The Puck and The President

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

The next morning, I was back on the battlefield. My clipboard was now equipped with a new page titled "DJ Candidates." The spreadsheet had a new column for "Estimated Cost." And my patience was officially non-existent.

Liam had sent me a text at exactly 11:59 a.m. a text, which was a new level of infuriating. "Just in case you were worried," it read. "I’m on my way. Don’t start without me. 😉" The winky-face emoji was a jab, a reminder that he knew he had pushed my buttons and was enjoying every second of it. He was probably sitting somewhere, grinning at his phone, a cup of coffee in his hand, a smug look on his handsome face. And I was here, a human time bomb, just waiting for the clock to strike noon. The thought alone was enough to make my blood boil.

I had been waiting for him for ten minutes, and the clock on the wall was slowly inching towards 12:10. He had been a full minute late. And a minute was a lot when you’re dealing with a meticulously planned schedule. My whole life was a series of meticulously planned schedules. Lunch at 12:30. Study session at 1:00. Call to the catering company at 2:00. Every minute was a building block in the perfectly constructed tower of my life. And he was a wrecking ball. A twelve-minute wrecking ball.

The door swung open, and he sauntered in, a casual confidence radiating off of him. He was wearing a dark blue baseball cap, a team jersey, and a pair of ripped jeans. He looked like he had just rolled out of bed and was already a hundred times more charming than I was on my best day. He smelled of pine and something else, something warm and clean and uniquely Liam. It was a smell that made my brain short-circuit, a chemical reaction I had no control over.

"Right on time, Prez," he said, a wide grin on his face. He pulled the baseball cap off his head, his dark hair a mess of curls. He looked so infuriatingly handsome, it made me want to scream.

"You're twelve minutes late," I corrected, my voice as cold as ice. The words were a shield, a protective barrier I was putting between his charm and my sanity.

"Twelve minutes? Blimey, you’re counting," he said, and the amusement in his voice was palpable. He walked toward my desk, his eyes on my face. "I was getting coffee. You want a bit of a caffeine hit? You look like you could use one. It's on me."

I ignored the jab. I ignored the offer. I ignored the way my heart was doing a little jig in my chest. "The deal was noon sharp. And you are not a coffee messenger. You are the entertainment liaison. Now, do you have the list or not? I have a hundred other things to do."

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a single, folded piece of paper. He unfolded it with an exaggerated flourish, as if he were revealing a grand treasure. "I do. All three candidates. With their rates, their experience, and a YouTube link for a sample. All in one place. Just for you, Prez."

He placed the paper on my desk. I unfolded it, my eyes scanning the three names. The first two were professional, with links to websites and testimonials. The third, however, was just a name: "DJ Puck," with a YouTube link and a rate that was suspiciously low. My blood pressure, which had just started to come down, shot back up.

I looked up at him, a frown on my face. "DJ Puck? What is this? Is this a joke?"

He leaned on my desk, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "That's me. I thought it'd be a good way to save some cash. We could put the extra money toward... oh, I don't know. A proper bar?"

"A proper bar? We're a dry campus, Liam," I said, my voice rising. "This is a gala, not a frat party. And you're a DJ? When do you find the time to do that? Between all your late-night hockey practices and... whatever it is you do on your own time? Are you a wizard?" The sarcasm was so thick it could be cut with a knife.

"I've got a lot of time on my hands," he said, and a hint of something sad and lonely flashed in his eyes. For a moment, he wasn’t Liam "The Puck" Hayes, the King of Chaos. He was just a boy from London, far from home. But it was gone as quickly as it came. He was back to his usual charming, confident self. "I used to DJ back in London. It was a bit of fun, you know? Just a hobby. I’ve done a few gigs here and there, nothing major. Just for some mates."

"A hobby? We can't have a hobbyist DJing our gala. This is a professional event, not an after-hours get-together in a dorm room," I said, my hands clenched into fists. I was trying to hold on to my professionalism, my sanity, my perfectly planned life. "I can't risk it. We have a reputation to uphold. A reputation for excellence."

He chuckled softly, a warm, low sound. "A reputation for being a bit boring, you mean? Come on, Nadine. What's the harm in giving me a shot? I’ll throw in a special remix, just for you. Something to get you on the dance floor. Even if it's just for five minutes."

"No," I said, my voice firm. "Absolutely not. I will not have my gala turned into a free concert for your friends. This is not about your friends. This is about the entire student body."

"It's not for my friends," he said, his voice quiet, his eyes serious. "It's for everyone. It's for the people who want to dance. Who want to let go of their spreadsheets and their perfect plans for one night. It’s for you, too."

He had a way of cutting straight to the heart of things. It was unnerving. He was a master of his craft, and it wasn’t just hockey. It was this. Getting under my skin. Finding the c****s in my armor. It was like he had a map to the parts of me that no one else could see. The parts that were secretly itching for a little bit of chaos.

"Listen, you're a student," I said, my voice a little softer now. "You're a hockey player. You are not a professional DJ. And I am not going to let you jeopardize this event. I am not going to let you jeopardize my reputation."

"Fine," he said, and he straightened up. He took a step back, giving me some much-needed space. "I'll give you a deal. We'll do a sound check. Just you and me. I'll show you what I've got. I'll play for you, and only you. If you hate it, if you think I’m not up to it, you can hire one of the other guys. If you don't..." He trailed off, his eyes holding mine, a silent challenge in their depths. The unspoken words hung in the air: If you don't, then you'll have no choice but to hire me.

I wanted to say no. I wanted to tell him that I had no time for his silly games. But a small part of me—the part of me that he had been so insistent on finding—wanted to say yes. A sound check. Just him and me. In the empty main hall. It was a tempting proposition. It was an escape from my perfectly ordered world.

I sighed, a long, drawn-out sound of defeat. "Fine. A sound check. When and where?"

A triumphant smile spread across his face, so brilliant it was almost blinding. "Tomorrow. In the main hall. At seven p.m. And don't be late, Prez."

He turned and walked away, and I stood there, staring at the paper in my hands. The name "DJ Puck" seemed to glow on the page, a testament to his audacity, his complete disregard for all things orderly. He was a paradox, a walking contradiction, and I was completely, utterly intrigued. I had a feeling that tomorrow's sound check wasn't just about music. It was about something more. And I had a feeling I was walking straight into a trap.