Pucked Over (Pucked #3) (42 page)

“I’m his stepsister. He likes to keep me a secret since he wants to go all Ophelia on my ass.” My eyes widen at my terrible joke. Though, if he’s anything like Buck, he won’t get the reference.

“Butterson would make a crap nun, eh?”

I swear he’s made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct eye contact. Or I try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face, so that’s a challenge.

Normally, I’d be put out by his blatant ogling, but I’ve asked for it with the sheer shirt and the ostentatious bra.

I further my own embarrassment and his by cupping my breasts and squeezing. “They’re nice for real ones, huh?”

His eyes shoot to mine. Busted.

“I uh—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”

This is one of the most entertaining interactions I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.

Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it’s abundantly clear she’s not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His arm is like a rock. “Check out Buck’s friend.”

The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Cooter-flasher leans forward and gives our table an even better view.

“Is that—am I looking at her beaver?”

Mid-swig, I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. After I recover, I ask jokingly, “‘Beaver’? Are you Canadian or something?”

Those vibrant eyes move to mine. God, he’s awfully pretty. And close. He’s really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells yummy.

He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring. Or the question may have stumped him.

My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated previously—have led me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m aware this isn’t a universal truth. But Buck certainly reinforces my perceived stereotype: he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m intrigued.

“Yeah, I’m Canadian.”

“Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers? Like the Brits call them fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed; otherwise, I’d blame it on drunkenness.

He blinks a few times. “Did you say ‘pussy’?”

It’s possible his helmet wasn’t up to code and he sustained a head injury during the fight. There’s a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. It’s not ugly, though. It’s sexy, in an I-fuck-people-up way.

“No, I said ‘pussies,’ plural, as in more than one.” I’m making a complete ass out of myself.

To avoid saying something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the crap coming out of my mouth, I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire.

Buck grabs my arm as I pass him. “Hey, what’s with you and Waters?”

Alex is shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he’s leaving. Too bad; he was fun to talk to and nice to look at.

I sigh with irritation. “It's common courtesy to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you, or did you miss the rules of social etiquette in kindergarten?”

“Rules of what?”

“Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? Ignore him? I was being polite.” And Alex is entertaining.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know these guys that well yet and he’s got a rep. Be careful who you get friendly with.”

“I wasn’t giving him a handy under the table. We were talking. I’m going for a smoke.”

Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature has dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater. Finding my smokes, I pop one between my lips and search for my lighter. I can’t find it anywhere.

“Need a light?” I pull my head out of my purse to find Waters holding a pack of matches.

“Are you following me?”

He shrugs and gives me a grin that could obliterate my panties. If I were dumb enough to allow myself to be affected in such a way. I’m not. Mostly.

“I thought you might like some company.” He flips open the matchbook and tears one free.

I purse the cigarette between my lips. Alex strikes the match and curves his palm to protect the flame. He watches while I inhale, the embers burning orange as I take a shallow drag and cough.

“Shit!” Tears spring to my eye as I eye toke the smoke. Swearing like a sailor, I cover my eye with my palm.

“You’ve got a dirty mouth, eh?”

“Only when I try and smoke with my eyeball,” I say between coughs.

Alex tosses the matches on a table and pats my back until I stop hacking up a lung. “Butterson doesn’t seem too happy.”

Through the window I spot Buck and the Beave. She’s not pulling the selfie business, so he doesn’t seem to mind her hanging off his arm while he glares in our direction. He’s being a colossal douche tonight.

“Screw Buck.” I take a fake drag of my cigarette.

Dimples appear in Alex’s cheeks as I exhale a cloud of smoke and choke back another cough.

“Do you even smoke?”

I debate lying and decide against it. “Not really. I do it as a way to escape awkward social situations.”

“So you came out here to get away from me?”

“Not you in particular.”

His tongue peeks out to sweep across his bottom lip. He’s got a nice mouth, even with the split in the corner. Remembering the way he took out the Atlanta guy makes me warm all over. Thoughts such as these are bound to get me into trouble. Hockey players are bad news. Especially ones as hot as he is.

He’s looking at me expectantly. Dammit. He must have asked a question. My mind is wandering like a squirrel on Red Bull.

“Sorry, what?” I flick the ash on my cigarette.

“You were reading during the game—what book?” He sounds genuinely curious and a little offended.

“
Tom Jones
. I have to finish it for my book club on Tuesday.”

Wow. Do I ever sound like a winner. He must have been watching me while he was in the time-out box.

“Fielding at a hockey game? Kind of cerebral with beer and violence, isn’t it?”

I blink as if I’ve been high beamed with a flashlight. Alex knows who wrote
Tom Jones
, and he’s used the word
cerebral
in the appropriate context. I was right; he did get my Shakespeare reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players—with one sentence. In doing so, he’s become infinitely hotter than he was five seconds ago.

“You’ve read Fielding?” I take a step closer. My voice is low, as if I’ve switched into phone-sex operator mode.

“I-I-I—”

It’s adorable. He’s wearing an expression I’m familiar with: panic merged with fear. I sport the same one when I inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness. Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake smoking crutch.

“I think literacy is sexy,” I whisper.

“Me, too.” His dimples make an appearance.

I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something completely out of character. It’s so outside of my personal code of conduct that I’ll probably relive the incident over and over trying to figure out what flipped the switch. For the time being, I’m blaming the beers, jetlag, and his accurate literary references.

I grab Waters by the shirt and pull his face to mine.

