Triple Pucked

Chapter 1: First Blood 🌶️

Serafina’s POV — Thursday, May 27, 2027

The Garden is alive and rocking. That’s the only way to describe it.

Twenty-thousand fans screaming like their lives depend on it. The lights dim to a pulse. A single spotlight slices across the ice like a lightning bolt—a deep, rich, velvety, godlike voice booms through the arena, shaking the air and every chest around me:

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… WELCOME TO MADISON SQUARE GARDEN—THE WORLD’S MOST FAMOUS ARENA!

Tonight: Game Seven of the Eastern Conference Final.

Your New York Rangers vs. the Carolina Hurricanes—for a place in the 2027 Stanley Cup Final.”

The crowd erupts like thunder cracking in a war zone. Red and blue lights swirl. AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” blasts from the speakers. Fans pound their feet. Scream. Chant. Cameras flash like lightning.

And me?

I’m on my feet too—blood hot, heart hammering, thighs already clenching.

Because he’s right there... Luca Carver exploding onto the ice like a loaded gun. He’s my obsession. My long plan. My soon-to-be lover.

League scoring leader. MVP front-runner—multiple times this season. Number 88—selling more jerseys than half the damn team combined.

Jesus, look at him move.

Luca Carver is a goddamn panty-drenching wet dream on skates—that dark blond hair gleaming like molten honey beneath the arena lights, falling just a little too wild beneath his helmet like he can’t be tamed.

Eyes and smile cocky as hell, every line of his body thrumming with command.

His strides are sex in motion—powerful, commanding, thick thighs pumping like pistons. The way he cuts across the ice, you’d think the world owed him something—which it probably does.

He doesn’t just skate—he prowls like he owns the ice. Which, let’s be honest, he does... with a predatory, effortless power that makes every other player look two strides behind and ten years too slow.

Daddy and I may have bought him the best team money could buy to support his career—something he'll never know about—but Luca has earned every ray of the thousand spotlights following him.

First-line center. Enforcer. Demigod.

The ruthless, beating heart of the team. Rookie phenom, and already running the entire fucking show.

And that kind of dominance? You can’t buy it. You can’t fake it. You’re born with it, stitched into your blood and bone. And Luca? He’s pure alpha on ice. He seems forged by a lifetime of hellfire for exactly this moment.

I can’t pinpoint it, but there’s something about the way he moves—so hard, so sure—that makes you imagine what that body could do with yours. And honey, my imagination’s already dripping.

Tonight, MSG is electric. The crowd’s a living beast—roaring, snarling, rattling the boards with every shift. Thunder cracks with each slap of the puck.

I sip my champagne slowly, letting it turn from crisp chill to simmering warmth on my tongue—like a prelude to something far filthier, far more satisfying.

Because my eyes? They're not on the ice. They’re locked on him. And he’s watching me back... all the time.

Luca The Avalanche Carver.

Built like a sin I want to confess filthy fantasies about—again and again. His mouth alone should be illegal. Full lips. Brutally handsome jawline.

My lips curl—slow and deliberate. I know he’s watching me. He always is. I just pray he actually sees me. Not another puck bunny in stilettos, but me.

The woman who’s been in the front row of his career since the first time he laced up for NY Rangers Junior League. Maybe it’s just all wishful thinking. But I’ve gambled everything on that heat I now see so clearly growing in his eyes.

Up until tonight, he's been acting like I was background noise. Even though I still saw him checking me out through that helmet, every damn training session and every fantastic game night, no matter if it was at home or away because I’ve been to them all this season.

I’ve seen it time and again—how his gaze would flick to me during warm-ups. How his jaw locked every time I licked my lips. The way his stick flexed when he saw that I wore that sheer black corset to the Islanders game.

Lately he is always checking if I’m around when he enters the ice. And of course I am. I haven’t missed a single time, earning a wider and more happy smile each time he's seeing I'm still there… for him.

He’s been edging himself on my presence alone for months.

But tonight?

Tonight is different. For both of us.

There’s a current in the air, an almost unholy tension threading between us. His attention isn’t straying tonight. It’s locked. On me. Focused. Starving.

And tonight I’ve dialed myself up to max. Tiny dress. Blood-red lips. High heels that could stab a man’s pride. Letting myself come across as more inviting... hell... let's just be honest... I'm flirting with him like a woman possessed.

And I know—I know—he’s burning. I see it in the fire in the eyes under his helmet. Feel it in the way his eyes rake over my bare thighs like he wants to slam me against the boards and make me scream louder than the crowd.

My long plan is working. Every teasing outfit this season. Every not-so-accidental run-in. Every sultry gaze across the ice.

He has started to lower his normally sky-high defences... to trust that I’m seriously interested and I will let him decide if he wants to meet me so we can get to know each other.

Tonight it seems he has decided the time is right. I feel like molten fucking lava from the way he looks at me.

Poor puck-boy.

He has no idea how hard I’m going to let him puck me tonight.

Not just once.

Oh no.

He’s going to skate overtime between my thighs.

I tilt my head, let my hair spill like silk down one bare shoulder, and flash him the kind of smirk that once made a Russian prince drop to his knees and beg to worship my feet.

Luca doesn’t beg.

Yet.

Right now he’s dominating the rink like he’s been doing all season.

He’s a streak of dark fury out there, jaw clenched beneath his helmet, eyes locked on the puck like it’s personal.

And it is. Just five minutes into the game the Hurricanes’ captain slashed him hard. A quick, dirty hit to the face cage. Drew first blood. A sharp cut under Luca’s cheekbone.

