by Toni Aleo
Misadventures with a Rookie
Toni Aleo
This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2018 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Waterhouse Press
Cover photographs: Shutterstock
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All Rights Reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
On the day Misadventures with a Rookie comes out, it will be 1,779 days since I lost my mom. I remember when she was dying; she took my hand and told me to do big things. My mom was the reason I had started reading, and then started writing. She was my biggest fan other than my amazing husband, Michael. Right before my mom had passed, I promised that I would get a book in a bookstore, and her name would be in the dedication.
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So, this book is for my mom, Patricia Anne Ortiz. My best friend. My everything. The person I miss more than anything, my mom.
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I did it.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
Don’t miss any Misadventures!
Excerpt from Misadventures with the Boss
More Misadventures
About Toni Aleo
Chapter One
Gus
I’d seen her before.
I’d seen her a bunch of times, actually, since I joined the Malibu Suns a year ago.
But for some reason, this was like seeing her—or better yet, her ass—for the very first time.
Her ass looked like it was from another universe.
As she bent over the ice, her tight gold leggings stretched across her spectacular globes. Craving the chance to slide my fingers along those seductive curves, I could feel my hands shake in my gloves. As I took in her flat stomach and full tits, my cock screamed in the cup I was wearing. I didn’t even know her, but I wanted every single inch of her.
When she lifted her head and her eyes met mine, she scrunched her face in an expression of disgust… Distaste? I was pretty sure she knew what I was thinking about, and she didn’t look like she liked it one bit. Scooping ice shavings with her shovel, she glared with deep-blue eyes and tossed her blazing red hair over a shoulder. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. I felt like she was challenging me with her body language, and I was never one to back down from a challenge.
And fuck, it felt tight in my girdle.
I watched her lift her ice-heavy shovel and smack it forcefully against the trash bin. She was probably imagining my head, but all I could focus on was the way her tits strained against that tight little top she and the other ice girls wore. Her stomach muscles were on display, and she was either clenching them or her belly was naturally tight and smooth. This woman… She was what had me gasping for breath, not the thirty-two minutes of ice time I had already played against one of the toughest teams in the American Hockey League.
No, the gorgeous redhead had me gasping in ways I never had before—on or off the ice.
I was a damn good hockey player, the third pick in the first round of the draft. I would’ve gone first if I had been a little younger and had scored a few more goals—but forty-six points for a defenseman was pretty damn good.
Every pro player wanted to play for the National Hockey League’s Twin Cities Tornadoes. They were rebuilding after a horrible year and lots of injuries, so there was opportunity for a player to grow with the team. When they drafted me, I thought I’d made it. I expected to go right in and start playing and training with the Tornadoes, but the owner and general manager had other plans, so they sent me to their farm team first—the Malibu Suns. They said I didn’t have enough experience for the big leagues. While I didn’t agree at all, my mom always told me, “Keep your head down and work hard, and you’ll go places.” So I’d been doing just that, even if it felt like I was wasting away in the AHL.
Watching this redheaded beauty was definitely not a waste of time—though I’d have enjoyed the view a lot more if she hadn’t been glaring at me like she could smell my gloves.
“Man, Persson. Did you sleep with her?”
I chuckled, my eyes still on those golden leggings as I shook my head. “Sure didn’t. But she doesn’t seem to be a fan.”
“Bus, I think she killed you six times with those eye daggers of hers.” My linemate and closest bud, Max Miller, whistled beside me. “Why the hell are you giving her that look?”
I curved my lips in a grin. “’Cause I’m pretty sure she hates it.”
“You’re a masochist.”
“I am,” I joked.
She rolled her eyes, twisted her lips in a scowl of disdain, and skated away.
“Man, she’s a she-devil.” I grinned, pretty sure I had come out ahead in our silent sparring match.
“With that flaming red hair?” Max grabbed a sport bottle. “Yeah, she probably is.”
“I wonder if the carpet matches the drapes.” I smirked. I didn’t mean to cause my bud to choke on the water he was trying to drink. It was a serious question.
Max laughed when he got over coughing. “Asshole.”
“Sorry.” I said it, but I wasn’t. I seriously did want to know if the carpet matched the drapes. I watched her skate toward the opening in the boards to get off the ice. “Maybe there is no carpet. Those leggings are tight as fuck.”
“They don’t leave much to the imagination.”
“Sure don’t,” I agreed as I ran my tongue along my lips. “But I don’t think my imagination could come close to the real deal.”
