Puck Performance: BTU Alumni Series Book #4

by Ciz, Alley

  “Gah! He’s just so damn dreamy,” Ella gushes as Jase Donnelly shares a knuckle bump through the glass with two guys in front of us.

  “He really is,” Zoey agrees. “He’s like a long-lost Hemsworth brother with that blond hair and chiseled jaw.”

  These two have not stopped drooling over hockey hunks all night. With our seats only a dozen rows from the ice, we are set up for prime viewing.

  “Why’s he knuckle-bumping Boston fans, though?” Ella asks when she notices they are also sporting black and gold jerseys.

  “I think those are his old college teammates,” I say without thinking.

  “Oh reeeaaallly?” Zoey drags out the word in a sing-song tone.

  Shit.

  “Somebody knows more about the New York defenseman than they let on.” Ella gives me a knowing look.

  I take another deep swallow of beer, ignoring both sets of eyes turned my way. They may be the best friends a person could ask for, but a girl is entitled to her secrets.

  Chapter One

  One week later

  The biggest perk of playing for a team only a short train ride away from where I grew up is how easily my people can come out to support me—though supportive might not necessarily be the right word to describe how my friends are when they come to my games.

  As a proud Jersey boy, both my family and I have been rooted in the NJ Blizzards fandom for years. Combine that with the fact that both my brother Ryan and my brother-in-law Jake play for the team, and let’s just say Mom is the only one I can count on to cheer me on without giving me shit.

  Even JD—my sister, my biggest supporter, my best-best friend, my wombmate, my other half—is the biggest shit-talker. She may not be here at the moment, but each Covenette is like a pseudo-sister, and they are more than happy to pick up the slack.

  “No way. That goal in the second was a gimme. Sean could have scored on Tampa’s goalie he was so out of position, and he’s nine,” says Becky, resident ballbuster and troublemaker of the Covenettes, referencing my second goal from tonight.

  “Bull.” Griff comes to my defense. “The only reason he was out of position was because Jase’s deke was a thing of beauty.”

  It really is a shame that in a group as large as ours, Griff is the only one who grew up a fan of the Storm. Most people wouldn’t argue with a guy of his size—though in fact he’s really a cuddly teddy bear—but The Coven is filled with women with bigger balls than us men.

  “Of course you’d say that. You practically bleed gray and black for the Storm,” says Skye, JD’s oldest friend and subsequently mine.

  “This is true, but it doesn’t negate the fact that what I’m saying is true.”

  I finish off the last of my beer as I listen to my friends debate the merit of my on-ice performance. Most players only have the talking heads to critique their game, but nooo, my family puts the experts on SportsCenter to shame—and unlike the analysts on television, I can’t turn them off.

  “You know the phrase, ‘With friends like you, who needs enemies?’” Cali drops down next to me in the booth, jerking his chin toward my loved ones.

  “Nah man.” I smile, turning my attention to my teammate. “It’s all done with love.”

  “If I didn’t know them, I think I would start to question if you’d taken one too many hits out on the ice.” As my closest friend on the team, he has first-hand Covenette knowledge.

  “Somebody has to make sure this one’s head doesn’t get too big without Jordan here.” Skye pats my cheek a little harder than needed. She’s been busting my balls since kindergarten.

  My buddy and old college teammate, Nick, snorts his beer through his nose. “Yeah.” He wipes away the last of the residue with the back of his hand. “Like you all aren’t experts at that job.”

  This type of back-and-forth can go on for hours, days, years. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

  “Well…as much fun as this has been”—I nudge Cali to let me out of the booth—“I’m going to get myself another drink.”

  I make my way through the crush of people filling the team’s preferred bar—aptly named The Sin Bin—in pursuit of another beer. The space may be full, but the beer is cold, the food is hot, and we can usually catch whatever game is still happening on the west coast.

  “Freddie, my man.” I reach across the oak bar to shake hands with the owner.

  “Jase! What can I get my favorite D-man?”

