Pucking Revenge : A Fake dating, friends to lovers, hockey romance (The Revenge Games Book 2)
Pucking Revenge : Chapter 20

THE MOMENT I wake up I wiggle my ass against Brook’s very obvious erection. “Is there a tree in this bed, or are you just happy to see me?”

He groans and clamps down on my hip to still my movements.

“What do you call morning wood that wakes you up?”

“Sara.”

I laugh. “No. Alarm cock.”

He nuzzles into my neck. Then, with a growl, he nibbles at the place where my neck and shoulder meet.

I yelp and push back into him further. “You want me to take care of that? We could give your uncle another show this morning.”

“How is it that twelve hours ago, you were the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen, but right now you’re driving me nuts?”

I hum, tucking away those words—hottest fucking thing—to analyze later. “It’s impressive, isn’t it? A real talent. But you know what else I’m talented at? Sucking cock. You should let me show you.” I attempt to spin in his arms, but he tightens his grip. “Brooks!”

“Saint. We’ve been over this. I’m a goddamn saint for not flipping you over and fucking you senseless for the way you’re rubbing your sexy little bare ass against my very erect, as you’ve pointed out, penis.”

“Oh my God.” Laughter bubbles out of me, and I throw my head back on the pillow. “You just said penis. So technical.” I take a deep breath to calm myself and peek over at him. Then, channeling my inner sex kitten, I whisper, “Please, Saint. Fuck me with your erect phallus.”

He huffs and glowers at me. “Are you done yet?”

“Stick it between my silky folds and puncture my vagina.”

His face screws up in a look of pure revulsion. “What the fuck kinda dirty talk did you and Coach partake in?” He palms his forehead. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”

I laugh. “Nah. I got the terms from the romance books I read. You’d be surprised by the words people use to describe their nether regions.” I wiggle against him again and rest my head on my pillow. “Thanks for not getting weird on me after last night.”

Brooks snuggles into the space between my shoulder and neck. “You’re weird enough for the both of us.”

“True.” I hum.

As silence falls between us, I replay last night. Unlike some of the books I’ve read, Brooks has no problem with the dirty talk. Fuck. His words are now the official soundtrack to all the images in my spank bank.

I clear my throat, hoping the action also clears away the lust that’s just started to swirl inside me. “You nervous about the game tonight?”

“Nah. But I should get moving. I have a lot to do.”

The clock on my nightstand reads 6:55 a.m. “What in the hell do you have to do at this hour?”

“I start every morning before a home game at the diner.”

Oh, hockey players and their superstitions. I didn’t grow up around hockey. Until I was hired by Langfield Corp, I’d never watched a single game. Early on, when I mentioned that to Liv, she slapped a hand over my mouth, peered over her shoulder, and told me never to repeat it.

So then I went in the opposite direction and told Brooks and the guys that I’m a rabid hockey fan. When they questioned me, I swore I knew all the ins and outs. That resulted in me having to look up every little thing he and his friends talked about.

Why I didn’t just come out with it and tell the truth—that I’m a regular, everyday girl with some knowledge but not a ton—is beyond me. It probably has something to do with how I turn into a whack job when I’m nervous. I just start talking, and sometimes I talk myself right into a corner.

“Would you want to come to breakfast with me, Pumpkin?”

The question throws me for a loop. Partly because I was in my head again, but also because I’ve never gone to breakfast with him before a game. Wouldn’t my presence interrupt his ritual? I wiggle my way to my other side so I can face him. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Brooks clears his throat and takes a deep breath. “Sar, you’re currently naked in my arms.”

With a grin, I peek down. “Well, look at that. Spoiler alert, I don’t wear clothes to bed. Why bother? You’ve already been near my ass.”

His laugh is like a hit of serotonin, instantly relaxing me. When I woke up, I silently panicked, sure he would act weird about last night.

Maybe we can have fun while we’re faking things. I certainly wouldn’t mind returning the favor. My best friend is hot. And last night, he proved that he’s not just a pretty face. The man knows what he’s doing with those fingers. And those thighs? God, I can only imagine what they’re capable of. The power in that tight, toned body. The stamina.

