The Pilot and the Puck-Up

by Pippa Grant

  Because I’m a fun target, or because he’s plotting something, I don’t know. And I shouldn’t care.

  Except he’s been hanging with the two massive puckers stepping up behind him as he exits the plane.

  Zeus stops before me. He gives me a quick once-over, his hooded eyes lingering on my lips and making me flush from my toes to my fingertips and everywhere between.

  Never in my life has a man been able to fire my engines with one look.

  It has to be the sheer size of him. The muscles, the height, the thick growth of stubble on his cheeks and chin. That grip he had on the treadmill. He’s so inherently male, despite all the cracks I’ve seen in his machismo.

  He lifts those blue eyes to meet mine, and he gives me a single nod. “Well played, Ms. Diamonte.”

  “Enjoy your flight?”

  He doesn’t answer. I honestly don’t expect him to. I’m not making fun—even the passengers who toss their cookies tend to love the experience, because how often do you get to float like you’re in space?—and I hope he realizes it’s an honest question.

  His eyes flicker. It’s not annoyance. Or pride—there’s not enough bravado.

  No, it’s something else entirely.

  Something…vulnerable?

  He blinks, and the vulnerability is swallowed into his intense I will devour you in one bite and burp out the air in your lungs hockey-god glower. “I’m done fighting fair. We’re taking this to my turf. You. Me. Hockey sticks. Two o’clock. Mink Arena.”

  “Didn’t realize this was a fight.”

  He bares his teeth. “This is so much more than a fight.”

  My nipples pucker so fast my lungs go lightheaded. My pulse might’ve just pushed the throttle full-force to head into a forty-five-degree climb too.

  Before I can tell him where he can shove his stick—yes, fine, I do want to know what his stick could do to me. Shut up.—he follows the prince off the plane.

  Behind him, Ares makes eye contact with me, and a subtle grin tugs at his lips. The two of them are physically identical, but the way they carry themselves is so very different. One’s verbally brash, the other lets his size speak for itself. He has his flight suit unzipped, showing off a pink T-shirt stamped with a picture of mountains and the phrase “Nipples Have Lips” scrolled across it.

  Boomer and Monkey Butt both shift closer to me, which is as abnormal as a third full moon in a single month. Both because they know I don’t need their protection, and they sure as fuck aren’t the types to cower behind me.

  “Have fun up there, big guy?” Boomer asks.

  Ares nods. He smirks again, gives me a smart salute, and follows his brother in ducking off the plane.

  Chase Jett holds out a hand. “You have lunch plans?”

  Lunch plans, nap plans, and then fashionably late plans.

  If I meet Zeus at the hockey rink.

  Which I will, because how often do I get a chance to learn to play hockey from a pro? Need to add handling a stick to my repertoire.

  Fine, fine.

  I admire the guy’s pucks, okay?

  “Flight debrief,” I tell Jett.

  “Hm.”

  He doesn’t say anything else. I don’t offer.

  But I’m holding my breath when he and Ambrosia leave the plane. She pokes him in the back, and I hear him mutter, “Timing, Ms. Bossypants.”

  So there’s to be a power struggle if he’s going to consider propositioning us.

  Excellent.

  Peach will be so pleased.

  We finish seeing off our passengers. As soon as the bus pulls away to take them back to the small private terminal, all of us—Boomer, Monkey Butt, the six crew members cleaning up the plane, me—sag against the walls.

  “One for the record books,” Monkey Butt says with a subtle smile.

  “What’s going on with you and that Berger brute?” Boomer wants to know.

  My lips go rogue and sprout a smile that I can’t stop, which pisses me off because I’ve worked damn fucking hard to not be a smiley-ass kind of woman. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “The one who puked took a beating from that Bailey girl,” Nyla tells me. “Kid doesn’t take crap from anybody.”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar,” another of my crew murmurs.

  “She was nice to him when he tossed his breakfast though.”

  Those two. They’re like long-lost cousins.

  I’m actually going to miss them both when we go home tomorrow.

  20

  Zeus

  That flight—dude.