  There’s no way to resist returning the smile peeking out from beneath Freddie’s Santa-Clause-esque beard. I swear the guy’s eyes even twinkle the way the man in red is known for, always so damn happy.

  “I’ll take another Stella please.” I place my empty bottle on the bar.

  I don’t indulge much during the season, but one, it’s early, and two, tomorrow is one of my rare days off. I’ll sleep in then hit the gym later on.

  “You got it.” Freddie pulls the familiar green bottle from the cooler and pops the top with the opener he keeps in his back pocket. He may look like a skinny Santa, but homeboy slings drinks like Tom Cruise in Cocktail. “Hell of a game tonight. Three more points to your total—not bad.”

  Yes, two goals and an assist are pretty good stats in a game, especially for a defenseman.

  “At least someone appreciates what I did on the ice.” I chuckle and nod toward the area filled with my family.

  “Ahhh.” A knowing gleam enters his gaze. “That’s what you get for consorting with the enemy.”

  A bark of laughter escapes at his unique description of my squad.

  “That’s one way to describe them.”

  “They give you too much shit, you send them my way, you hear? Unless it’s that pretty sister of yours—then you’re shit out of luck.”

  “She’s not here.” Freddie, like most people, has a soft spot for JD. “But anyone else? You got it. Thanks Freddie.”

  “Any time. And hey”—he waits until I turn back around—“keep up the good work out there. Who knows? If you do, you might even be able to challenge that brother of yours for the Art Ross Trophy.”

  The beer in my stomach sours at the mention of Ryan. Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother. He’s honestly one of the best people I know, but I’ve spent my entire life being compared to him.

  Why else do you think I work my ass off the way I do?

  It would be nice to be recognized for my accomplishments and not as Ryan Donnelly’s younger brother. Even when our college team won our third NCAA National Championship in a row—that one after he graduated—he got credit. We were the team he built, after all.

  I’ll take the night to kick back then get back to the grind tomorrow. Nothing is going to stand in the way of me hoisting Lord Stanley’s Cup over my head come June. Then maybe I’ll get the respect I deserve.

  Cheering from one of the sectioned-off back areas breaks me from wallowing in my first-world problems. I look over, my height making it easy to see over most of the patrons, and spot a group of ladies cheering for whatever game Freddie has on.

  Even from a distance, I can tell they’re all pretty, but it’s the short one in the middle with light pink hair and a body that’s curvy like a 50s pinup girl who has my feet moving of their own accord. Her ass is perfectly cupped in a pair of painted-on skinny jeans and draws me in like a beacon as it shimmies with her celebration dance.

  I toss a quick look over my shoulder at my people, but none of them are paying me any attention.

  Perfect.

  I may not be a man-whore like my buddy Tuck—and no, I’m not judging him; the girls literally call him M-Dubs for short—but I do enjoy playing the field and have been going through one hell of a dry spell lately.

  It’s one of the friends who spots me first, and I can tell she recognizes me.

  “Ladies.” I make eye contact with each of them, saving the one I want for last.

  “Holy shit, you’re Jase Donnelly,” says the one who spotted me. She’s wearing a Storm shirt and is clearly ex
cited to see me up close.

  Flashing the smile that launched many an endorsement deal, I say, “That’s what my jersey says. And you are?”

  “I’m Zoey. This is Ella.” She points to other girl wearing a Storm shirt. “And this is Melody.” She nudges her pink-haired friend to get her attention.

  She turns and I’m hit with the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen, the onyx color growing more prominent as they widen when they lock on me.

  Fuck. She’s even more gorgeous up close.

  I catalog everything about her: pink hair, cute little freckle under her left eye, lips painted in the same shade as her hair and begging to be kissed.

  The best part? I’m not the only one scoping out the situation.

  But my smile drops when I catch sight of what’s going on below the neck, and before you judge and call me an asshole for being a boobist, I’m not. I’m a proud supporter of members of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee.

  It’s not Melody’s breasts—which are full, high, and displaying just the right amount of cleavage to draw the eye, by the way. What? I may support the IBT, but I’m still a guy—that have me frowning. No, that honor goes to what is stretched across them.

