Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)
Pucking Sweet: Chapter 9

It’s nearly nine o’clock at night, and I’m standing outside Poppy’s front door, trying to remember how to breathe. It’s a pretty basic human function. I do it all the time without even thinking. So, why am I standing here under this ring of yellow light feeling like my lungs won’t inflate?

Oh, that’s right. Because I’m twelve years old again, suffering under the weight of a hopeless and inappropriate crush. Truly, this is embarrassing. I don’t have this problem with any other women. What can I say? I’m a consummate Leo. I like parties and clubs. I like dancing and karaoke. I like to flirt. I like to date. I like to pamper the women I’m with and get pampered in return. It’s all very cool and casual. What are the kids calling it these days? Rizz?

Yeah, I’ve got a lot of rizz.

And yet, here I stand, staring at Poppy’s front door, noting the chipping paint around her peep hole. Fuck me. I have zero fucking rizz. Not with Poppy St. James. Why else would I be holding this potted pothos plant?

Oh god, I even know what it’s called. I asked the guy at the shop. It’s a golden pothos. Low sunlight needed. Water once a week. What the fuck am I doing? I should throw this plant over the balcony and just go home.

No, you’re doing this. Lift arm, make fist, knock on door.

Fuck, I really am doing it. I just knocked on her door.

Oh shit. Back up and act cool—

The door swings inward six inches, and Poppy’s there, wearing nothing but silky pink sleep shorts and a matching top with straps as thin as dental floss. Her blonde hair is plaited in two thick braids, the ends trailing down either side of her chest.

“Hey, Poppy. I—”

She puts a finger up to her lips and pulls the door open all the way, revealing that she’s holding her phone up to her ear.

“I can come back.” I barely get the words out before she snags the front of my T-shirt with her free hand, tugging me over the threshold into her apartment.

“Uh-huh,” she says into the phone, inching around me to close the door. The close proximity has her brushing up against me. I can smell the herbal scent of her shampoo, rosemary and mint. It mixes with the rich, chocolatey smell of fresh baked cookies that’s filling her apartment.

My senses don’t know what to focus on. They’re pinging around inside me like a bunch of pin balls. She steps away and that helps…and hurts. Then she’s smiling up at me in welcome and I’m slipping my slides off, leaving them next to her tiny blue running shoes. I follow her down the narrow hall into her kitchen.

“Uh-huh,” she says again, rolling her eyes at me in a knowing way. Then she lifts a hand and mimes someone yapping.

I smile down at her, and she turns away, moving over to the living room to perch on a blue ottoman. My eyes go wide as I take in the chaos of her kitchen. Baking sheets are spread across every surface in various states of cooling. I see at least three different kinds of cookies. The rest of the granola sits in a large glass jar on the counter.

Does this woman ever stop baking? When does she even replace the time?

“Yeah, Mom, listen—” She sighs, giving me another long-suffering look. “Yeah, I know. You already told me that. No, I’m just saying you already told me—”

I set the pothos down on the only spare patch of counter I can replace, over by the sink. Poppy hops off the ottoman, stepping back into the kitchen on bare feet. She comes up next to me and plucks a chocolate and marshmallow cookie off one of the trays. She hands it wordlessly to me and walks away.

She and her mom exchange a few more sentences as I take a bite of the cookie and groan. Oh god, it’s still warm. The chocolate is melty, and the marshmallow is gooey, and the cookie batter tastes like graham crackers. It’s a s’mores cookie, and I’m dead.

“Okay, well I gotta go. No, I have to—” She huffs. “Mom, my neighbor just came over. He needs to borrow something, so I gotta go. I’ll see you and Daddy for lunch next week, okay? Yep, I love you too. Byeeee.” She drops the phone from her ear with an exhausted sigh. “I am so sorry about that.”

“Not a problem,” I say, sucking the sticky marshmallow off my thumb.

“And if my mother ever asks, you came over here in desperate need to borrow something.”

I don’t love that my role in her life can be summarized down to “the neighbor,” but that’s what I’m here to try to fix. “We’ll say I was out of laundry soap.”