  Just dude. You want eloquence, go talk to fucking Manning.

  Not that he could come anywhere close to understanding how it felt for a guy my size to be totally and completely weightless, but he’s got bigger words than dude.

  When we’re all off the plane, we don’t stick around for pictures. I get Bailey’s mom’s phone number—shut up, I got your mom’s phone number too—and we load up.

  No reason to find another new and creative way to fuck up my last chance with Joey—not that I’m convinced she’s gonna show—and Chase needs to run something to ground.

  Whatever the fuck that means. It isn’t screwing my sister, because while I down a cow’s weight in pizza and verify the rink is iced over and open at the Arena, she and Ares play thumb wars.

  Ambrosia’s got freaky strong thumbs. My sister scares the shit out of me sometimes.

  I leave them all behind at the hotel, and now I’m skating around the ice, lining up pucks, two sticks in my pants—hockey sticks, not the demigod sitting over my planets who thinks he’s getting playtime today too—while I wait for Joey Fireball.

  Not much I’ve done right the last two days. This is my last chance to show her there’s something Zeus Berger is fucking fantastic at.

  Maybe my last chance to bang her brains out until she can’t remember her own zip code.

  Shut up. I’m managing my expectations here. Fireball’s not the type to forget her name.

  And shut up again. We’re thinking positive here. She’s gonna show. And there’s gonna be some damn banging.

  But if she’s not coming, there’s nowhere I’d rather be than on the ice.

  Until today, this was the only place I ever felt completely normal. Yeah, I’m still bigger than all the other puckers in the NHL—Ares excepted, like always—but not many of them quake in their skates when they see me coming. Aren’t many afraid to take a swing at me either. When I’m cutting ice on my blades, I’m not a behemoth who can’t squeeze between two tables at McDonald’s or fit in a sports car. Not that I need a fucking sports car—nothing to compensate for here, shut up again—but it’d be nice to not be so fucking big all the time.

  On the ice, I’m quick, I’m respected, and I’m fucking grace with a stick. Both my sticks.

  On Joey’s airplane?

  I’m an average Joe. Not some Bigfoot ape.

  Don’t get me wrong. I got a good life. Don’t mind being the biggest badass out there. But living large, benching cows, and plowing through the buffet at Golden Corral gets old.

  Hard to believe, but there it is.

  Sometimes, Zeus Berger wants to be normal. Tell anybody, and I’ll tell them about what your mom did to me last night.

  The door opens onto the ice, and I watch Joey Fireball hold on to the wall while she steps into the rink. The staff here got her set up with skates that fit, but she’s clearly not in her element.

  Her feet aren’t steady. They’re wobbling like she’s on bobble-feet.

  She’s got this ballsy determination written all over her face though. This chick’s gonna fucking own this rink.

  Only question is how long it’ll take her.

  “Didn’t think you’d come,” I say while she tests her balance without the wall.

  “Never turn down an opportunity to practice.”

  “Practice beating my ass, you mean?”

  “No, I mean my hockey game’s rusty.”
/>   Rusty my ass. Gotta have some skill to start with to get rusty.

  Unless she’s a mega-shark. A mega robot shark with balls and boobs.

  I’m grinning, because I can’t help myself. She fucking came. She’s talking shit. And even with those pink glittery ice skates—I’m tipping the manager here for finding those for her—she’s so badass my nuts hurt.

  Her dark hair’s still tied back. Not tight, like she’s trying to give herself a facelift with her ponytail, but not hanging loose either. She’s in black athletic pants and a tank top. Only clue she can feel the coolness of the rink are those two perky nipples straining against the white fabric.

  Her foot slips. She corrects it without so much as a flicker of a scowl. If anything, she smiles. Half self-deprecation, half bring on the fucking challenge. It’s not just the knucklehead in my pants who notices. Got something caught in my chest too.

  Takes one hell of a person to enjoy not being good at something. For all she annoyed me on the links yesterday, beating the pants off all of us, she didn’t brag or rub it in. Just took care of her business, made sure the kids were getting attention and her own brand of praise, and the hell with the rest of us.

