Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)
Pucking Sweet: Chapter 11

Aswarm of excited energy hums inside PNC Arena, home of the Carolina Hurricanes. Game one of the season is officially here. It’s warm-up time, and the stands are already filling fast. I breathe deeply, taking in the chemical smell of the freshly sprayed ice, the hot buttery popcorn, and the detergent-fresh scent of my new warmup jersey.

God, I fucking love hockey.

And there is nothing better than game one of a new season. Everyone is excited to see the Rays take to the ice, so this game is sold out. Eager fans are already standing right behind our bench, cheering and waving homemade signs.

I give them a wave and a smile as I glide up. Then I catch Sanford’s attention, beckoning him down the bench. He gives a nod to Wednesday and Doc Price and heads my way. “Trouble?”

“My blade feels funny. It’s loose or warped or something.”

He’s all business as he turns to the blade box perched behind him. “Which foot?”

“Left.”

He rattles around in the box. “Put it up.”

I lean over the boards on my elbows, and prop my left foot up on the bench. “Hey, don’t trip,” I shout at J-Lo as he skates past.

He gives me a laugh and a gloved middle finger. I’ve been teasing him since we left Jacksonville, just little things about tripping or forgetting his socks. Sure, he’s starting over me, but I’m not actually that big of a sore loser. He’s just easy to chirp. He’s so good-natured. If you’re his teammate, nothing gets under his skin.

“Lukas, we need to talk.”

“Jesus—fuck.” My stick rattles away, and I nearly topple over as Poppy “Silent Mode Activated” St. James appears at my shoulder.

“Hey,” Sanford says behind me, his grip tightening on my skate. “Hold still, you wobbly fuck. These blades aren’t made of rubber.”

“Sorry, Sanny,” I say, slowly turning with my upper body to gaze down at our director of public relations.

I knew she was on this trip. I watched her board the plane, climbing the steps of our chartered jet looking like a supermodel in her black shades and slinky black dress. She looks very on brand tonight too. She’s sporting a Rays’ teal business suit. The color is loud, but she pulls it off. Her blonde hair is swept up in a long ponytail. That’s one thing to be grateful for, I guess. I don’t have to pretend her skinny little pencil skirt isn’t driving me fucking crazy as I talk to her.

But—oh, this is perfect. She looks pissed. I brighten immediately. My dick is practically twitching in my hockey pants as I take in the glint in her eyes. “Poppy St. James,” I croon at her. “I get the feeling you need something.”

“I do need something,” she replies, one hand on her hip. “I need to know where you replace the king-sized audacity.”

From behind me, Sanford chuckles. “He buys it in bulk at Costco.”

“Eyes on your own work, Sanny,” I say at him. Then I turn back to Poppy. “Could we maybe do this later? Sanford and I were kind of having a moment.”

“No, we can’t do this later,” she counters. “Because this may be the only chance I have to hold your attention for more than sixty seconds.”

“Bold of you to assume you have my attention now,” I say, faking a wave at someone out on the ice. Stupid fucking Walsh. He sees it, and now he’s looking over his shoulder and waving back, confused. I snort a laugh.

“I just need to know if you have any respect for me at all,” she goes on.

I turn to her, smile falling. “Poppy—”

“Really, I do. I need to hear you say that you respect my role here as director of public relations.”

I blink, noting the stiff silence coming from Sanny. The asshole is terrible at pretending not to listen. “Poppy, I respect you—”

“Well, I don’t believe you,” she replies, crossing her arms.

“Well, that’s too damn bad.” I lean over until my sweaty face is level with hers. “And I don’t think you respect me. If you did, you wouldn’t be crashing down on me like a fucking tsunami right now when I’m supposed to be getting my head in the game. Bad form, Poppy. You could cost us our first chance at a W. Then how would you live with yourself, eh?”

She points out to the ice. “You were just out there skating around with your stick between your legs, riding it like a broom! That’s not ‘head in the game’ behavior to me, Lukas. That’s more like head up your butt!”

Behind us, Sanford snorts. “Get him, Poppy.”

I glance over my shoulder. “Are you nearly finished?”

“I am finished,” he replies.

I lower my leg to the mats. “Good. Then get lost, Sanford.”

Now it’s his turn to cross his arms in his long-sleeved Rays staff shirt. “Try again.”

I sigh. I can’t possibly take them both on at once. “Look, give us a minute, and I’ll buy you dinner for the next week.”

