Hate Puck

HATE PUCK JESSA YORK Copyright © 2023 by Jessa York All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the authors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental. Created with Vellum To Youngest, My Sporty Spice. Proof that girls can play just as hard as guys. “Isn’t it better to have your heart broken than to have it wither up? Before it could be broken it must have felt something splendid. That would be worth the pain.” L.M. MONTGOMERY CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Acknowledgments About the Author Also by Jessa York 1 Jillian “Let me go,” I snapped at him and continued heading toward the curly iron gates at the building’s entrance. Luckily, it was too late for anyone to be up—witnessing our current interaction. His big, warm hand didn’t let me go. Instead, his grip only grew tighter. “No,” he said roughly, and tossed his guitar case onto the patch of grass beside us. “I want you to hear me out. Why are you being so stubborn?” Both of his hands were on me now. My ridiculously high heels and short, short skirt ensured that it didn’t take much effort for him to move me over to the dark shadows beside the complex. He let me go, and I spun out of his grip. I turned to him and breathlessly asked, “There’s nothing to say. Other than why the heck you’d do that to me?” Even in the dark, Cash’s eyes still sparkled. He took a step back and cocked his head to the side like he was surprised. “What I did to you?” he asked, as though I was out of my mind. “Yes,” I whisper-yelled and stuck my hands on my hips. “That was completely out of line.” I leaned forward. “I mean, come on, Cash,” I spat out. “‘Chasing Cars’ by Snow Patrol? That’s playing freaking dirty.” His eyebrows flew up on his handsome face. “I played dirty?” He slapped his hand to his chest. “You started it, Jillian. I was just simply responding to you.” My jaw fell to the ground. “Are you serious right now?” Now his hands found his hips and he leaned toward me. “Yeah, I’m fuckin’ serious, Jillian. You started this when you opened up your sweet lips and sang the first verse of ‘Bad Timing’.” I slammed my mouth shut. Mostly because he was right. I had done exactly that. I had sung “Bad Timing” by Blue Rodeo. It was a great song—but it also had a great big meaning behind it. For us. “Yeah,” he said, and I watched as his eyes scanned my face for a minute. Then he tilted his head to the other side. “Christ, you didn’t even realize you were poking the bear. Did you?” I bit my bottom lip in response. Mostly because I had no response. He was right. As usual. Cash freaking Clemens, hockey god extraordinaire, was always right. He took a deep breath and his eyes lowered to my chest, and then down further. “You wear that skirt for me, sweetness?” his raspy voice asked an extremely loaded question that gave me goose bumps all over my skin. His eyes lingered on my way-too-short skirt—which I had, in fact, worn for him. Cash loved my legs. And I’d wanted him to see as much of them as possible tonight. And since my whole freaking life was made up of secrets and lies—right now, at this very moment—I decided to tell him the truth. I answered him without hesitation, “Yes.” I watched as Cash let out a long breath. “What am I going to do with you?” he asked, but it was a question that didn’t require an answer. And I was pretty sure we both knew that. Instead, he walked directly into me, one hand going behind my head while the other one slid to my back. With much more urgency than before, he asked—no demanded, “Answer me, Jillian. What the fuck am I going to do with you?” Cash’s warm, minty breath floated over my face. The intensity in his eyes and in his voice made me weak. His parted lips were millimeters from mine while his breathing sped up considerably. The scent of his piney, cedary, manly cologne infused my senses. I was powerless in his arms. And he knew that. Just like my heart did. “Kiss me, Cash. That’s what you can do with me,” I panted, already out of breath—barely able to speak or stand as my heart pounded out of my chest. His hand on my head tightened, and he backed me up against the cold, hard siding. That hand protected my head from hitting the wall behind me, and then—his lips were on mine. And it was absolute perfection. Just like it always was when Cash Clemens kissed me. The man could take my breath away with nothing more than a quick kiss. But this wasn’t just a quick peck. Nope. This was going to be the kiss of all kisses. I already knew that. It would be the kind of kiss that inspired poets and artists. And authors. He moaned into my mouth, and I moaned into his. Cash’s tongue swept in and found mine waiting eagerly to play. And play it did. Our tongues dueled—each one wanting to come up as the winner. But that was the thing—nobody lost when you kissed like this. It was hard and deep and feral. And I never