His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin, and I like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth. Well, that’s not true. I slide it across his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split, and he parts for me. Soft, warm, and wet meet more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like chocolate and, more faintly, coffee liqueur.

His hand runs a hot trail along my side, and he pulls me tight against him. He’s all hard edges and heat, and I can feel . . .
holy
. . . there’s a massive bulge pressed against my stomach.

After far too short a time, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear. “Do you want to get out of here?”

“Buck will kill you.”

“I can take him.”

Wasted is as Wasted Does

I’m super wasted. Like, messed up to the point that Lance, my teammate, has two sets of eyes.

I need water—and that horrible drink my trainer, Natasha, gives me when I’m hungover. But Lance’s kitchen is way far away. I stumble into the massive living room and over to the unoccupied couch. When my knees hit the arm, I fall forward like a tree. My aim is bad, and I’m on an angle, so I roll off and smack my head on the coffee table.

“Ow! Fuck!” There isn’t enough space for me to turn onto my back, so I lie there instead, wedged between the couch and the coffee table.

Lance laughs. “You all right, Butterson?”

“There’s a spent condom under here.”

“Oh yeah? Wanna get that for me.”

“Pretty sure I don’t.” It’s covered in dust, but I can tell it’s red—so he definitely got it from me. Or maybe I’m the one who used it. I have no idea. I always order the assorted rainbow pack that comes with the big container of lube.

I’ve nicknamed the condoms according to color: red is for devil dick, green is the green giant, blue is for smurf cock, and the black is the sledgehammer. I’m not a fan of the yellow ones; they look less banana-y and more like my dick has jaundice. My personal faves are the glow-in-the-dark ones, which make my dick look like a big glow stick.

“You gonna lie on the floor, or are you coming outside to hang in the hot tub?”

“I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“Whatever you say, Butterson. But if you fall asleep there, I’m not waking your ass up.”

“That’s fine.”

I watch pointy heels teetering toward the patio doors.

“I don’t have a bathing suit,” says Flash Beaver.

Lance puts an arm around her waist, his hand settling on her ass. “Who needs bathing suits?”

Loud music blasts through the house and the outdoor speakers. I hear a distant splash and a scream. Someone got thrown in the pool. I lay with my cheek mashed against the floor, staring at the dusty condom, wishing I’d gone home instead of coming here. I must pass out like that, because the next thing I know, the doorbell’s ringing. It takes me three tries to get up. Then the door isn’t staying still, so it’s hard to get to.

I pay the pizza guy with my credit card and take the boxes and six-pack of soda. I don’t bother to call the other guys. If I know Lance, he’s got those girls down to their bras and underwear—except for the one who wasn’t wearing any in the first place.

I take the pizza over to the coffee table, crack a soda, and chug it. I need to hydrate so I don’t puke like a pussy during tomorrow’s training session. Water would be better, but I’m already sitting down. Before I dig in, I take off my pants. I’m not worried about spilling food on them; I’m just tired of wearing jeans. I also like the freedom from clothes. I run hot, so it’s nice when I can strip down to the bare essentials, which is often nothing.

Since I’m not in my own house, I keep the boxers and T-shirt on. I don’t normally do underwear, but clubs are hot. They make my balls stick to my leg otherwise. I get comfortable on the couch. It’s white leather, which is a stupid color choice, but whatever. I flip open the pizza box, groaning at the sight of melted cheese and piles of meaty awesomeness.

When Sunny and I order pizza, there isn’t even cheese. She doesn’t eat anything with a face, or that came from something with a face. I don’t think I could live without cow in my life, but that’s me.

As I tear a slice free, the cheese clings to his brothers like he’s terrified of his fate. I lean over the box—I’m too lazy to go to the kitchen and get a plate—and take a huge bite. It’s hot. Like, out-of-the-oven hot, which is crazy because it’s clearly not just out of the oven. If I was less drunk, I might have paid attention to the puff of steam when I tore out the first slice, but I’m in too much of a hurry to get food in my belly.

The cheese scalds the roof of my mouth and strings settle on my chin, burning that, too. I drop the slice, half of it drooping over the edge of the box onto the coffee table and the most recent edition of
The Hockey News
. Cracking another soda, I chug half the can to cool my mouth. I suck at life tonight.

While I wait for the pizza to cool, I search for the remote. It’s not on the coffee table or under the pizza box. I find it stuck between the couch cushions along with a pair of panties. I leave those where they are.

Two in the morning doesn’t boast much in the way of quality programming. Other than infomercials and porn, I have a choice between sports highlights and old sitcoms or the music video channel. I flip aimlessly, pausing at some bad porn. I doubt I’ll have the energy to whack off later. I might be drunk enough to have whiskey dick, even though I don’t drink whiskey.

I settle on the music video channel and get back to the pizza, which is now cool enough to eat. I devour half the box and nod off on the couch. The only reason I wake up is because my phone rings. It’s in my pants, which are on the floor about twenty feet away, so I miss the call. I decide I’d rather sleep in a bed than on Lance’s couch. I’ve crashed here enough times since I was traded mid-season to have a room I call dibs on when I get too wasted to take my ass home.

I have no idea if Lance and Randy are still outside with the girls. If they are, there’s a good chance that hot tub is going to need a serious cleaning tomorrow. I almost trip over my pants on the way upstairs. I drag them with me to the second floor and crash into the spare bedroom.

Kicking the door closed, I pull my shirt over my head, drop my boxers, and fall face down on the mattress. Music still pounds through the speakers outside, making the whole house vibrate. It’s not pop anymore; it’s some cheesy love ballad from the eighties. It sounds like something Sunny would like.