“Perfect.” She sets her phone down and picks up a creamy cable-knit sweater. “Ugh, you really saved me, you know?” She pulls it on over her head and lets it settle at her hips. It’s two sizes too large, hanging seductively off one shoulder. But at least it covers her perky breasts, hiding her firm nipples under that silky pink—

I swallow the rest of my cookie. I’m getting hard in her kitchen right now. I’m eating her cookies, and thinking about her breasts, and getting hard. I turn away quickly, using the sink as an excuse to wash my hands.

“If you hadn’t knocked when you did, I’d be on the phone with her for another hour at least,” she goes on behind me. “How did you like the cookie?” Her hand brushes my arm as she reaches around me, plucking another cookie off the tray. “It’s a new recipe. My sister-in-law sent it to me.”

She takes a bite of the cookie and moans. “Oh, my goodness. Okay, I know I’m biased,” she says through a full mouth, “but this is really good.” She catches the rest of her cookie before it crumbles, and looks up at me, those blue eyes holding an unspoken question.

I drop the dish towel down to the lip of the sink. “Oh. Yeah. No, they’re really good. They’re fucking amazing, Poppy. Best cookie I’ve ever tasted, honestly.”

Her smile lights up her whole face. “Do you like caramel?”

“I…”

She spins away before I can answer. “I was in the mood for salted caramel today,” she says over her shoulder. “So, I made some sauce from scratch and added it to my trusty chocolate chip pretzel cookies. Tell me what you think.” She hands me another cookie.

I look down, noting the swirls of thick caramel mixed with the crunchy pretzel pieces and gobs of chocolate. She watches me take a bite. I’m ready to control my sound effects this time. “Fuck. This might be even better than the s’mores cookie,” I admit.

Her smile brightens again, and I add something else to my running list of facts about Poppy: lights up when praised.

Very useful fact to know.

I hide my smirk, finishing the cookie in two bites. “You made caramel from scratch today?”

“Just like Nana taught me,” she replies. “It’s really not that hard. There are only four ingredients. I can give you some if you want. I have a couple jars cooling in the fridge.”

I glance around again. “How did you have the time to do all this? Didn’t you work a full day today?”

She laughs and waves the question away, swaying around the kitchen bar to fetch her glass of rosé. “I bake when I’m stressed. It’s how I cope with this crazy thing we call life. That, and running.”

“What are you stressed about?”

She looks at me over her wine glass. “Oh, you know, this and that.”

Even as the question came out of me, I knew it was dumb. What doesn’t she have to be stressed about? She’s the head of public relations for a brand-new international sports team. She’s living in a new city, working with new people, and we’re a week out from the start of the season. I’m stressed, and I’m just playing the game. She’s one of the maestros orchestrating the show of it all. I’m like the backup dancer to her Beyoncé.

“Sorry, that was a stupid question,” I admit. “Of course you’re stressed. How could you not be?”

She smiles again, taking a sip of her wine. “You must be feeling it too. I heard you’ll be starting against Carolina. Congratulations. First Ray in history to skate on the ice.”

“Well, one of six,” I reply.

“First right-side defenseman.”

I grin. “That’s true.”

“Jake didn’t try to twist your ankle in the shower?”

I laugh. “No, he was actually really cool about it. Odds are he’ll skate first next game. It’s not really a competition to me.”

Her eyes go wide at this admission. “It’s not? I thought all you hockey boys were as competitive as they come?”

“I mean, sure, I like to win,” I say with a shrug. “But more than winning, I like to play. I can only be grateful I have the chance at all.”

“And you’re not nervous?”

I lean against the counter, relaxing a bit. This feels easy. I’m talking to Poppy, but we’re talking hockey. I can talk hockey all day. “I wouldn’t say I’m nervous. This isn’t my first game. I’m excited more than anything. I want to see what the Rays can do when the points actually matter.”

She nods. “What do you think of the team so far? Of the chemistry?”