  A Bruisers shirt.

  A fucking Bruisers shirt.

  Really, universe? A Boston fan?

  Chapter Two

  I’ve been on cloud ten since this morning. Yes, I know the saying is cloud nine, but I’m so flipping stoked I needed to jump to the next cloud because it wasn’t enough to contain my excitement.

  Tony eligibility. The two words have been flashing through my brain like a marquee all day. Freaking Tony eligibility.

  God! I’ve acted on Broadway more than half my life and have been blessed to play a few lead roles in major productions, including Wicked and Hamilton—but this?

  Holy crap!

  Move over, Rose, it’s my turn. Sorry not sorry, Bernadette Peters.

  Gypsy, what a fantastic musical—but not the point.

  If I land this role, I’ll be eligible for a fucking Tony! A Tony! The holy grail of all that is theater.

  Yes, yes I know there is still a long way to go before the role is officially mine, but being requested to audition by the producers tells me my chances of getting cast are more than good.

  And shit, the role couldn’t be more perfect for me. Marilyn Monroe. I cannot even begin to explain how much I love the OG bombshell.

  Not even the fact that my parents didn’t call or text me back when I told them the news is enough to burst my happiness bubble. Plus, my brother’s surprise FaceTime call helped wipe away the sting of neglect.

  Ella and Zoey insisted we go out and celebrate after tonight’s performances—being in the business themselves, they both understand the potential of today—and I was so happy I didn’t even balk when they picked The Sin Bin for drinks.

  I’m well aware the bar is a favorite of the city’s hockey team, and though my friends may not be puck bunnies, they dance along the line like one of Zoey’s choreographed pieces. Still, the last thing I expected was to come face to face with one of them, least of all Jase Donnelly.

  Yet…here he is, looking pucking sexy AF, and tall—so damn tall. I mean for reals, how is it possible that he seems bigger in person than out on the ice? A pair of skates easily adds six inches to a person’s frame—hello, that’s simple arithmetic.

  I have to crane my neck back to practically a ninety-degree angle to be able to see all of him. My breath hitches when I meet his smizing hazel eyes—seriously, he could teach Tyra Banks a thing or two. Combine that with his boyish grin, and I know I’m in trouble.

  Involuntarily I run my gaze down his body, taking in the way his broad shoulders stretch the black cotton of his t-shirt, pushing the seams to the limit.

  Yes, a lot of my fellow thespians are ripped due to spending countless hours dancing across the stage, but none have the bulk of a hockey player, and like my best friends—though less enthusiastically—I have also gravitated to the bulkier build of puck heads most of my life.

  Except…

  Jase Donnelly is the last hockey player I should have my eye on. Hell, he is the only person on the entire island of Manhattan I should stay away from.

  This is bad. So, so bad.

  “Don’t you know it’s against the rules to wear that shirt in here?” He points to the Boston Bruisers V-neck I’m wearing.

  Gah! Even his voice is sexy. Deep and husky, it washes over me, and I swear my girls audibly swoon.

  “Last time I checked, there wasn’t a dress code,” I sass before taking a step back when the fresh scent of whatever soap he uses after a game hits me. Soap and ice.

  “You’re not wrong.” His hand runs over his chiseled jaw, the faintest tint of yellow from a healing bruise decorating the left side. “But maybe you should take it off before Freddie sees. He’s a die-hard Storm fan. I’m surprised he let you in here wearing it.”

  My damn hormones pirouette, saying, Yes please, wanting to do as he asks if only he returns the favor, because I know there is a washboard stomach underneath the cotton. Thank you to the four-story billboard in Times Square of him in all his shirtless glory for that piece of information.

  “Freddie?” I cross my arms over my chest and don’t miss the way his eyes drop down to my cleavage. Boys.

  “The owner.” He brings his gaze back to my face and hooks a thumb in the direction of the white-haired man behind the main bar.