Suddenly salivating, I lick my lips and eye his ripped chest. In the middle of my perusal, his dick thumps against my belly. Instantly, heat pools in my core, and I have to bite down on my lip to hold back a groan.

“Okay,” he says, his voice tight. “I’m getting out of bed.”

He releases me, but this time I’m the one clinging to him. With more strength than I knew I possessed, I push him onto his back. Then I straddle him so that he’ll have to throw me if he wants to move. His hands fall against the mattress and he fists the sheets. “Sar, you’re fucking⁠—”

When he doesn’t finish the sentence, I wiggle atop him. “I’d like to be fucking, but someone won’t let me.”

His focus lowers inch by inch from my face to my chest. He swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple working, then he drags his gaze back up to my face again, wide-eyed and heaving, as if he shouldn’t be looking at me. The sheet has fallen and I’m bare as the day I was born, completely on display and not ashamed in the least. What’s there to be ashamed of? I have great tits. He should stare.

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Sara.”

Butterflies take flight in my belly at the awe in his tone.

“The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.” He focuses on me as he confesses, his full attention locked on my face. Like he really wants me to hear his every word. He’s so damn respectful, even when he’s literally talking about how gorgeous he thinks I am while I’m naked and straddling him.

This man is a gem.

“Fine, I’ll go to breakfast with you.” I dismount quickly, throwing one leg over him, and hop off the bed. At the bathroom door, I throw a look over my shoulder and replace him staring at my ass.

With a saucy wink, I give it a little shake, then continue on my way.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and with my hair pulled back in a ponytail—tight on the top but curly in the back, to change things up—I’m damn proud of how put together I am. It’s not even eight a.m. on a Saturday, and I’m ready to walk out the door. I’m patting myself on the back when Brooks walks into my apartment wearing a goddamn navy suit.

“I thought we were going to the diner.”

He holds the door open and nods for me to exit. “We are.”

“Brooks Langfield,” I chide, digging for my keys so I can lock the door. “Not once in the time I’ve known you have you acted like the cajillinoaire you are until this very moment.”

He frowns and runs his palm over his hair, smoothing the already perfect style.

I spin and take off toward the elevator. “No one wears a freaking suit to the diner.”

“I wear one every time.” He eats up the distance between us with his long legs, and in three strides, he’s walking beside me.

I don’t say anything while we wait at the elevator bank, but I keep my focus trained on him. He’ll figure it out if I give him a minute.

It doesn’t take long before he goes ramrod straight in acknowledgment, and half a second later, he drops his head forward and sags. “I wore a suit every time I went to breakfast with my uncle.”

I step closer and tug on his lapels, forcing him to look at me. “If you want to wear a suit, that’s okay.”

His eyes fall shut, and he grimaces like he’s in pain. “It’s like I’m unlearning everything I was ever taught. I’ve been doing it forever. Putting on this suit, walking into that diner. Fuck, we were like gods. But we treated everyone with respect. Or at least I thought I did. Maybe⁠—”

I lift on my toes and press a finger to his lips. “You’ve always been the best person in every room. He didn’t make you that way.” I tug on the fabric again. “But neither did this suit. Choice is yours. You get to choose who you want to be now. And I won’t judge your decision. Swear it.”

He lowers his forehead to mine. For a long moment, we stay like that, me holding on to his suit jacket, his head resting against mine, like he’s literally leaning on me for support. “I think I’m going to change.”

“Okay.”

He presses a kiss to my nose, and my heart trips over itself.

“What other pregame superstitions do you have?”

We’re sitting in the back, mostly out of view of other diners. When we walked in, every person we encountered greeted him warmly. The waitress’s smile faltered for only a moment when she caught sight of me. She recovered quickly and was nothing but pleasant when she waved us back to Brooks’s usual spot. On our way there, customer after customer said hello, shook his hand, and wished him good luck tonight. One or two even hollered you bringing us the Cup again this year?

As we sat, me facing Brooks and him facing the restaurant, he was at ease, like this was an everyday occurrence. I, on the other hand, itched and fidgeted, certain that every person in the place would be watching us through the entire meal.