“Well, Mars is as solid as they come. We don’t have to worry about him. I wish the backup tendy wasn’t such a sieve, but he’ll only get in the net as a last resort—”

“A sieve?” She tips her head to the side. “What does that mean?”

I blink, running back what I just said. “Oh.” I laugh again. “Sorry, hockey slang. Uhh…it just means he’s kind of useless. Like he’s full of holes. The pucks just go right through him.”

She giggles. “Not very flattering.”

“Yeah, it doesn’t help that Dave-O’s an odd bird off the ice too. He’s always eating these weird bagel chips that make his stall smell like garlic and onion.”

Her nose scrunches. “Ew.”

“Yeah, avoid close contact unless you want to breathe in some serious bagel fumes.”

“Noted.” She sets her wine down, crossing her arms to mirror my stance in her too-large sweater. “Well, what about you, honey?”

“What about me?”

Her expression softens and I know exactly where she’s going. “How are you doing?”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly.

She nods. “You haven’t told the guys?”

“I don’t know what they know.”

“You haven’t told Novikov. He’s the one you’re closest to on the team, right? You skated with him before?”

“Yeah, we skated in the Juniors together.”

“And he doesn’t know why you were delayed in moving down here?”

I sigh. “No, he doesn’t know.”

“Is it a secret?”

At this, I look up, my chest squeezing tight. I suddenly feel irrationally angry. I drop my hands behind me, holding tight to her counter. My mind flashes with pictures of my dad lying in the hospital bed, his skin so pale, his body so weak. “No, my dad’s death isn’t some dirty little secret, Poppy. He was alive, then he got sick, and now he’s dead. There’s nothing secret about it.”

She nods again, tears rimming her eyes. “Poor choice of words,” she says softly. “I meant do you want it kept private? Would you prefer your teammates not be informed?”

I cross my arms again, wishing we could go back to talking about cookies and hockey. “Why would they need to be informed? What business is it of theirs what happens in my personal life?”

She steps around the bar, moving closer. “Colton, these things have a tendency of bleeding over from the personal into the professional. And you know hockey is both anyways,” she adds. “This team, these guys, they’re not just your work colleagues. They’re your family. They need to know if you’re not okay. They need to know whether to give you space or fill the void. You can’t keep them all at arm’s length. Not about something as big as this.”

“I don’t like talking about it,” I admit. “I’m not—I don’t have the words yet, okay? It’s still too fresh, and some days it’s all I can do just to get out of bed and show up for practice.”

She nods, eyes glistening again. “Okay.”

“I’m not ready to sit on the therapy couch and spill out all my sadness to the whole team, okay?”

“Okay,” she says again.

Fuck, I need to get out of here. I turn away, crossing her kitchen in two strides.

“Colton.” Her hand brushes my arm as I pass. She’s not holding me back, but it’s a clear invitation to stay.

I stand there, not looking at her, feeling her standing next to me.

“Can I ask you to do one thing?”

I slowly turn, gazing down at her. She looks up at me with such openness—no doors, no guile. “Anything,” I hear myself say.

Her hand grazes up my arm to my shoulder and she gives it a gentle squeeze. “Tell one person, okay? Just one. Let them be there for you. Let them know to check in. Let them see when you’re hurting and help you stand when you feel like all you can do is fall.”

I search her face, memorizing the pattern of the summer freckles dotting her cheeks. She’s so beautiful. Holding her gaze, I cup her face with my large, calloused hand. I know I don’t deserve to touch her. I don’t deserve to hold her like this. I can’t be soft right now. I can’t be gentle.

She leans away, eyes wide, her back pressed up against the kitchen counter. She wraps her hand around my wrist. “Colton,” she says again, enunciating the “T.”

“I told you,” I say, my voice low.

The energy between us turns on a dime as her grip on my wrist tightens. My face lowers on its own. I just need to be a little closer, need to breathe her in. I brush my thumb against her cheek, feeling how it’s tanned and warm from running in the sun. She leans into the stroke of my thumb, eyes fluttering shut.

“You’re my person here, Poppy. My one. I told you.”

