Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)
Pucking Sweet: Chapter 24

It’s 8:01 p.m. on Sunday night, and my phone just pinged on the coffee table. New email alert. I don’t dare touch it. Instead, I wait, clutching my glass of wine with both hands. At 8:03 p.m., the phone buzzes with a text message. There’s only one person who would contact me with such punctuality on a Sunday night. But I can’t deal with him right now. I take another sip of my wine, staring at the phone.

It’s been three days since DC, and Lukas and I haven’t spoken. Not one word. He and Colton tried to corner me as I was getting off the plane but, thank goodness, the defensive coach picked that exact moment to call for a quick huddle, and I made my lucky escape.

Three days and not a word—until now.

And I’m no fool. I’m sure those gossiping geese started looking up Anderson the moment I walked away. If they know my history with him, they aren’t saying anything. Why aren’t they saying anything? The news is everywhere. Mom wasted no time posting the wedding announcement far and wide. The charming Anderson Montgomery to wed the beautiful Violet St. James. The tycoon prince and the political princess. A match made in heaven.

I take another sip of rosé.

If you scroll down far enough, you’ll see another wedding announcement featuring a different daughter of Hank St. James. But—to quote my snotty little sister—I had my chance, and I blew it. The spotlight shines on only Violet now.

I was worried her announcement would turn me into the object of everyone’s pity. Poor Poppy. This was supposed to be her wedding. How does this feel even worse? It’s like I no longer exist. I’ve been forgotten, erased. As a “Type A” middle child with a desperate need to please everyone, this silence feels unbearable.

Well, Lukas’s silence, I understand. What did he call me again? Oh, that’s right, “utterly forgettable.” Stupid, tattooed, gorgeous jerk. I hate him. As if I couldn’t see right through his macho bullcrap. He pushed my buttons just hard enough, so I’d be the one storming off, thus saving him the emotional labor of actually caring about someone.

And it worked. After my battle with Anderson, Lukas’s pointed sting about me using him felt a little too targeted. Even now, I lift a hand to my chest, rubbing the bruise those words left behind. Is it true? Did I use him? Did we use each other?

I know what “just sex” feels like. I’ve used my partner to get off in the past, chasing that brief high of orgasm, only to come crashing back down. I know what it feels like to feel so wretchedly alone, even when someone is buried inside you.

But then I close my eyes and I hear his voice in my ear. Soft and sated, his lips brush against my skin. You’re not alone, Pop. No, what Lukas and I shared was not just sex. It wasn’t just orgasmic. It was…

I don’t even have the words.

As the days have passed, more of that night has come back to me, creeping in with the early twilight hours while I’m lying alone in my bed, or slamming into my mind while I’m jogging down the wooded path behind my apartment. I feel more of him, taste more of him.

It wasn’t just sex, and I didn’t use him.

I found him.

I wipe a tear from my eye, still staring at the phone. I found Lukas Novikov, and he found me. I let him replace me. I led him down the path to fill the deepest parts of me. He’s in me now. The arrogant ass is right, he’s in my DNA. I can’t get him out.

Which is why the thought of opening this email haunts me. Were there others this week? Am I really that forgettable? Am I so completely replaceable? To Anderson, I am. He traded one St. James sister for another as easily as changing socks. All he cares about are the connections he can make through her, through my father, DC’s precious “Kingmaker.”

All Lukas seems to care about is having a good time. I’m sure he can replace plenty of women more talented than me to do that. I just wish he’d have the courtesy to send the contracts to someone else in my office. I gave him a list. But no, he’s emailing me. He just wants to keep pushing me away.

Heart in my throat, I swipe my phone off the coffee table and read the text message first:

LUKAS: Did you get my email? Please confirm receipt.

I set my glass down and lean back on the couch. Opening my email app, I easily spot the one from Hothockeyhunk22. Once again, the subject line is marked: URGENT—SEX CONTRACT—HIGHLY CONFIDENTIAL.

Sex contract. Only one?

Wait…

“Oh god.” I sit up and tap open the email. He only wrote one line. No salutation, no closing, no signature. One single sentence smirks up at me:

Please sign and return at your earliest convenience.

I tap the attachment. “Son of a—”

Lukas sent me an NDA and he’s requesting my signature because I’m now officially one of his sexual partners in need of silencing. Next to the blank signature line, my full name is already printed: Poppy Aurora St. James.

I scramble to my feet, glaring down at my phone. “How the heck does that jerk know my middle name?!”