Is this how his life is all the time? Normally, we hang out in one of our apartments or at the Bolts’ bar, where regular fans can’t congregate. It didn’t hit me until this moment that I’ve never really witnessed his day-to-day life.

“I’ll go for a jog when we get home. When it gets too cold, I hit up the gym so I can run on the treadmill. Just to loosen my legs up a bit. Nothing strenuous. Plus, running helps clear my head. I take a nap in the afternoon, followed by sitting in my apartment in the quiet, visualizing the game.” He peels back the paper ring holding the napkin and silverware together. “The plays I’ll make. I walk through every scenario and consider the ways I’ll block the puck. Then music an hour before the game.”

My chest aches with affection at his sincerity. “Do you have a playlist?”

One side of his mouth ticks up, and he pulls his phone from his pocket. He knows me so well. He knows how nosy I am and that I’m itching to see the songs he’s put together. Without a word, without a single instruction or warning about what I can or can’t look at, he slides the device across the table to me.

God, he’s such a good guy. One day some woman is going to be incredibly lucky to have him.

And for just a moment, I’d like to practice Brooks’s visualization tactics and imagine scratching her eyes out.

The waitress appears beside us, and I order pumpkin pancakes with candied walnuts and extra whipped cream. When she slides her pad into her apron without taking Brooks’s order, I frown at her, then at him.

“Don’t you have to order?”

The woman hovering at the end of the table shakes her head. “Six egg-white omelet with sautéed veggies. A side of turkey bacon and whole wheat toast. And a glass of orange juice and black coffee.”

My face sours. “That’s⁠—”

Brooks laughs and splays one hand on the sticky table in front of him. “You know what? She’s right. Make it a bacon and cheddar omelet, breakfast potatoes, and rye toast.”

The waitress blinks a couple of times, but she nods quickly and yanks her order pad from her apron again. “Of course, Brooks. I’ll put that right in.”

I bite my lip to contain my glee. Because Robotic Brooks is breaking down. He doesn’t need to change. He’s the most incredible man. But he should be living his life for himself. Not for Seb.

He deserves to make choices based on what he wants, not who his uncle molded him to be. The important parts of Brooks won’t change, regardless of what he eats or how he dresses.

The good, kind human he is, the funny guy who makes me smile even when I’m feeling down, has nothing to do with his uncle. He didn’t create the man who snuggles me whether I’m naked and in bed or in sweats and eating sweets on the couch.

“Pretty proud of yourself right now, aren’t you?” he teases, his green eyes warm and the skin at his temples crinkling with happiness. He’s dressed in a gray Henley now. The way it stretches across his chest is doing funny things to my insides. Especially now that I know what it’s like to sleep on the expanse of it. Even though he’s covered in muscles—literally ripped in a way I didn’t think was humanly possible—he’s soft too.

All of North America knows what Brooks looks like in nothing but his underwear, since he’s modeled quite a few varieties on billboards and in magazines. But to be pressed up against his warm, smooth skin, to hear the steady heartbeat beneath those muscles—that’s a whole other level of hotness.

“Just like seeing my best friend relaxed, is all. Speaking of rituals…I need you to do me a favor.”

He arches his brow and tips forward.

“Pull off a shutout tonight.”

With a snort, he falls back against the booth’s cushion. “Sure, no problem.”

Smiling, I slap the table in front of me. “Come on, I need you totally focused on this. When you’re doing your visualizations, do not visualize a single puck going through those thick, beautiful thighs of yours.”

“Thick, beautiful thighs, huh?” He sets his forearms on the table. “Is this from another one of your books?”

We’re beaming at one another now. In our own little corner at the back of the diner, I’m the happiest I’ve been in who knows how long.

“Pfft. Work with me here.”

He leans forward again, ducking his head a little. “Okay, Sar. But for the record, I never visualize any puck making it into my net.”

Satisfied with his answer, I lean back and cross my arms over my chest. “Good.”

Pushing his lips to one side, he regards me, studying every inch of my face. “That’s all? Good? Ya gonna tell me why you want a shutout tonight?”

I lean in close, dropping my forearms to the table to match his posture. “Because,” I whisper, tamping down that glee again, “then you’ll be forced to give me an orgasm the night before every game.”