I Pucking Love You

by Pippa Grant

  For all I know, they already are.

  Which means my follow-up question—how do I know if my dick is working again, or if it was a fluke?—isn’t something I’m talking to Ares and his wife about either.

  Not gonna lie. The old man in my pants is tired after all that bonering on the way home.

  Dammit.

  I need the bunnies.

  I’m texting them as I walk down the hall, asking Athena and Cassadee all the questions that I don’t want to ask my teammates, when I hear my nickname.

  “Jaegs!”

  “Jaeggy, man, you’re back.”

  “So you survived the funeral. Good. How’s your head? Coach is gonna kill you.”

  Rooster, Klein, and Lavoie converge on me, since I was the dope who walked to the players’ entrance at Mink Arena instead of going in the front door to avoid my teammates.

  I scowl at all of them.

  Rooster grins under his cowboy hat. “Don’t get mad, now. We got your back. Ain’t gonna ask why you needed sniffing salts. But we wouldn’t be friends if we didn’t make sure you’re okay.”

  “I’m asking,” Lavoie says.

  “And then I’m asking how things went with Muffy.” Klein wiggles his brows.

  I almost throw a punch.

  But for what?

  “I kidnapped Muffy and made her move into my apartment when we got back, and now I don’t know if she’s staying, or if we’re dating, or if she’s gonna take my car and drive to Kansas or Vermont or somewhere that’s basically anywhere but here and never talk to me again.”

  I wait for my body to recoil in horror that I put it all out there, but instead, mild relief settles into my bones.

  I can’t talk to my sisters about this without drama—and yes, I’m ignoring a billion texts that have my phone regularly buzzing in my hand, none of which are Athena or Cassadee texting me back with answers—and while I could talk to West, he’s still in his honeymoon phase with Daisy and everything in his world is all women and children are the best thing to ever grace this earth.

  Or possibly I’m afraid if I tell my brother that I might be falling for Muffy, it’ll be more real than if I tell my teammates and the bunnies that my relationship status is currently it’s complicated.

  Duncan sighs. He grabs me by one arm. Rooster gets me by the other. Klein leaps ahead to open the team lounge door.

  “When you say kidnap…” Lavoie mutters as they march me inside.

  “I didn’t shove a bag over her head and stuff her in my trunk. I ordered her to get back in the car and then packed a few bags full of her stuff, got her cat, and took her to my place instead of letting her live with her mother one more day.”

  Klein snorts. “Dude, that’s not kidnapping. That’s saving.”

  “Muffy’s the one with the hot mom, right?”

  All of us glare at Rooster, but Lavoie’s the only one to speak. “Say that again, and I’m calling Zeus Berger myself for ideas on making your life hell.”

  “ZB! I love that guy.” Rooster whips a Sharpie out of his back pocket. “Started carrying this to sign the fans’ foreheads like he used to.”

  Lavoie stops, but Rooster keeps going, which makes them yank me like the rope in tug of war.

  Connor’s gaping at Rooster. “Dude. That’s not… You don’t… Fuck, man. I heard a rumor Zeus and his wife are thinking about moving back here—don’t tell Murphy, it’s a surprise—and you can’t take his thing. He’ll kill you. And not like easy kill you, but like, master of torture kill you. You can’t steal his signature move.”

  He’s right.

  Ares’s twin brother is devious. Both of them are. Ares just hides it better.

  And if you pick on one Berger twin, you’re going after both of them.

  Rooster Applebottom clearly knows no fear, because he merely grins wider under his cowboy hat. “Dude retired. He’s old news.”

  “Been nice knowing you,” I tell him.

  “Yeah, back to a problem we can solve.” Klein looks at my crotch. “Still having performance issues?”

  “No.” Maybe. Shit.

  “Muffy know?” Lavoie asks.

  He’s all business with a hint of sympathy, and suddenly everything’s okay.

  My teammates have my back. They’re asking about my dick because they care. And if I tell them to have Muffy’s back too, they will.