  “Oh, you mean Pops?” Zoey chimes in, a blush staining her cafe au lait skin, neither her Brazilian nor her Cuban heritage enough to hide the hockey-god effect. I should really pat her on the back for not going full-on fangirl. “Nah, no worries there. He loves us.”

  “You ladies come here a lot?” A knowing smirk plays at the edges of his lips. Full lips…kissable lips. How would they feel pressed against me? And sonofabitch, there go my hormones again. I swear those bitches are drunk, though I’ve only had one glass of champagne.

  “Often enough.” Ella shrugs, her almond-shaped eyes dancing with mirth. “Depending on our work schedules, we try to meet here once a week or so.”

  “And what is it you ladies do?”

  “We work on Broadway.”

  Why are they engaging? They know nothing good could come from prolonged conversation with him.

  “Well, as gorgeous as you three are, you must be actresses.”

  He’s smooth, I’ll give him that. Given his reputation, though, I shouldn’t be surprised. From everything I’ve heard, he has a bevy of bunnies at his disposal.

  My two traitors—err, friends—giggle and blush while I get into a slap fight with my hormones. We are not attracted to him, you hear me?

  “Only Melody is an actress.” Zoey cups my shoulder. “I’m a choreographer, and Ella plays violin in the orchestra.”

  “Ah, I see.” Another rub of that jaw. “I wonder if you’ve been in anything I’ve seen, but I’m sure I’ve would have remembered a face as beautiful as yours. And you know, the pink hair stands out.”

  I roll my eyes at the beautiful comment as it is obviously a line. “Theater buff, are you?” Skepticism bleeds into my words.

  “Not a buff per se, but the women in my life are fans and have dragged me to my fair share of shows.”

  The women in his life—at least he admits to being a player.

  “Why don’t you give me your number so the next night I have off, I’ll come check out your show and we can get a late dinner after.”

  “Yeah…I don’t think so.”

  Twin gasps of shock come from either side of me. This entire scenario is straight out of one of their fantasies—mine too, if I’m being honest—but I shut that shit down faster than a slap shot.

  Going out with Jase could only bring about one thing: trouble.

  “Why not?” The crestfallen look on his face almost has me accepting.

  Don’t be stupid, Mels.

  Jase Donnelly is a no-go.

  As if having read it
in a script, I can see him gearing up to press his case, but a very pretty strawberry blonde approaches first, wrapping an arm around his waist. When he automatically drops his arm around her shoulders, I tell myself that pang in my chest is not jealousy.

  “I’m heading out. I just wanted to say bye now in case I miss you in the morning. My flight to LA is at stupid o’clock,” the redhead says once she has Jase’s attention.

  “Sounds good. You know the code to my place.”

  Nope. Not jealous at all.

  And you call yourself an actress. You can’t even lie to yourself convincingly. Damn that year I played Elphaba, because my subconscious is cackling at me like a pro.

  “And you’re sure you don’t want me to go with you to JFK?” Jase asks her.

  “Nope. You’ve already scheduled your driver for me. You sleep in.” She pats him on the chest, and I have the overwhelming urge to rip the hand away.

  Whoa. Down girl. No need to go all West Side Story on the chick.

  A buzz of awareness fills the space. On either side of me, both my friends are smiling, like Jase wasn’t just attempting to flirt with us—me—all while already having someone warming his bed. How can they look at him all moony-eyed while I’m standing here wanting to slap a bitch?

  “Love you. Fly safe,” Jase says.

  My teeth snap together as I watch him bend to brush a kiss across her cheek.

  “Love you too, you big lug.” She sticks her tongue out as she starts walking backward.

  He returns the gesture, a glint of sliver catching the light when he does.

  Holy shit.

  He has a tongue ring? Lord give me strength.

  I’ve just witnessed him in the arms of another woman—discussing how said woman will be sleeping at his place, no less—and yet one glimpse of that naughty piercing makes me want to throw all common sense out the window.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  Clearly I need to run my lines again, because the one that tells me Jase Donnelly is a no-go has not stuck.

  Okay, time to go before I do something stupid.

  Without a word, I exit stage left.