Max laughed. “Your imagination might be the only thing that will keep you warm, Bus. ’Cause that girl? She doesn’t want anything from you.”
“Yet,” I added confidently as I rolled my shoulders, looking out at the ice. “She just has to get to know me.”
When our defensive pairing was called, we cut the conversation and went over the boards with ease. Jumping into the developing play, we skated into the opposition’s zone as our forwards rushed the goal. Justine was screening the goalie while Minski and Raddi passed the puck back and forth between each other and back to the points, where Max and I were set up. When the crowd started to get restless, screaming for someone to shoot, Minski shot but missed the goal wide. Thankfully, their defenseman missed the puck, and it slid up
the boards and right onto my stick. I circled a bit in my position, watching all the players trying to block me. Finally, I sent the puck to Max. He tried to work it to Raddi, but he was blocked, so once more it came back to me. I took that as a sign that I just needed to shoot. So I did. Hard. I put my whole body into the shot, and when Justine jumped and spread his legs, I knew it was in.
The lamp went off, and I couldn’t help but let out a cry of victory as I threw my hands up. Soon the boys were all around, hugging me tightly.
“Atta boy!” Minski yelled.
I smiled, tapping his helmet.
“Let’s get this,” I yelled back, the roar of the crowd overwhelming.
I will never get over this. The pure adrenaline that only a crowd can give me. The thrill here was awesome, but still I yearned to play in the NHL. I wanted to be a Tornado. I wanted to play in their arena—the sound effects were fucking intense when a goal was scored. I wanted to play against the teams I had grown up pretending to play against. I wanted to score on the greats. I wanted to slam the same greats into the wall. I wanted—no, I needed—to get there.
And I would.
Gus Persson would fucking make his dreams come true.
I had no doubt about that.
But even after the high of scoring a goal that put us up by three and knowing I was going places, I couldn’t shake what Max had said earlier.
Skating beside my buddy, I tried to get back to our earlier conversation. “Why shouldn’t I take a shot? She’s hot.”
Max lifted his brows as he climbed over the boards, and then he scoffed and nodded his head. “Oh, the redhead?”
“Yeah. You said I should stay away from her.”
Max rolled his eyes. “I said if I were you I’d stay away. That girl didn’t struggle at all with the shovel. All the other girls do. That thing isn’t light. But your little redheaded vixen? The one who glared at you the entire time she was cleaning the ice? She had no trouble. She could probably kill you.” He looked over at me, laughed, and shook his head. “But you give no fucks and are going to go after her.”
I nodded. “Yup. No one says no to me.”
“She will.”
“No, she won’t. She’ll love me once I flash these pearly whites at her.” I flashed him a wide smile to show him what I meant.
Max laughed. “That she’ll know is faker than half the tits on this ice.”
I glared. “My teeth aren’t fake!”
He gave me a bemused smile. “And I’ve banged all the Kardashians. It’s me. I’m your homie. You don’t have to lie.”
“They aren’t!”
He scoffed. “Whatever you say. But take my advice: Stay away from her. I think she could break you.”
I looked over at the ice access door in the boards and grinned. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was there, probably glaring at me.
Why did that make me hard?
“Maybe I like living on the edge.”
Max laughed loudly as the whistle was blown. The coach called our defensive pairing. Climbing over the boards, Max said, “There is a difference between living on the edge and running straight for death. That girl is a one-way ticket to Heartbreakville. Or hell. I can’t decide. But can I also point out that it annoys me that you can fawn over a girl and still score?”
I laughed out loud as we lined up. “I can score with my eyes closed, Maxy.”
“I hate you,” he shot back just as the puck was dropped. “And she’ll be the only one to block you. I can feel it.”
I scoffed. “Well stop feeling things for me and just pay attention to how the game is played. Maybe then you can score.”
One of our forwards sent the puck back to me, and I sent it to Max, who shot right away but missed the goal. Raddi got it and tried to score, but his shot was deflected right back to him. He passed it back to Max, who held the puck for a bit while our forwards set up. I saw the tick in his jaw that usually meant he didn’t see another play, so when he sent it to me, I was ready.
I shot, and the puck went to the back of the net.
For the third time tonight.
Yes.
Throwing my hands up once more, I looked at Max as he skated toward me shaking his head.
“Show-off.”
He was right.
And I didn’t take offense at all.
I had been showing off my whole life, and I was ready to show Ms. Redhead all of my wonderful capabilities.