  “She has her own problems,” I reply.

  The team captain nods once. He’s divorced. I don’t know details. Happened before I got called up. But I know it means he had in-laws and there was a time in his life when he put someone else as number one above hockey.

  Klein pulls us through the foyer and fully into the lounge. Frey and Murphy are already there, both with their families. Frey’s daughter is toddling around between the well-loved couches. Murphy’s burping his little guy while the women laugh about something.

  But they all stop when we walk in.

  “Tyler!” Kami gives me the universal look of are you okay? “I knew something was weird about Muffy’s date request, but I swear, I had no idea it was for a funeral. I probably should’ve known it was something bigger than a ceremony thing.”

  My phone buzzes six more times in my hand, all my sisters.

  Guilt creeps over my skin, heating my scalp and face.

  I have two awesome families. My sisters might drive me nuts, but they’re there. All married to great guys I could call for backup on anything in an instant. Not that I’d need to. West would have my back first, if Daisy didn’t beat him to it.

  And then there’s my hockey family.

  Any given moment, I have literally dozens of people I can call for anything from joining me to grab a bite to eat to helping bury a body, plus I’m texting puck bunnies for relationship advice.

  Muffy has her mom.

  Sure, she has Kami too.

  But her mom negates the Kami effect.

  Fuck that.

  Muffy’s getting my family.

  I’m dating her.

  And if she doesn’t know it yet, that’s okay. If she doesn’t want in yet, that’s okay too.

  But I will date her.

  I’m gonna date the shit out of her.

  Muffy Periwinkle’s gonna know she’s worth something.

  Whether she likes it or not.

  25

  Muffy

  It takes me longer than it should to shower at Tyler’s place.

  I’m off my routine. I don’t know which shampoo I should use. He doesn’t have conditioner. It takes me a while to sort out which bag has clean underwear and a nice enough outfit to wear for my screenings this evening. Plus, Rufus keeps trying to gnaw on one of the oranges in the bowl in the kitchen, and I don’t know the best place to put the litter box that the doorman delivers right as I’m finally naked in the bathroom.

  Also?

  Tyler has guest rooms.

  Not one.

  Two.

  And one of those rooms is decorated in bright colors and stocked with Legos, blocks, board books, and dolls.

  He’s a bachelor prepared for his sisters and their kids to stay with him.

  Swoon.

  Or possibly he secretly has kids of his own that no one knows about.

  Unlikely, but there’s safety in pretending he has bigger secrets than that he’s scarred for life because of his zombie grandfather.

  Otherwise, I’ll start asking questions.

  Things like how long is he expecting me to stay here?

  Which is really how long until he gets tired of the chaos of having me in his very neat and tidy home?

  I can’t solve that one, so instead, I rush through a shower—yes, I am picturing him in here with me, without me accidentally assaulting his butt with a doorknob first—grab his keys, and head out for my first meeting, doing my damn best to not think about Tyler expecting me to sleep in his bed with him tonight.

  Meeting one is a bust—the guy spends the entire time staring at something behind me in t
he coffee shop, and when I check to see exactly what’s behind me when I leave, I realize it’s a brick wall.

  He literally would’ve rather talked to the brick wall.

  And it’s not a fear of eye contact thing.

  He made plenty of eye contact with everyone from the barista to the firefighter who came in for a to-go order for the station.

  I’m willing to overlook social awkwardness. My clients are all on the socially awkward side too.

  But something felt abnormally off, so he gets a pass, and I’m also really glad I’m using aliases as I screen candidates.

  Candidate number two is a lovely gentleman who lets me buy my own coffee at a separate coffee bar several blocks away from the first, but offers to grab it for me when the barista calls my name. He makes eye contact, tells me about his nieces and nephews, and makes me wish I were having coffee with Tyler instead.

  And I completely wig out on him when Maren walks in the door.

  I’m talking diving-under-the-table, pulling my coat over my head, mumbling something about needing to go to the bathroom and then locking myself inside the men’s room wigging out.

