Pucking Revenge : A Fake dating, friends to lovers, hockey romance (The Revenge Games Book 2)
Pucking Revenge : Chapter 32

Brooks: Can I take you somewhere tomorrow after the photo shoot?

OH SHIT. I forgot all about that.

Me: Brooks just asked me to go somewhere with him after the photo shoot tomorrow. What do I say?

Lennox: Um, yes?

Me: I’m still really hurt about how he acted. Maybe it’s best if we go back to being just friends.

Lennox: Is that what you want?

Shit. Now not only do I not know how to respond to Brooks, but I’d rather avoid responding to Lennox. Because no, I don’t think that’s what I want. But maybe it’s what’s best for us both.

I flip back to his text and read it again. I spent the whole day watching movies with Josie and Ava. We ordered in dinner and had it delivered to the hospital, and it wasn’t until Josie started dozing in the middle of our third movie of the day that I finally headed home.

For the first time in a week, I didn’t obsess over Brooks or how he makes me feel. Okay, that’s a blatant lie. I thought about him a lot. But at least I didn’t have to suffer through being ignored and brushed off when I was hanging out with the girls.

Though he did explain the reasons behind why he was acting so weird…

Me: I think I want to be more than friends.

Lennox: Oh good! Then we can replace out what his penis looks like.

Me: Lennnn!!!!

Lennox: Bet it’s huge.

Me: Speaking from experience with the Langfield men?

Lennox: If he’s anything like his brother, then you’re a lucky, lucky girl.

A bark of laugher escapes me. Brooks is practically double Aiden’s size in every way that’s visible while clothed. It wouldn’t surprise me if that applied elsewhere.

Lennox: Wonder if he’s pierced.

Me: No freaking way.

Lennox: Have you ever been with someone who is?

Me: No. Have you?

Lennox: <side eye emoji>

Me: Lennox!

Me: If he is, then he would have had to go months without sex, right?

Lennox: No way!

Lennox: Oh shit. I just looked it up. You’re right. God, how do men do it?

Me: Haha. I don’t think men who actually get it are men who are actually getting it.

Lennox: LOL. I’m dead.

I lean back in my bed, heart feeling light for the first time in days, and type out a response to Brooks.

Me: Sure. Work related?

Brooks: No.

Me: Friend related?

Brooks: No.

Brooks: Dress warm and be prepared to smile, crazy girl. I miss you.

My stomach is a riot of butterflies as I step inside Bolts Arena for Brooks’s photo shoot. The photos are for a campaign for sports apparel—mainly the kind that goes under his uniform. I’m already salivating at the prospect of how he’ll be dressed. Tragically, the underwear campaign was before my time with Langfield Corp, so I wasn’t around to witness the way he posed for the shots that ended up on billboards all over Boston.

When I spot Hannah standing by the ice and holding two cups of coffee, I make a beeline for her.

The tiny brunette breaks into a huge smile when I approach and holds out one of the cups to me. “Finally!”

“Thanks.” With a grateful smile, I accept the coffee and take a sip. Despite my warm layers, the arena is freezing. The pumpkin taste dances on my tongue, pulling a moan from me. “Pumpkin. My favorite.”

“Ha, that’s what Brooks said when he gave me the coffees. ‘Give this to my Pumpkin. She’s my favorite.’ How cute is that?”

I choke on my latte and have to cover my mouth to keep from spewing the hot liquid on my friend. “Brooks said that?”

Honestly, I can absolutely picture him saying it. To me. But to someone else? Especially after how surly he’s been to just about anyone he’s come into contact with lately? If he’s⁠—

Not going to get ahead of myself. We’ll see how he is today.

But even as I tell myself to temper my expectations, giddy excitement rises. It only continues to grow when a loud laugh echoes through the cavernous space. When the sound hits me, it’s like being pummeled with a shot of pure elation. His laugh is one of many things I’ve come to crave over the last few weeks.

I replace him instantly. Wearing a dark blue robe, Brooks is standing at his full height in front of a small woman, still laughing.

With her back to me like this, it’s impossible to make out her words, but she speaks again, and there goes that laughter that hits me like an arrow to the heart.

Only a second later, the shot of elation turns into one of jealousy. Who is this chick and why does he replace her so funny? I’m the funny one.

Laugh at me, Brooks. Pay attention to me.

Hannah nudges me. “Ready to see your boy?”

That sentiment, my boy, unsticks my feet, and I’m moving toward him once again.

“We’re going to put you in the sin bin. When you’re in there, stand up, put your arms against the glass like you’re looking out at the ice. Then we’ll take shots of you from the front and the back.”

“Ya know I’ve never been in there, right?” he says, his tone teasing, maybe even flirtatious.

You’re about to be, buddy.

“Hmm. You are known as the good boy of hockey. Although I’d consider you very bad,” the woman says.

I will cut the bitch.

Brooks’s laugh is so damn jovial. “How so?”

“I gave you my number after the shoot last month. I know you say you don’t date⁠—”

Tamping down on the murderous rage threatening to make me do something stupid, I clear my throat.

Brooks looks up and over the woman’s shoulder, and when he spots me, his face lights up like the arena’s spotlight has been turned on him. “’Scuse me.” He jogs to the edge of the rink and jumps the boards with ease. Then he’s in my personal space, staring down at me.

“Morning, crazy girl.” Without giving me a moment to reply, he dips low and presses his mouth to mine. “Hmm. You taste delicious.”