  “Decided I’ll take it easy on you,” I tell her while I glide over my home turf.

  “Like I took it easy on you in the plane?”

  She’s fucking flirting with me. I’m gonna score the shit out of today. “Yeah. Something like that.”

  She makes her way slowly out to meet me at the blue line.

  “Skate much?” I ask.

  “Just want you to think you can win a round.”

  Fuck, she’s hot. Funny too. “You’re full of shit.”

  “Am I?”

  She is. And those plump lips are twitching up in the corners, like she’s enjoying trash-talking me.

  Lady’s on my playing field now. And I can out-trash a trash-talker with four teeth and half my tongue tied behind my head.

  I slide a hockey stick out of my pants and offer it to her. “Ladies first. Unless you need me to show you how it’s done.”

  She eyes the stick with more interest than disgust, which is one more good sign. Like she’s contemplating pulling something else out of my pants.

  I might have to play hard to get. Wonder what she’d think of that.

  “If I’d known you were going to pull that Ladies first shit, I would’ve made you puke more,” she says while she takes the stick.

  “Only puked to make you feel like you were doing a good job.”

  “If I’m doing a good job, you sign up for another ride.”

  Yeah, I’m totally flying in her jet again. First chance I get.

  Even if I puke again.

  To go weightless? Fuck, yeah. “Now you’re stalling. Afraid I’m gonna kick your ass?”

  She’s almost smiling as she rolls her eyes, swings around on the ice, lines up like a four-year-old taking an oversize golf club to a water balloon, and swings the stick at the nearest puck.

  And hot damn, that little puck shoots across the ice, straight at the goal, where it swooshes the back netting when it lands.

  Her lips part, her eyes widen, and a full smile blossoms and almost knocks me on my ass before she goes poker-face again.

  “No,” she says. “Not really worried.”

  I treat her to the infamous Zeus Berger I’m going to fucking eat your face glower.

  She smiles.

  A sparkly-eyed, cheek-to-cheek, ear-wiggling smile.

  My dick threatens to split my zipper, my brain goes tongue-tied, and there’s that squeezing in my chest again, like someone’s trying to rub one out of my lungs.

  I point to the pile of pucks. “Go on. Do it again.”

  She presses those rosy lips together, but she’s still smiling when she bends her head to take an order for once.

  And she scores another fucking goal.

  I yank the other stick out of my pants and toss it in the air behind us. “Who the fuck are you? Are you sharking me?” I poke her in the arm to make sure she’s real and not a hologram.

  Yeah, yeah, fine. And because I want to touch her.

  Never met a woman who could keep up with me before, let alone one-up me. “You punking me? Who sent you? Did fucking Giovanni send you? You weren’t flying that plane, were you?”

  She laughs.

  There’s no one here. No one but us. Me and Joey Fireball. And she’s laughing.

  It’s fucking music.

  I point to the pucks. “One more time.”

  Fuck if her smile doesn’t light up so bright I need sunglasses. “Ladies first.”

  Oh, no, she—yeah. Yeah, she did.

  She’s not owning the ice.

  She’s fucking owning me.

  And she knows it, if that deep chuckle rumbling out of her is any sign.

  “Fuck me,” I mutter. “Where the hell are you from?”

  “Goat’s Tit, Alabama.”

  “No shit?”

  “Just outside it, actually. We weren’t good enough to be townsfolk.”

  “You don’t talk like you’re from Alabama.”

  “Your brother doesn’t talk at all. What’s your point?”

  I growl. It’s instinct. Nobody gets to fucking talk about my brother.

  Nobody.

  But Joey doesn’t blink.

  No, she smirks. The lady’s pushing my limits on purpose.

  Probably because I’m pushing hers.

  She’s almost smooth as she skates back from the pile of pucks, her eyes sparkling brighter than her pink glitter skates. “Your turn.”

  I snag my stick, maneuver it to pick a puck out of the pile and skate it around Joey. I could push a puck over the ice in my sleep. Been doing it since I was three, and I’m a fucking master of control.