  While I’m hiding, my phone rings.

  And the name flashing on my screen makes me cringe hard enough that I give myself a headache.

  I still answer it though. “Hey, Kami.”

  “Muffy? Where are you and why are you whispering?”

  “I’m backstage at an indie rock concert at the amphitheater.”

  “Did you fall and hit your head this weekend too?”

  “No, I’m in the middle of something, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I saw Tyler. He said you moved in with him.”

  I make static noises with my mouth. “I ca—squaawaabasssshhhhaaa—think I—swishswishswish—later.”

  She doesn’t immediately call back when I hang up, but someone starts knocking on the door, so I wouldn’t answer even if she did.

  Yes, I moved in with Tyler.

  But I don’t know what it means.

  I unlock the bathroom door, peek past the startled gentleman trying to get in here, spot Maren looking at her phone while she waits for her coffee, and realize my only option is to dart through the little kitchen area and burst out the back door.

  “Sorry sorry sorry,” I mutter, jacket pulled up over most of my face, as I brush past the afternoon manager. “Bad date. I’m gone. I’m out. Sorry.”

  My heart’s basically in my uvula by the time I’m halfway down the alley, realizing I’m completely turned around and I have no idea where Tyler’s car is.

  I am the worst live-in not-girlfriend ever.

  Also, I really hope Rufus isn’t chewing on any plants.

  I log into the app I pretend I don’t have on my phone and send a message to Roger, my “date,” and tell him something came up and I had to dash, but would he like to meet my friend Phoebe?

  Tyler’s car is still in the garage near my first screening date, so I hoof it back there, calling my credit card company on the way to tell them my card was stolen, and asking them to please send a new card to Tyler’s address.

  It’s better than the truth.

  My mom thinks I’m way more successful than I am, so she borrows my card from time to time and dorks up my already lackluster credit.

  Not that it matters.

  Since I’m over my limit, they decline to replace anything, though they take note of my new address and promise to send all my billing statements there, and they put a freeze on the old card.

  So when I get to Cod Pieces for the evening support group with my clients, I’m in the dumps. I’m not working tonight—not frying fish, anyway—which means I can relax and enjoy dinner without leaping up every time the doorbell or drive-through buzzer go off.

  Brianna hands me a paper birthday crown when I slide into the booth by the window where she’s waiting with Phoebe. “You look sad.”

  “We saw you on the news.” Phoebe’s also in a Cod Pieces birthday crown.

  I know it’s neither of their birthdays, nor is it mine, but some days call for crowns, so I put my own on too. “You…what?”

  “You were at a funeral this morning?” Brianna prompts.

  Phoebe nods. “And with Daisy Carter-Kincaid there. Are you really dating her brother-in-law?”

  “I—we—it’s complicated.”

  Brianna nods. “I know you said you don’t date, but if you like him, and he likes you, go with it. Sometimes you have to take a leap, you know?”

  My two clients don’t have a lot in common. While Phoebe’s into business, Brianna seems to be leaning toward studying something in science. Phoebe does water aerobics and takes cooking classes for fun. Brianna’s considering joining the weightlifting team at CVU and she knits while listening to poetry when she needs to chill.

  Phoebe grew up in a small town in the Southwest.

  Brianna grew up in an apartment downtown here in Copper Valley.

  But they’re both peering at me with warmth and sympathy and a willingness to listen.

  So what do I have to lose?

  Both of them as clients?

  “We’re friends, and I didn’t tell him I was a virgin before we hooked up a couple months ago, and neither one of us want a long-term relationship because we both have our own hang-ups, but…I like him.”

  “Muffy!” Phoebe lunges for my hands, bumps my tray, and sends my fish and chips sliding into my lap. “Oh, shit.”

  I leap up, picking everything up. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “Got your back, Muffy,” D’Angelo calls from behind the counter.

  “No, no, it’s okay. It’s—”

  Oh, shit.

  Brianna’s crying.

  She’s crying.

