Pucked Into My Room

**Please note** This is more of a sweet, cute short story. Not very explicit like my usual content.

PLEASE NOTE: Pucked into My Room is one book in a series. The books are not connected and can be read in any order. They all feature hockey themes.

The books are.

Pucking Forbidden

Pucking the Boss’s Daughter

Slapshot Awakening

Pucked Into My Room

Elsie POV

I’m trying; everyone around me can see I’m trying, but it’s not making a difference. Everyone pushes past me, every player looks right through me as if I’m not even here.

No matter how many games I attend, nothing ever changes. I’m always standing here, trying to capture their attention, and always failing. The players go straight to the other reporters, and me? It’s like I’m invisible.

I was given three months to speak with the players and find a story. Those three months are nearly up, and I don’t even have a simple greeting recorded.

People assume being a reporter is easy and straightforward, but they’re wrong, especially when others look right past you as if you mean nothing. Unless I’m willing to sell my soul to the devil, I think I’m officially out of options for getting noticed.

The players walk in, and once again, I’m left standing here with nothing. Reporters around me are busy discussing all the answers they’ve gotten, answers I haven’t. Sure, I could use the information they’ve gathered, but it wouldn’t feel right.

I have my own questions that I want answered. Frustrated, I shove my belongings back into my bag and leave. There’s still time before the game ends. Maybe I’ll have better luck later.

I head to a local café, order a drink, and sit down to think. Scanning through the players’ profiles again, I try to identify who might be approachable enough to talk to me. The problem is, none of them seem particularly accessible.

Everyone else manages to grab their attention, gets their questions answered, while I’m constantly ignored. I lose track of time, absorbed in reading about the players. When I finally glance at the clock, I realize I’m already late.

Panicked, I quickly pack everything back into my bag and rush towards the arena. It’s busier now, and I push my way through the crowds and other reporters to reach the front. Standing tall, microphone ready, I brace myself again.

This time, I will get my answers. The screams of excited fans tell me the players are coming. I straighten up, determined, and lock eyes on them as they approach.

“James,” I call out, holding the microphone towards him, but he doesn’t even glance my way. Instead, he’s already being pulled aside by another reporter. Perfect. I look towards another player and wave, hoping he’ll come over, but he doesn’t. Again, it’s the same story.

“Want my advice?” A guy standing nearby asks, looking down at me. I shrug, figuring advice can’t make things worse.

“What would your advice be?” I ask.

“Look more presentable. You’re not a known reporter, so no one’s going to notice you. Add to that the fact you’re completely covered up, looking like an eskimo, and the players naturally go to reporters who, let’s be honest, show a little more skin.”

I’m not about to use my body just to get an interview. That’s a crazy idea, ridiculous actually. Still, now I’ve got two options: sell my soul to the devil, or dress more like the female reporters here.

Glancing down at myself, I realize the guy isn’t completely wrong. I’m wearing a long coat that’s buttoned up, hiding my entire figure, and my hair is tossed into a messy bun.

No. I shake my head. “I don’t need to dress up,” I mutter.

“Suit yourself,” he says. “But if you want to get noticed, stand out more. Right now, you look like a schoolgirl trying to get an autograph from her favorite player, not a real reporter.”

His words hit deeper than I like, but I brush them off, turning away determined to prove him wrong. I begin trying again to catch the attention of other players, but it’s no use.

At one point, one of the players walks directly toward me, and I feel certain I’ve finally done it. But then he stops, greeting the guy who just gave me advice. They’re clearly on a first-name basis, laughing and joking.

“Alex,” I say, trying to grab his attention, but he’s too caught up chatting with the guy about some on-ice incident. I say his name again, louder this time. His eyes flicker briefly towards me, but then he’s right back in their conversation.

“Is this a joke? You heard me,” I say sharply. Alex finishes his conversation anyway and simply walks off. Asshole, fucking prick, asshole.

The guy beside me chuckles.

“Didn’t I tell you? You won’t get attention like this,” he says, pointing at me dismissively. “Anyway, I should go. I’ve got an actual article to write.”

I desperately want to trip him and watch him fall flat on his smug face. It’d be funny, ideal, even. But I hold myself back, because that’s definitely not the type of attention I need right now.

Staying here, I keep calling out the players. I stay after the bigger players have left and try to get noticed by the smaller ones, the ones who aren't big names yet, but they even ignore me.

It's as if they know I'm not well known, and their talking to me won't benefit them. It's frustrating, and to make things worse, I feel something wet drop onto my hand. Looking up, I watch as it begins to rain.

Great, this is just great. I can't go home and say I failed to get anything at all, so I don't. Instead, I stay here, despite the pouring rain. The other reporters leave, and I stay. Maybe it's a crazy idea. Sure, it's raining, but if there are no reporters, surely when the last few players come out, I've got more chance of getting seen?

Over twenty minutes later, I'm soaked, and not one looks at me. This time, they rush to their vehicles. I'm at a loss right now. What else can I do?