A moment stretches between us, pulled tight like the string of a kite caught on a gust of wind. Her eyes flash with need, and then I’m pressing my lips to hers, tipping her head back with urgency, desperate to taste all of her. Both her hands are at my shoulders, and she’s pulling me closer. Her mouth slants with mine as she returns my kiss.

My kiss.

I’m kissing Poppy St. James.

With a desperate groan, I drop my hands to her hips and lift her right off the floor. The cookie trays rattle behind her as I put her up on the counter, stepping between her spread legs. She welcomes me in, her ankles hooking behind my knees as she makes room for me to press in with my hips.

“Oh god,” she says on a breathless sigh.

Fuck, she’s so soft, so supple. And yet, she knows what she wants. Her hands push and pull at me, stroking the nape of my neck. Her lips part and her tongue flicks. She’s so fucking eager. And she tastes so sweet, like wine and caramel. We keep kissing like we’ll die if we stop.

I need to feel her. I need more. My hands are still at her hips. I slip them both under the hem of her baggy sweater, my thumbs stroking over the impossible silkiness of her little pink camisole. She makes the perfect whimpering sound in my mouth as my thumbs stroke over her ribs. She arches into me, inching closer with her hips. Any closer, and she’ll feel how hard I am for her. My fingertips brush the bare skin under her arms, and I press in—

She jolts, gasping for air. “Colton, we can’t.”

I groan, my hold on her going from coaxing to claiming. “Please,” I beg, determined to brand myself on her lips.

“Colton, wait,” she pants, her hands now pushing at my shoulders. “Stop.”

That one little word hits me like a bucket of ice water poured down my back. I instantly lift both hands away from her, spreading my arms wide. She reels from the loss of my support, her hold on me tightening. Her ankles brush the backs of my thighs as we rebalance ourselves.

I press my forehead lightly against hers, eyes shut tight. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” she says in a small voice, still holding onto me.

I inch back, my hands kept well away from her. “No, Poppy, I’m so sorry. I had no right.”

She’s trembling. Fuck, did I scare her? In her eyes, I see heat and passion. No fear. Thank god. But there’s hesitancy too. I step back fully. Her hands brush down my chest as I pull away. I drop my hands to my sides in defeat. Slowly, she lets her hands fall too. She sits there on the edge of the counter, her bare legs dangling. Her parted lips are still wet with my kisses. Her blue eyes watch me, always searching my face, always trying to read me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, taking another step back. My hip bumps the corner of her fridge.

“Colton, it’s okay,” she says, slipping off the counter to the floor. “We just—we got caught up. It’s late, we’re both tired, and you’re grieving. It happens.”

Her list stops there. That’s why she kissed me? Because it’s late and she’s tired and she thinks I need sympathy? I brush my fingers over my lips. That sure as fuck didn’t feel like a sympathy kiss. “Well, it won’t happen again,” I hear myself say. “You’re safe with me, Poppy.”

She inches closer. “Colton.”

I drop my hand back to my side. “I need to go.”

She swallows and nods. “Okay.”

“The plant.” I gesture to where it sits over by the sink. “Don’t overwater it. The guy said that’s the big mistake most people make. Only water it once a week.”

“Okay,” she says again.

“And it doesn’t need much sunlight, but definitely more than what you have in your office at work.”

She smiles weakly. “I’ll take care of it, Colton. Thank you. It was thoughtful and lovely.”

Thoughtful and lovely. Two words I want to add to the list of real things I know about Poppy. St. James.

“Can you text me the numbers for those realtors?” I say, backing toward the front door.

She nods again. “Yeah, I’ll do it tonight before I go to bed.”

She doesn’t try to follow me. Whether it’s me she doesn’t trust, or herself, I can’t be sure. But I can’t stay here, not when I still have her taste on my tongue and the scent of her clouding all my senses. “Goodnight, Poppy,” I manage to say.

“Goodnight.”

I turn away, breaking the static charge between us. I’m in such a rush to leave, I forget to put on my damn slides. I don’t notice until I’m back in my own unit with the door shut.

Whatever. Fuck it. She can keep them.