this,” I muttered, heading down the corridor toward the athletic offices.

I pushed open Coach’s door with my hands raised. “Before you start lecturing me about being a responsible captain—”

“Sit down, Ryder.”

I dropped into the chair. “What’s this about?”

“Your grades.” Coach slammed a folder onto the desk. “You’re falling behind fast. If you don’t fix this, you’re risking eligibility. I can’t lose another captain this season.”

I blinked. “I took that art class because—”

“That art class did nothing for you,” he cut in. “Drop it or balance it out. Either way, get your GPA up. Now.”

I leaned forward, jaw tight. “I’ll go talk to the professor today. I’ll fix it.”

“Do whatever it takes,” Coach said, pointing at me. “Just pass.”

I left the rink fired up and marched across campus to the fine arts building. The bright, quiet hallways felt like another planet compared to the arena. I found the office, knocked, and stepped inside.

“Mrs. Zoey? Got a minute?”

She looked up, glasses sliding down her nose. “Ryder King. What a surprise to actually see you in my office.”

I gave her a tight smile and leaned against her desk. “It’s about my grade. There must’ve been some kind of mix-up, right? I’m a pretty decent artist.”

“Decent?” She hummed, amused, and pulled out my portfolio. “Here’s your latest submission.”

I leaned in, expecting at least a C. “And?”

“I gave it a D.”

“D?!” The word came out like a groan. “Why?”

Mrs. Zoey tapped the sketch. “There’s no life in it, Ryder. It’s flat. Soulless. To pass my class, I need to feel something when I look at your work. Depth. Emotion.”

I rubbed a hand over my face, stomach knotting. “What do I need to do? Because failing isn’t an option.”

“You can submit a completely new piece,” she said, tapping her chin. “But I strongly recommend a tutor to help you with the fundamentals.”

Pride stung. “I don’t need a tutor for an intro class.”

“You do,” she replied firmly. “And you’re in luck—she’s right on time.”

I turned slowly.

There she was. The girl from the party last night. Tessy. Standing in the doorway with a notebook clutched to her chest like a shield, looking just as shocked as I felt.

“Ma’am?” Tessy asked softly.

Mrs. Zoey smiled warmly. “Tessy, perfect timing. You’re going to tutor Ryder King.”

Tessy opened her mouth to protest, but Mrs. Zoey held up a hand. “It’ll look excellent on your resume, and Ryder will compensate you well for your time.”

I cleared my throat, suddenly uncomfortable under Tessy’s icy glare. “Any chance I could get a different tutor?”

“She’s the best student in the department,” Mrs. Zoey said decisively. “You’re in excellent hands.”

Tessy crossed her arms, jaw set, staring at me like I was a problem she didn’t want to solve. A heavy knot twisted in my gut.

This was going to be a f*****g disaster.