Kiss and Puck Chapter 13
He was unraveling the memories when he suddenly recalled that morning a year ago, the day of the home game.
Just like any other morning before a match, the team had gathered in the university cafeteria, fueling their energy over breakfast with the usual chatter and backslaps.
Then suddenly, Leviniski let out a scream as if he had seen a ghost, and every eye in the place snapped toward him.
“Shit, shit…! All the lucky charms are gone!”
Leviniski stood before the empty cereal dispenser, looking utterly defeated as he raked his fingers through his hair.
Lucky Charms was a flavor of cereal where little marshmallows shaped like shamrocks and horseshoes were scattered across a corn flake base—a classic good-luck talisman.
He had to eat Lucky Charms every morning before a game; it was practically a superstition.
Leviniski stormed up to the kitchen staff, demanding to know where the Lucky Charms had gone.
The chef replied with a tired sigh, “They’re all gone. Come back tomorrow.”
Tristan narrowed his eyes at those words.
Of course it was a lie.
Only a few weeks earlier Leviniski had complained about the lack of protein options on the cafeteria menu—pure payback.
“Captain… this feels off. I might actually get hurt this time around.”
Leviniski lay face-down on the table, sobbing, and Tristan let out a heavy sigh.
Today the goaltender’s role was more critical than ever, and Leviniski’s mental state looked ready to snap.
Of course it wasn’t just Leviniski—every hockey player carried his own ridiculous superstitions.
One never shaved during the entire season, another would slam his stick in the toilet if the team went on a losing streak, and still another would chug water until his urine ran crystal clear before stepping onto the ice.
Given how many uncontrollable variables decided a game, Tristan supposed it made sense that players clung to such nonsense.
But the whole idea struck him as pathetic.
Superstitions are just fairy tales that only weak-minded people believe in.
So he would never make the mistake of relying on anything like that.
Tristan was pathologically allergic to depending on anything.
He didn’t even drink coffee—not for the caffeine, but because he refused to let anything outside himself control his mind.
Same reason, he avoided alcohol, the so-called social lubricant.
Still, someone had to keep the team’s mental game sharp.
This is annoying as hell.
Marching over to the convenience store now would waste precious time, and dealing with the kitchen staff was already exhausting.
That was when a young Asian woman seated at the far end of the cafeteria caught his eye.
She was staring straight at him with open curiosity, and Tristan’s brow furrowed.
What exactly is she looking at?
He sent her a cold glare that usually made normal students shrink back.
But this girl didn’t flinch.
Instead she shot up from her seat and started walking toward him.
Great.
Tristan leaned back against the booth, arms crossed, offering her the most arrogant stare he could manage.
Act cool all you want, princess, but try not to bother me with some silly stunt right before the game.
By the time she reached the hockey table she had already fished something from her hoodie pocket.
While ignoring the whistles and catcalls of the male students, she quietly tore open a bag and poured the colorful heart- and clover-shaped marshmallows directly onto Leviniski’s empty bowl of corn flakes.
The result looked almost suspiciously like a proper serving of Lucky Charms—bright, colorful, and way more appetizing.
Leviniski’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
“Whoa! What the—? An angel? T-thank you!”
Tristan was about to chuckle and offer her a polite thanks when she simply turned and walked away without another word.
When she returned to her own table she immediately popped in her earbuds and buried herself in her meal again, as if the favor had been nothing more than a passing courtesy.
At that moment Tristan couldn’t hold back a loud, genuine laugh.
It was ridiculous—his own assumption that she might ask for a photo or an autograph had been completely off.
Leviniski poured everything he had into the game that day.
He stopped every puck the opposing team threw at him.
His teammates later claimed the victory was thanks to the “marshmallow girl”’s blessing.
After that day Tristan had tried to forget her, but fate brought them back together at a pub on signing night.
Only then did he learn her full name.
Cora Han.
She carried herself with the kind of effortless cool that reminded him of a cat with her claws fully extended.
But even those dainty nails wouldn’t do much damage, would they?
What really bothered him was the way those eyes saw straight through his defenses.
That was exactly why he had deliberately provoked her at the pub that night.
Better to be hated than ignored.
Seeing her made him curious—wondering what that prickly attitude was actually hiding.
Just how long can you keep playing it so cool right in front of me?
At that moment a fierce impulse surged through him—to drag her down completely, rip every layer away, and make her kneel at his feet.
Yet he wasn’t particularly interested in women.
Still, they clung to him anyway, desperate for even the slightest attention.
To girls who valued appearances, he was the perfect trophy.
They twisted his casual kindness into something far more meaningful, then spent months nursing a broken heart.
Annoying.
But Cora, who clearly showed no interest in him, was a challenge worth pursuing.
So he baited her the way he baited defenders during games—by throwing a fake pass.
Last time, right before she could settle her card at the pub, he had deliberately opened his credit-app and tapped the “authorization declined” button.
She was forced to call him herself to resolve it.
That one-week wait had been pure torture.
He had even lured her into the arena on game day, leading her straight to the locker room so he could watch her reaction up close.
Ever since that day I’ve been constantly on your mind.
Her clumsy imitation of him at the pub that night was proof enough.
His presence had already carved itself deep into her unconscious.
But the man standing right beside her—Luca Cruz—had been unbearably annoying.
A quarterback rival… she had no idea how good she had it.
“¿Es tu novia, verdad?”
“Todavía no, pero pronto.”
It seemed Cora didn’t understand a word of Spanish.
Luca Cruz had no clue he was wearing a harmless “boy-next-door” mask while his true intentions burned beneath the surface.
At that moment pure irritation flared in Tristan’s chest.
Someone had to know how to smile like that while examining a girl like a bug.
Luca had a talent for disarming people.
His touch on Cora’s shoulder had been far too natural, and the way he didn’t hesitate to pull her closer spoke of a closeness that ran far deeper than friendship.
Tristan studied the way Luca’s hand settled so casually against her shoulder.
The fact that Cora didn’t pull away suggested their emotional distance had narrowed more than either of them wanted to admit.
At least he hasn’t tried to kiss her yet. If he had, those hands would already be on her waist or lower.
Annoying, yes.
But perhaps it was better this way—the more obstacles, the more interesting the game became.