On and off the ice.
Chapter Two
Bo
Gus “the Bus” Persson was a showboating, entitled, rich fuck who got on my last nerve. His nickname? Please. Bus? He wasn’t a bus. He was just a meathead who ran into everyone! I rolled my eyes for the umpteenth time as the fans went nuts, chanting his name and littering the ice with hats following his third goal.
Great. Not only did he ogle me with those sinfully gorgeous green eyes, but I had to clean up after his ass. As the door opened, the girls and I rushed to get the ice clean as fast as we could. In an arena with over fifteen thousand fans and sixty percent of them wearing hats, that wouldn’t be as easy as it sounded. With each pile of hats I scooped up, I glared and cursed him as I watched him laughing and high-fiving his teammates.
Ugh, I hated the lot of them.
Especially the rookies. Grrr.
They were nothing but trouble. New players were all the same. They went around trying to prove something, fucking everything in their paths before leaving their bedmates in the dark. It was annoying, disgusting, and everything I hated about the sport of hockey. I used to be a fan—a huge fan, actually—when I lived in Minnesota. Not liking hockey wasn’t very Minnesotan. Cheering for every hockey team from local high schools up to the pros was a done deal. That was our duty. It was what we did, and I did it well.
Of course, that all changed when I got involved with a player, and boom, things went to utter poo. Nasty poo. But I wasn’t that girl anymore. I had moved to California with the drive to succeed as a sports therapist.
Why on earth would I end up back in hockey when I hate hockey players? Well, hockey is what I know. It was really only the antics off the ice that sparked my hatred. As a physical therapist, I’d mostly be working with injured players, and they weren’t the same at all. They were usually very driven, which I admired. There was a big difference between someone being a showboat—a guy who thought he was hot shit—and someone who was hurt but worked desperately to get back to the sport he loved. I enjoyed being around that type of hockey player, and I sure did love helping them.
Shaking my head, I looked around the arena full of people and bright lights and exhaled hard. When I came to California for physical therapy school, I figured I’d work as a server in some restaurant and wait for my chance to intern, but that wasn’t the way the Malibu Physical Therapy program worked. They placed students in internships right away. From day one I received hands-on training, and I loved it. I was especially thrilled when I learned I would be interning with the Malibu Suns, the Twin Cities Tornadoes’ farm team.
During my orientation, I learned the Suns were hiring ice girls. I had done that in Minnesota, so I asked about it. To my surprise, I was hired on the spot. It was insane, but oh so awesome. I was studying a field I loved, had an awesome internship, and was working as both a skating instructor at the practice arena and an ice girl at the games. It was the perfect situation.
The downside was the obnoxious rookies who assumed I was down to fuck. All the time.
Shoveling up another pile of hats, I cursed Gus again. My roommate Lizzy held the trash can. As we stuffed the hats in, she said, “Hopefully this is the only type of score he’ll make.”
“He’s a douche.”
Lizzy cracked up at that. “If you’d just give him a little bit, I bet it would be easier for you to chase him off.” She paused and looked over at me. “Like you do everyone else.”
I scoffed. “Fuck off. I do not chase everyone off.”
“You do too,�
�� she insisted, shaking her head. “You’ve been here a year, and no dates, no boyfriends, no nothing. I don’t even think you own a dildo.”
“Ha. Little do you know, I have six.”
“You freak!” she teased.
I beamed at her. Lizzy and I met our first day at MPT. We clicked instantly, and thankfully, she was looking for a roommate. I was living in on-campus housing, but my roommate was disgusting. She would throw dirty panties on the ground and leave them there for a week! Lizzy promised she cleaned, and that was enough to get me to quickly move in with her.
“All you do is work and go to school. We’re in our twenties. We’re supposed to be wild and free,” she said.
I rolled my eyes. “I have things to do, a future to build. I’ll be wild and free in my thirties.”
“That’s when you’re supposed to have kids.”
Her words evoked a sharp pang in my heart. By now I was practically a pro at ignoring that pain, so I waved her off, slamming a hat in the bin. “I’ll push that back to my forties.”
“So you can be sixty when they graduate? Ew, no.”
“Hey, I’ll be a hot sixty-year-old.”
She laughed. “You’re smoking now, girl!”
Lizzy was insane. All I could do was laugh as I scooped up hats with more force each time. I could hear Gus’s voice as he boasted about how easy it was to score on the other team. He was freaking insufferable.