Salvaged Puck: Secret Baby, Second-Chance Romance, page 31
SALVAGED PUCK
SECRET BABY, SECOND-CHANCE ROMANCE
THE SINFUL PUCK SERIES
BOOK 2
VINA MADISON
SILVER NOTES PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2025 by Silver Notes Publishing.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations or excerpts for review purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, locations, or incidents are products of imagination and used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, places, or events is purely coincidental.
Trigger Warning:
This novel contains mature themes and sensitive content, including graphic sexual scenes, violence, emotional manipulation, organized crime, and references to trauma, including parental death and psychological abuse. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
CONTENTS
Introduction
1. Liam
2. Emma
3. Liam
4. Emma
5. Liam
6. Emma
7. Liam
8. Emma
9. Liam
10. Liam
11. Emma
12. Liam
13. Emma
14. Liam
15. Emma
16. Emma
17. Liam
18. Emma
19. Liam
20. Emma
21. Liam
22. Emma
23. Liam
24. Emma
25. Liam
26. Emma
27. Liam
28. Emma
29. Liam
30. Liam
31. Emma
32. Liam
33. Emma
34. Emma
35. Liam
36. Emma
37. Epilogue - Liam
INTRODUCTION
She was my first love—the girl who shattered me.
And now she’s keeping a secret that calls me Daddy.
Emma Reyes crashes back into my world the night a baseball bat caves in my ribs.
My sunshine.
My childhood best friend.
The girl who vanished six years ago… now a nurse with secrets in her eyes.
I should stay away.
‘Cuz I’m neck-deep in my father’s mafia debt.
The Irish want blood payment—and mine’s at the top of their list.
But one look at Emma and I’m seventeen again… stupid enough to beg fate for one more chance.
Then I see her little boy.
Hazel-green eyes.
My goddamn eyes.
And the truth hits harder than any Browning bat.
Now the mob is circling her.
Her sister.
Our son.
All because of me.
I’ll raze Chicago before I let them touch what’s mine.
But she doesn’t know the whole truth yet.
And when she does…
Will she still choose the man who almost destroyed her world?
1
LIAM
The phone rings before I’ve even finished my first sip of coffee.
“Liam,” a tired voice says on the other end. “It’s Janet, from Lakeside Care.”
My stomach tightens. “Is she okay?”
“She’s fine,” Janet says quickly, that clipped nurse tone that means she’s not fine, but she’s stable. “Your mom’s blood pressure spiked again last night. We got it under control, but she’s refusing the medication this morning.”
Of course she is.
“I’ll stop by after practice,” I say, rubbing my temple. “Try to talk some sense into her.”
“Appreciate it,” Janet says, and hangs up.
No pleasantries. Just business.
I set the phone down on the counter and stare out the window of my father’s cramped house on the edge of Chicago with a chipped White Sox mug warming in hand. The coffee smells like dirt—my half-assed attempt at waking up my brain.
Two tins of Folgers, that’s what my old man left behind as his parting gift to me. His idea of a legacy. Which tastes like shitty memories.
I slept like hell last night.
Truth is, I haven’t slept well since I moved in a few years ago. Never thought I’d end up here, stuck in the house of the man who managed to fuck up my life beyond repair.
He was still alive when I got drafted to the Chicago Reapers.
Alive, but not living much of a life, if you know what I mean.
My old man was a gambling addict with more debt than he could’ve paid off in three lifetimes. There was no way out for him, so he made one for himself and left me a nuclear-sized mess to clean up.
I take another sip of coffee, bitter as the memory of both my parents, one buried, one fading.
And me? I’m just trying to make it through another day without losing what’s left of myself in the middle.
As I scan the street in front of the house, it’s just another gray Chicago morning. A neighbor walks her dog; a few cars roll by, nothing unusual—no sign of the thugs who sometimes camp outside in their dark-windowed Cadillac.
I ditch the shitty coffee and grab my hockey bag. The strap digs into my shoulder as I slip out the front door, keeping my head down like always.
I shove the bag in the back of my old Honda Accord and then slide behind the wheel. The seat groans beneath me, smelling faintly of sweat and motor oil.
I check the rearview before I even start the engine, holding a breath of relief until I’m out of the neighborhood with no one following me.
When did I turn into a paranoid weirdo? Good question.
Probably the day of my dad’s funeral.
I was the only one there—no surprise. He was such a mess of a human that no friends stuck around. I threw some dirt on the casket as it got lowered into the ground, and was halfway to my car when two shady bastards in black suits stopped me.
They told me I was now the proud inheritor of a multi-million-dollar debt, courtesy of “the piece of shit in that box.” Their words. Not mine.
Though I can’t say I disagree.
What I do disagree with is their transfer of debt.
It’s a bit of a hike from my dad’s place to the arena, but it’s all I can afford right now.