  Yeah, yeah, I’m showing off. Fluffing all my rooster feathers for her. She’s got grace—or something—when she’s flying. I have my own fucking grace on the ice.

  I pull up short and slap my puck dead-center toward the net.

  It slides past the left goal post and bounces off the backboard.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  Joey squeaks and puts a knuckle in her mouth. Her feet slip, but she corrects and stays upright. Knowing the muscles she’s clenching to stay balanced makes the demigod in my pants hard enough to crack ice.

  I pull another puck over, swing my stick, fire, and miss again.

  I fucking miss again.

  Shit. This isn’t good. The play-offs—and now this.

  Joey chokes on air.

  I swing around. “You cursing me? If you’re gonna fuck up my whole season—”

  “I’m a pilot, not a witch doctor.”

  She’s fucking unreal is what she is. Not smiling anymore, but there’s a dry warmth from the quirk of those dark, exotic eyes to the set of her slender jaw.

  This woman doesn’t smile enough.

  Doesn’t let her hair down. Cut loose.

  Relax.

  “Hit another one.” Loud is my middle name. I—right. Fine. November is my middle name—thanks, Ambrosia, for spilling the fucking beans—but it should be Loud.

  But my point is, I’m talking so soft right now my voice is barely reaching the ice below me. Because I can’t be any louder. She’s got my lungs in knots and fucking goose bumps—goose mountains—breaking out all over my skin.

  I want her to score.

  I want her to fucking hit the net.

  I want her to kick my ever-loving ass on this ice.

  And I don’t know why.

  She holds my gaze long enough for me to pick out the stars lurking in her dark eyes. To get a glimpse of the universe working inside her. She’s not asking if I want a beating.

  She’s asking something more.

  Something bigger.

  Something I don’t understand and can’t comprehend but that makes that swelling in my chest puff up faster than one of Panther’s fucking balloons popping.

  With a shrug, s
he breaks eye contact and taps her stick on the ice. She’s not winning any awards for her stick work, but watching her handle the wood makes the pipe in my pants ache so hard it’s in danger of permanent dick-brain damage.

  She pulls a puck from the remaining six or seven, and she slaps at that puppy.

  It doesn’t fly fast—doesn’t fly at all—but it’s straight and it’s as fucking determined as she is. She bends toward the puck like she can will it to keep sliding.

  To keep going.

  To reach that goal line.

  I’m holding my breath.

  I can feel her holding her breath.

  And the puck keeps sliding.

  Inching.

  Almost…There…One…More…Foot…And…

  And it stops.

  Just inside the goal posts.

  She thrusts both hands in the air and almost takes me out. “Yes!”

  My stick clatters to the ice. “Who are you?” I grip her hips, holding her while she lets me skate her backward toward the door. Because I’m done. She wins.

  And I’m still planning to kiss this chick until one of us can’t breathe.

  Probably me. “What the fuck can’t you do?”

  One corner of her lips twitches up. Stars, moons, and whole fucking galaxies are dancing in her dark eyes. “That’s classified.”

  “You play hockey in Alabama?”

  “No.”

  “You some kind of spy? A girl James Bond?”

  “Yeah. That’s me. Call me double-O-Aces.”

  “What else do you play?”

  Her smile’s growing in direct proportion to the aching need growing in my dick. “Badminton,” she says. “Curling. Toe wrestling.”

  “There’s no fucking way you could beat me at toe wrestling.”

  “I’d agree you probably have an unfair advantage, since your toes are likely the size of a normal person’s fingers, but you should never underestimate a determined woman.”

  “You are so fucking sexy.”

  “You truly have had too many pucks to the head, haven’t you?”

  We stop against the boards. She’s not fighting.

  No, somewhere she lost her stick, and her fingers are resting on my forearms, hot little ribbons against my skin.

  “So fucking sexy,” I whisper. I brush her cheek with my knuckle. The fog of our breaths hangs suspended between us. Swear on my skates, her nipples are trying to grab me.