“You’re still missing something.” He raises a brow, waiting.

“Please,” I grit out.

With a nod to Poppy, he walks away, leaving me alone with this feral puma in a pantsuit.

“Well?” I say at her.

“Well, what?” she says back.

I face her, arms crossed. In my pads and skates, I tower over her. Good. I have a feeling I’ll need the extra inches. “You were about to explain how saying my head is lodged up my ass is proof of you respecting me. Go on, I’m listening,” I say with a wave of my gloved hand.

She glares up at me. “Where are the contracts, Lukas? That’s all I came to ask.”

Behind her, the fans cheer and slap the glass, trying to get my attention. But all I see is her—the point of her chin as she holds my gaze, the determined look in her eyes. She’s wearing more makeup tonight. Her eyes look dark and smoky, which just makes the blue of her irises pop more. They’re like sea glass, all shiny and reflective under these bright arena lights.

Fuck me. She’s devastating.

And a real fucking ball-buster.

“I sent you the contracts on Sunday night,” I reply. “I wasn’t sure if you got them, seeing as you never responded. I think the proper form is to provide an email as proof of receipt. But then, what do I know? I’m just a dumb horndog hockey player whom you don’t respect.”

“See?” She waves erratically with her phone-wielding hand. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re not taking any of this seriously. By extension, you’re not taking me seriously. I’m trying to help you, Lukas. But you’re refusing to accept my help, and instead you’re turning everything I say on its head, making yourself the victim.”

Okay, now she’s getting under my skin. “I sent you the contracts,” I say again. “You wanted signed sex contracts? You got them.”

“Oh, really?” Her indignation in this moment could fuel a small city. It’s certainly giving me life. “You expect me to believe you had sex with Diana Prince this weekend? In what universe do you really think you could ever pull Wonder Woman?”

“Hey, I thought you said you weren’t here to judge me,” I snap back. “No questions either. It’s my sex life, Poppy.”

“It’s your delusion,” she hisses, those blue eyes narrowing as she steps closer. “And for your information, Snow White was canonically fourteen years old, which makes you a pervert.”

And now I’m laughing. “What do you want me to say, Poppy?”

“Admit the names are fake,” she cries.

“Of course they’re fake.”

“Then give me the real contracts!”

I shrug indifferently. “There are no real contracts.”

She blinks up at me, eyes wide. “What?”

I crouch, getting myself right in her face. “There are no contracts,” I say again, enunciating each word.

Her mood shifts as she leans away. I watch her slender throat as she swallows. “You didn’t? I mean, you…” And now she’s blushing. God, it’s fucking precious.

“Didn’t fuck a rotating door of nameless, faceless women this week?” I finish for her. “Nope. Sorry to disappoint. I was a little preoccupied with, oh, I don’t know, my job? Season starters are no joke, Poppy. We were about to spend two weeks on the road, and I needed to conserve all my energy for the ice. Sorry I couldn’t indulge your twisted curiosity about my sex life.”

She gasps, pressing a hand to her chest. “My twisted—”

“I promise, I’ll have loads of sordid contracts for you to peruse this Sunday,” I say over her. “Hey, perhaps I’ll even get lucky tonight.” And just because I can, I glance around her, waving and winking at the crowd of fans pressing in behind the plexiglass. Most of them are women, and they squeal and shout my name.

Poppy fumes as she looks from them back to me. “Go ahead. I don’t care. But know this, Lukas: You stick your pretzel in any of that cheese dip, and all you’ll get is herpes!”

With that, she stomps away. I laugh, letting the sound trail after her as she disappears down the chute back toward the locker room.

Morrow skates up to the boards behind me, one gloved hand on my shoulder. “Hey, what the hell was that about? She looked mad.”

I huff, unsurprised that her savior is ready to swoop in and rescue her. “Oh that? I just proposed and she said yes. Wanna be my best man?”

“You—what?”

My laugh deepens. God, he’s too fucking easy. “Relax, bud. She’d never marry me in a million fucking years. Not that I’m asking,” I add quickly. “She’s a ball-busting harpy witch—”

“Hey,” he growls. “Be professional. She’s our colleague.”

“She’s a pill,” I counter. “And you can have her.” I try to push all thoughts of Poppy St. James from my mind as I gaze out at the ice, watching the Canes sink pucks into an empty net. “Tonight, I only care about getting lucky.”