Breathless, I take him in. It’s hard to explain, but he’s different from the Brooks of the last few weeks. The tension in his jaw is all but gone, and the dark circles under his eyes have faded. He’s lighter.

I ghost my fingers through the scruff on his face. He’s normally clean shaven, so this must be for the photos.

“You’re…you.” My heart lodges in my throat. I wish I could take the words back, because as soon as they escape me, I’m terrified that bringing attention to the change will force him to disappear again.

He smiles as if he completely understands what I mean, confirming what I already suspect. “Yeah, Sar. I’m me.” He brushes a wisp of hair from my temple. “Let’s get this photo shoot over with so we can move onto our date.” When he says that last word, date, he brightens further, if it’s possible.

“Date?” I tease.

Brooks brings his lips to mine in the softest of kisses and hovers there. “Yeah, Sara. Our first date.” He pulls back a fraction. “You and me. Today. Okay?”

I bite my lip, loving the flirtatious way he keeps staring at it. “Okay.”

Forty-five minutes later, Brooks is bare chested and wearing nothing but a pair of navy boxer briefs that hug his muscular thighs. He’s got a hockey stick in hand, and I have to keep checking to be sure I’m not drooling.

His ass is like two bowling balls. How does this woman get any work done if all she does is photograph athletes? Fortunately she stopped flirting after the first time he tensed beneath her touch. Apparently she recognized that it’s more important to get the athlete relaxed for photos than to make unwanted advances.

“I can’t believe that is all yours,” Hannah says beside me as Brooks smolders for another round of shots.

I lick my lips and let out a soft hum.

“Sar, can you come here for a second?” Brooks calls as the photographer ducks her head and clicks through the images on her camera.

I head for the ice, but before I get more than two steps, Hannah grasps my arm and tugs me back. “Give me your jacket and throw this on instead.” She holds up a Bolts jersey.

Scrutinizing her with a frown, I take the jersey and stretch it out in front of me. Sure enough, there’s a giant 13 on the back. Clutching it to my chest, I assess her, then turn and eye Brooks.

“Don’t ask questions.” Brooks waves me over.

I obey, though I make my way to him slowly, confused about Hannah’s instructions.

“Put it on and sit on my lap, please.”

He’s still in the penalty box, which is appropriate, because he seems determined to get us both into trouble.

He laughs like he can hear my thoughts. “Come on, crazy girl. I want a picture.”

As I pass her, the photographer is tinkering with the settings on her camera like she’s prepping to take another shot. She doesn’t seem surprised or bothered by Brooks’s suggestion.

Me? I’m feeling the exact opposite. Though the closer I get, the more curious I am, and with every step, excitement replaces every other feeling. Just outside the penalty box, I pull the jersey on over my long-sleeve black shirt. It’s several sizes bigger than mine, so it falls halfway down my thighs.

“It’s kinda big,” I tease, grasping the hem so I can tuck it into my dark jeans.

Brooks circles my wrist and pulls me onto his lap. “Leave it. It’s mine.”

The breath whooshes from my lungs at that simple statement. Blinking, I sit up straighter in his lap. “Yours?”

Beneath me, the man is practically naked. Even so, his chest is warm against my back as he holds me close.

“Yeah. I wanted to see my girl in my jersey. Have a problem with that?” He settles his warm palm on my thigh and doesn’t wait for me to reply. “Ready, Monica?”

With a friendly smile, the photographer adjusts the lighting umbrella beside her, then she aims the camera in our direction.

“What are we doing right now?” My heart doesn’t know what to do. It flips over itself, but then it lodges itself up high, making it hard to breathe. “What’s this picture for?”

Brooks laughs and cuddles me close. “So many questions. Just smile for the camera. I want a picture of us. This is just for me.”

The woman shoots shot after shot for what feels like an eternity but is probably closer to five minutes.

When she finally steps away, back to clicking through the photos on her camera’s display, I prod at my cheeks. “Jeez. How do you do that for so long? It was starting to get hard to hold my smile.”

Brooks caresses my cheek, one side of his lips tipping up. “Normally, they don’t want me to smile.”

“Right. They tell you to be all broody.” I push my lips out, going for an exaggerated sultry expression, mimicking all his modeling poses.

He tips his chin up and barks out a laugh. “You should probably stick with your day job, babe. Speaking of which, do you have your phone?”

“Sure, why?”

He responds by holding his hand out, and when I give in and pull my phone from my pocket and set it in his palm, he taps on the camera icon. Then he turns it so it’s on selfie mode and presses his lips to my cheek. The contact sends a burst of surprised elation through me, and I can’t help but smile. A real one this time.

He pulls up the picture and tilts the screen so I can get a good look at it. It’s absolutely adorable. I’m beaming at the camera, looking surprisingly good in his oversized jersey. His eyes are closed and his lips are pressed to my cheek, his hair wavy and pulled back, highlighting his golden skin.

“You have the login info for the Bolts’ Instagram page?” he asks.

My chest goes tight at his question. “Um, yeah. Why?”

“You trust me?”

I bite my lip and nod. Of course I trust him.

He slips the phone into my hand and lifts a brow, silently instructing me to sign into the account. Once I do, I give it back to him.

Those butterflies are back, fluttering like mad as I watch him pull up the photo and type out a caption.

Our goalie is finally sharing what’s made him so happy lately. Meet Sara, public relations manager for the Bolts.

Brooks hits Post, then hands me the phone. “Now you’re the face of the Bolts. Job is safe, Sar. Ready for our date?”