  I lunge across the table to hug her. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  “I’m a virgin too,” she wails. “I thought I was the only one, but I’m not. I’m not alone.”

  The entire restaurant falls silent.

  I think even the shop next door goes silent.

  Phoebe visibly tenses, then looks around at every last customer, finishing with D’Angelo behind the counter.

  Most people go back to their fish.

  Brianna hasn’t seemed to notice. I keep patting her back and telling her all the ways she’s amazing and that she shouldn’t judge herself for any part of her sexuality or experience level while D’Angelo continues to stare at us.

  I have zero idea what he’s thinking, and I hope it’s nothing that means I’ll have to break up with him as friends.

  But I would in a heartbeat.

  After a minute, he frowns thoughtfully, turns, grabs the basket of fish and chips that slide down the chute, adds a fried pie, and carries them out to us.

  Brianna wipes her eyes quickly, pushes me back, and stares at her lap.

  “Hey.” D’Angelo lightly bumps her with a fist on the shoulder. “You’re a mother-freaking rock star. Got it?”

  She mumbles something that sounds like banana gargle toilets.

  “Chin up,” he tells her. “Anyone says anything wrong here, you and me are taking out the judgmental assholes together. ’Kay?”

  She flashes an embarrassed smile at him.

  He grins back. “Good. You’re in my biology class, aren’t you?”

  She nods.

  “Study group. Second-floor student lounge, right above the lecture hall. Wednesday. Noon. If you’re free, join us.”

  She nods again.

  And I’m relieved I don’t have to take him out, because I saw him take Tyler down last week, which means my odds of success aren’t good.

  Also?

  If Brianna can put herself out there and make a commitment, even for a study group while she waits for me to find the perfect man who’s worthy of her, maybe I should consider trying it too.

  26

  Tyler

  Muffy’s not in my apartment.

  It’s almost ten, and there’s no Muffy. N
o texts. No calls. No cryptic notes left anywhere.

  I know she said she had stuff to do tonight too, but I don’t know what it was. Pretty sure it’s not working at Cod Pieces, because her uniforms are still in the bags I grabbed from her mom’s house.

  But I’ll take it as a good sign that all her stuff is here. Plus, her toothbrush is out in my bathroom, which feels weird, but not wrong.

  Not like I’d expect a woman’s toothbrush in my bathroom to feel.

  Her cat’s also still here. Rufus and I are having a stare-down, him from my kitchen sink, ears slicked back, eyes wide, his weird brownish-tannish fur puffed up so he looks like his face is one of those craft pompons my sisters’ younger kids glue to their art projects.

  I snap a picture from my spot at the edge of the kitchen, then send it to West with an accompanying question. Does this look normal?

  He and Daisy don’t actually know how many cats they have, but it’s a lot. She adopted an entire shelter after a photo shoot gone wrong in her mansion not long after Remy landed on her doorstep.

  “I’m coming to get a glass, and it’s above your head, okay, cat?”

  He jerks and lunges like he’s attacking a dust bunny on the side of the sink, then lifts his head and looks at me again, mouth open like he’s skated a few laps and is gulping oxygen.

  He’s freaking hilarious.

  West doesn’t answer, but I hear the telltale click of the door lock, then shuffling, and a moment later, the door swings shut with its normal bang.

  The cat rowls and leaps for safety, but he doesn’t account for the faucet and dives headfirst into it.

  Before I can move to check on him, he’s using the oranges in my fruit bowl as a trampoline to leap to the top of the fridge.

  All of the artwork from my nieces and nephews that I’ve stored up there rains down as he scrambles to get purchase on the edge of the refrigerator.

  I grab my thickest oven mitts and dart for the cat. Not hard to see what’s coming next.

  Rufus Superman-ing it off the top of the fridge and landing in my trash can.

  “Calm down,” I order as I reach for him.

  He scrambles again, switching directions on the flying papers, and sends an old Valentine’s Day card coated in glitter straight at me while somehow managing to get enough traction to leap up onto the cabinets instead of falling into the trash can.