I crank the classic rock station because, yeah, my car’s too damn old for Bluetooth, and I need the noise to drown out everything else in my head.
When I pull into the player’s parking garage, a sleek, red Porsche 911 pulls in next to me.
I sigh as we get out at the same time, both grabbing our bags.
“Connor,” I say blandly.
“Liam,” he says, grinning a perpetual grin. “Why the fuck haven’t you ditched that fucking Honda, dude? Seriously, you’re a first-string professional hockey player, not a public school teacher.”
I pat the dented hood of the silver shitbox. “I’ll drive her until she dies. No need to give up a good thing just because she has a few wrinkles.”
Connor snorts and points at me like I’m selling something. “Ha! I see what you did there, and I appreciate it, but no actual human woman is going to want to get in that thing. If you want pussy, you need something suited to your status in life.”
He spreads his arms wide, indicating that his bright-red German showpiece glinting under the lights is exactly the ‘something’ he’s talking about.
Additionally, my status in life is far from Porsche-level. Which is kinda fucking depressing.
“How ‘bout this?” Connor says. “You go inside, and I’ll, like, dismantle the engine or something. You can come out later and be like, Whoa! Who would do such a thing? And your insurance would be like, It’s not worth fixing, so here’s a check, go get something new.”
I roll my eyes. “Insurance fraud. Sounds like a dandy idea.”
He laughs, and I shake my head; we walk in together. I head straight to my locker and change for practice. We run drills for a while before I head down to the gym for a session with my athletic trainer.
Paul’s been my guy for a couple of years now, which means he thinks we’re friends, which means he talks my fucking ear off during every session. Still, he knows his stuff when it comes to workouts that help build muscle and prevent injury.
Knock on wood, I haven’t had an injury keep me sidelined for more than a week in my whole time here.
“So I told her we should just take a break,” Paul says, jumping back into a story he started, oh, maybe thirty minutes ago. “I mean, it wasn’t that serious, but she thought it was. Total miscommunication, right? Like, we never even talked about being exclusive. And honestly, she’s not someone I’d ever settle down with anyway. Not that I’m planning to settle down anytime soon.”
I grunt an assent because I’ve really just been half paying attention as I’ve been doing the reps he tells me to do. And that’s fine—talking isn’t really my thing. If he wants to fill the room with noise, I’m not stopping him.
“So you wanna go, then?” he asks.
“Huh? Go where?”
“Out. A few of us are hitting a club tonight. Grabbing drinks.”
“Oh,” I say.
I take a long swig of water, thinking. I did
promise I’d stop by Lakeside to make sure my mom took her meds tonight. It’s not far from the arena, and it’s been a few days since I’ve seen her. She’ll give me grief if I skip out again.
But what’s my other option? Drive straight back to my dad’s place afterward and stare out the window like a paranoid asshole?
“Yeah,” I say finally. “I’ll go. Might be late, though. Gotta check in on my mom first.”
“Oh, good,” he says, grinning. “Good, good. I’ve got a couple more guys to work with. We’re starting at one of the sports bars around seven. I’ll text you the spot.”
I nod and gather my gear. After a quick shower, I stop by the therapy room for a quick massage—just enough to loosen the knot in my shoulder before I deal with whatever version of Mom I’m walking into tonight.
She’ll try to act fine, of course.
But she always does.
Two hours later, and I’m not, in fact, having beers and burgers at a sports bar.
No.
I’m at a fucking strip club.
And it is, without question, the weirdest thing ever.
Sure, there is food, but imagine what it’s like to be sitting in some roped-off VIP area with a basket of chicken wings and a side of fries, just casually munching away while a woman on stage writhes around with her tits and ass out, glistening under strobe lights.
Yeah. Fucking weird.
It’s not that I’m not into women. I am. But sex is kind of a means to an end for me, and I sure as hell don’t pay for it.
So when one of the dancers wanders over, and the guys throw down cash for a lap dance, I just sit there like a chair without a person in it and let her do her thing.
She’s pretty enough, I guess, and her body is smoking. She looks confident, but smells like sweat and coconut oil, and I feel absolutely nothing around her.
“What a piece of fuckin’ cardboard,” Connor hoots. “Good lord, are you a dead fish in bed, Lee-Lee? Just sit there and let her do all the work? Come here, Princess, come dance on a live human.”
The dancer laughs and shrugs, moving over to Conner, who happily slides a bill into her bikini bottoms.
Personally, I think he’s a little too handsy, but she doesn’t seem to mind the ass-grabbing and tit motorboating.
All I can do is sigh and drink my beer.
“This is...not my cup of tea,” I tell Paul in between songs.
“Okay, okay,” he says, grinning wildly and very clearly already drunk. “Guys, guys, let’s go down to Magnolia, yeah?”
We all shuffle a few doors down to another club. This one is a dance club, at least, and I go out on the floor for a few songs because I don’t feel like sitting on my ass anymore.