I jumped to my feet, nearly shattered my champagne flute and screamed, “WHAT THE FUCK, REF? That’s a SLASH! OPEN YOUR GODDAMN EYES!”

The crowd near my VIP box startled—probably not used to hearing a mafia heiress showered in diamonds scream like a pissed-off enforcer’s wife. But fuck decorum.

Luca was bleeding. And nobody hurts what’s mine.

My blood boiled. Every nerve ending burned with the need to leap over the glass and defend him myself. I wanted to grab that ref by his striped collar and shake him like a snow globe.

But Luca didn’t even flinch. He just wiped the blood away with his glove, smirked like the devil to me, winked, and kept skating.

And now? Now he’s a predator hunting.

The puck rockets up the ice, chaos in motion. Carolina’s captain doesn’t even see him coming—not until Luca slams into him with a shoulder check so savage it rattles the boards and echoes through the Garden like thunder. The guy crumples. Hard.

The crowd erupts. I scream like I’ve just climaxed in Dior.

The refs whistle sharp. Two-minute minor. Roughing.

My pulse pounds in places it absolutely shouldn’t be—low, hot, wicked. I shift in my seat, the cool leather biting against my thighs, but it only sharpens the ache blooming inside me. I cross my legs tighter, grinding down just enough to steal a sliver of relief.

Just enough to keep from moaning out loud.

Because damn, he’s so fucking HOT—especially when he passes close by and smiles at me again.

Helmet off, Luca saunters into the penalty box like it’s his personal throne, mouthguard tucked in his glove, sweat glistening down his throat like sin.

I turn towards him and lean forward from my VIP suite which is only a few meters away, fingers tight on my champagne stem.

He looks up. Locks eyes with me. And I swear—my breath stutters.

Then that cocky bastard winks and spreads his legs wide. Lets his hips roll forward like a promise.

And then deliberately, wickedly, he rests those thick-gloved hands on his knees and drags them—obscenely slowly—up his inner thighs, spreading himself wider, wider, while I’m imagining what’s hidden beneath all that padded armor... right there.

At the hottest part of him—where his hands stop just short. The place my hands and mouth are aching to get up close and intimate with. My lips part. Heat floods me. I can’t look away.

I can’t see it—not really. But ohh, how I feel it. The weight of it. The potential. The way his body thrums with leashed power and my body hums in response.

He doesn’t touch it—no, he stops just short—teasing me like a goddamn striptease through Plexiglas. His grin turns feral when he sees my reaction.

And when his eyes drop to my mouth and that slow, sinful smirk curls his lips? He mouths something to me. Something filthy.

I can’t hear it. But I feel it.

Low. Deep. Wet.

It hits my core like a pulse bomb, and I bite down on my lip so hard I nearly draw blood.

Ohh yeah… he could slam me into the boards anytime.

Hell—he could make me beg for it.

Gods above, Luca always looks good... when he’s angry, when he’s sweaty, but I just realised... especially when he’s hungry... like now.

They call this the Eastern Conference Final, but tonight, it feels more like war.

And Luca? He’s my personal weapon of mass distraction.

As the clock ticks the seconds down of his penalty, I press my knees together and shift in my seat again, facing him directly. His eyes are still on me. Still dark. Still dangerous. So I decide to pay him back… just a little.

I strut my tits as much as I can. With a dirty look, I let the tip of my pink tongue swirl the rim of my champagne flute—like it’s the head of his cock.

I see his eyes darken, his jaw tighten and he needs to shift his position again. Good… at least I’m not the only one affected. I smirk back to him and mouth “Go get them, Gorgeous!”

He grins wickedly, get his gear back in line and gets out of the box like a man reborn. Steps onto the ice, locks onto the puck, and within seconds—snap. He fires a wrist shot so fast it’s practically invisible.

GOAL… the Rangers' first this game and when he lifts his stick, the crowd roars like gods have descended among them.

And then—he does it. Quickly turns to me. Blows me an air-kiss and I’m clenching hard, already dripping wet. He skates off, smirking.

And now I know for sure how this night will end. Tonight, I’ll suck all of his juices, every drop of it. I’ll bring every ounce of heat I’ve been saving for him for months, even years.

Tonight, I’ll swallow every drop, then build him up again and fuck him so hard that he can’t skate straight tomorrow.

I’m so hungry to touch him I’m almost vibrating from the need. From the torment of lusting for him for so long.

It doesn’t help that his face is always splashed across every sports-feed, his name trending hotter than any Grammy winner.

And let’s not forget last month’s NY Sports Weekly centerfold—“Ten Most F*ckable Players in the NHL.” Luca ranked #1, obviously, and sprawled across a double-page spread in nothing but a Rangers towel, that cocky, crooked smirk of his daring the reader to peel it away.

Rumor has it—whispered through locker rooms, echoed in VIP lounges, teased in late-night influencer circles—that he “triple pucks” every woman lucky enough to be handpicked by him.

Not that he picks many. Oh no. Luca Carver doesn’t touch the recycled puck bunnies that hover at the edges of every pro team, desperate for scraps. No—he’s guarded, picky.

Doesn’t let people past his ice-cold poker face which is his deadliest weapon on the rink. No opponent ever gets a read on him. They never see him coming—not before he buries them like an Avalanche.

And as for what exactly “triple pucked” means? Annoyingly, no one ever spells it out. But judging by the way half the women in this arena—married, single, dripping—looks eager to drop to their knees at center ice for him?

I think it’s safe to assume the rumors have teeth. That he’s a sex-god incarnate. Triple the pleasure. Triple the wreckage.

And tonight? I’m going to find out.

Finally.