Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)
Pucking Sweet: Chapter 10

My phone buzzes on the dresser, and I know it has to be Claribel. We’ve been doing a social media strategy session for the last hour via text message because Little Miss Too Busy can’t just call me back. Well, I’ve been texting. She’s been sending one-word responses and inappropriate GIFs. I swipe my phone off the dresser and read her text with narrowed eyes.

CLARIBEL: Boss, it’s Sunday night. Clock out *wine emoji**peace sign emoji*

I huff, tossing the phone on the end of the bed. Of course I know it’s Sunday night. I’ve only been counting down the hours and minutes for months. Tomorrow, the NHL season officially starts. At 8 a.m., this rocket is blasting off. Then all we can do is fix problems as they arise—and hope we don’t come crashing back to earth.

No pressure, Poppy.

It may be Sunday night, but the work still has to get done. In the last two hours, I’ve been on the phone with five other department heads. All the while, I’ve been whirling around my apartment like a tornado, feverishly packing. I’m about to spend two weeks traveling up and down the East Coast with a professional hockey team. It’s less than ideal to do so much travel at once, but necessary.

For all the money and influence Mark Talbot has in this city, he’s not actually god, and he can’t change the fundamental laws of concrete pouring. Which means construction at the brand-new arena isn’t finished. As a result, the first six games the Rays play will all be away. Three this week. Three next week. That’s six cities with six different climates. Six different social and professional atmospheres.

All this to say, Poppy is bringing the big bag.

My largest piece of luggage is currently flipped open on the bed. Inside, I’ve stuffed everything from business separates to formal wear, to club wear, to running gear. Because, while the team has six hockey games, I have six games, eight dinners, five lunches, four charity events, and eight sponsorship meetings. Yeah, my PR team is perhaps a little too efficient when it comes to time management. We’ve stacked practically every minute of the next two weeks.

There’s only one little break in my schedule for the day we’re in DC. I close my eyes, clutching a pair of beige Yves Saint Laurent platform sandals. Lunch with family. That’s what will occupy the only blessed break in my grueling schedule. At my mother’s insistence, I’ll be attending family lunch at The Hay-Adams.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. I am eternally grateful for the life they’ve afforded me—the first-rate education, the travel and business opportunities. They set out a shining golden path for me, and all they ever asked was that I walk it without question.

Mother knows best.

And, god help me, I tried. For years, I only ever did what she wanted. I went to the schools she liked and studied the subjects she deemed appropriate for me. I dated only the boys from her approved list. I wore the clothes she wanted me to wear and made friends with the “right set” of girls. But at some point, children have to be free to live their own lives, right?

Three years ago, I did just that. I looked my St. James destiny in the face, and I said no. I walked away. Now, I’m Poppy the disappointment. Poppy the wayward lamb. My mother has a lot of euphemisms to describe the gaping hole I left in her heart. It seems like no amount of success I achieve on my own can ever erase her disappointment over the destiny I denied, the hope I squandered.

Poppy the unfaithful. Poppy the ungrateful.

I drop the sandals into my suitcase, blinking back tears. Taking a couple deep breaths, I rub my face with tired hands. “Oh, goodness. Girl, get it together.”

I don’t do this. I don’t wallow. I made my choices then, and I would make them all again. Life is all about choices, honeybun. I hear my Nana’s sweet voice saying the words as if she were standing before me.

I’ve been making some surprising choices here recently—like choosing to wrap myself around my neighbor like powdered sugar on a donut. Yeah, that happened. Colton was grieving, and I thought it was a good idea to stick my tongue in his mouth.

“Oh, god.”

Seeking any distraction, I hurry over to my closet and jerk out a couple more blazers. I clumsily fold them and place them atop the mounting pile in my suitcase. There’s no way I’m getting this thing closed without an industrial press. I stand there, staring at it, hands on my hips.

Colton hasn’t said anything about the kiss. We’ve both been so busy this week, I’ve hardly seen him. Part of it feels like some kind of fever dream. I was so swept up in stress baking and cleaning, then my mom called. Perhaps it was all in my head. Perhaps I just imagined that a handsome hockey player came over late at night and pinned me to the kitchen counter.

No, it definitely happened.

My stomach does a little flip as I remember the feel of his strong hands on me, the taste of his lips, all warm and chocolatey. Heavens, but he knows how to kiss. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about kissing him before. The man is simply undeniable. He’s confident, but not cocky, driven but not dominating. And he’s so beautiful I could literally cry. With those broad shoulders and the high cheekbones, it’s no wonder he lands modeling endorsements. Did I mention the way his warm brown skin gets this golden glow?

Seriously, it’s not fair that god made a man that beautiful and perfect and then put him firmly out of my reach. He’s out of reach because I don’t date the players. Ever. It was the one rule I made for myself when I started working in PR for professional sports. I see and manage too much of these men’s messy personal lives as it is. I don’t ever want to become part of the personal life getting managed.

No, Colton Morrow is a dream I get to dream from afar.

And I have dreamed about him. Many times. Last night in fact. I blush thinking about it. Let’s just say I got to know whether he was that talented with his tongue everywhere…

“He is your colleague, Poppy.” I point a finger at my reflection in the mirror. “You will not ogle him, and you will not think about him naked.”

My eyes go wide as new images flash in my mind: Colton running down the beach at sunset, Colton striding out of the surf, Colton stepping out my shower and handing me a towel—

“No!” I rush into the bathroom and start feverishly packing my toiletries and makeup.

Out on the bed, my phone pings. I have a new email.

I step back into the bedroom and pick up my phone. The new email is from hothockeyhunk22. The subject line says in all caps: URGENT—SEX CONTRACTS—HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL.

Lukas.

I check the time. 8:01 p.m.

“Seriously, is everything a joke to this man?” I sink down onto the end of the bed and tap the email open. The body just says, “As promised.” Holding my breath, I check the attachments.

There are seven.

“Seven contracts? It hasn’t even been seven days since our meeting! How the heck does he even replace the time?”

Clearly, I’m in no mood to deal with Lukas Novikov’s sex contracts, but I tap open the first one. My eyes skim the first few lines until I get to the paramour’s name. My heart stops. It’s right there in blue ink, laughing up at me: Minnie Mouse.

“What the…?” I close it out and tap open the next one, only to replace it signed by Natasha Romanov. I scoff “Black Widow? Seriously? Someone thinks rather highly of himself.”

I open the next three contracts.

Snow White.

Diana Prince.

Leslie Knope.

I glare down at my phone. “I am going to kill Lukas Novikov.”