I take a couple of shots to loosen up, and I find a petite woman to dance with. Finally, late in the night, she asks me if I want to go somewhere, and it sort of jars me to some state of semi-sobriety.
“Ah,” I say, stepping back slightly. “I don’t. Um. No, thank you. But I had fun. Dancing.”
She gives me a look mixed with confusion and amusement before heading toward someone more interested in parting with cash.
The lights flash pink and blue across the stage, and the bass thumps so hard I feel it in my chest. My head’s spinning, the alcohol thick in my veins.
I stumble off the floor, dodging a server carrying a tray of shots, and Connor catches my arm. “Dude, what the fuck are you doing? Go get laid already.”
I put up a hand. “Nah. I’m good, man. Gonna walk back to my car and sober up.”
He stares at me as if I’ve just spoken in tongues. “Jesus fuck,” he mutters, rubbing a hand over his face. “You’re unbelievable. Most guys dream of nights like this, and you’re out here acting like you’re eighty.”
I smirk faintly. “Maybe I’ve just lived a harder eighty than most.”
Connor laughs, loud and genuine, but I can tell he doesn’t get it. He never will.
I shrug, back out of the booth, and make for the bathroom. Take a piss. Splash water on my face. Try to wash off the night.
Outside, the air’s cool, Chicago’s version of a wake-up call. The breeze cuts through the leftover heat from the club, helping me feel halfway human again.
A pizza truck’s parked a block away, the smell of garlic and burnt cheese floating through the air. I grab a slice of pizza and a bottle of water, figuring carbs and grease will do more good than another drink.
I eat standing on the curb, watching the city breathe. The buzz fades, and with it, the noise in my head.
If I’m still not sober by the time I hit the garage, I’ll crash in the car—no sense adding to the shit show by driving drunk.
As I walk, my mind starts drifting to places I swore I’d stopped visiting.
To olive skin and wild, dark curls.
To sky-blue eyes and a perfect, pink mouth.
We met as kids. Friends first.
Then more.
We had a plan.
And then she just... left.
No goodbye. No explanation. Just gone.
And my heart was fucking shattered.
I drag a hand down my face.
Fuck.
I can’t go there. Not tonight.
Fucking alcohol.
Fuck my life.
I guzzle the water and toss the bottle into a bin. Shoving my hands in my pockets, I walk fast, forcing my brain to clear. I do not need to be a drunken sad sack tonight.
Maybe I should’ve stayed at the club.
Maybe I should’ve taken that dancer home.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
By the time I hit the edge of the parking garage, something feels off. The air’s too still. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight, and the buzz is burned out in an instant.
Then two men step out of the shadows.
One of them’s holding a baseball bat.
And just like that, maybe turns into definitely.
2
EMMA
“So Laddie and I are sitting at dinner the other night,” I say, grabbing a sip of lukewarm coffee as Mel and I take a rare breather from the chaos of the ER. “He begged me to get pizza, and apparently, takeout wasn’t cutting it. No, he had to sit in the booth, with the leather seats, and have the pizza come out still sizzling in the deep dish pan. Full experience.”
Mel chuckles as she files her nails. “I remember that, though. Going to Giuseppe’s and having a Pepsi in one of those tall, red cups. And the pizza would come out still steaming, so hot you’d burn the roof of your mouth.”
“Exactly,” I say, laughing. “So, there we are, living his little dream, and he just rips one. Loud enough to rattle the salt shaker. I swear it echoed off every wall in that place. I look around, and there’s this old couple in the next booth, and the woman’s staring at us like I just committed a felony. So I’m like, ‘Laddie, buddy, we don’t fart at the dinner table.’”
Mel laughs so hard she nearly drops her nail file. “Oh, come on—he’s what, five? Six?”
I roll my eyes. “That’s not even the story. He farts all the time. The fart wasn’t the issue. I just didn’t want a lecture from the old bat about my unruly child or whatever.”
I pause, grinning at the memory. “And somehow, the kid summons a perfectly decent British accent, like, straight out of Buckingham Palace, and repeats me. ‘Laddie, we don’t fart at the dinner table.’”
Mel covers her mouth, already losing it.
“Wait, it gets better,” I say. “Because then he lifts a cheek, Mel. He lifts a cheek and lets another one rip while doing the accent again.”
Mel is wheezing. “No!”
“It was horrible and wonderful at the same time, and I couldn’t help but laugh, and before I knew it, I was crying, my stomach hurt, and I couldn’t stop laughing, which of course only spurred him on. And finally, the old couple just gets up and leaves. They left their half-eaten pizza, threw down a few bills, and just walked out.”
“Good riddance, ya old fuckers,” Mel snorts. “Power to the people.”
“Power to the farts,” I say, and we both dissolve into another round of laughter that earns us a glare from the charge nurse.
“Maybe he’s got a future in theater,” she suggests.
