I Pucking Love You

by Pippa Grant

  “The guy has a highly overdeveloped sense of revenge.”

  “Unlucky for him, we now have Daisy.”

  “Is your whole family here?” I ask.

  They shake their heads in unison.

  “Not yet,” Allie says.

  “But they will be,” Keely adds.

  “We really did come early to show the kids Copper Valley.”

  “And we thought Uncle Tyler would want to come along.”

  “Honest to god, we actually thought maybe you were a fake girlfriend that he planted to text and video call with us, because he never dates, and it wouldn’t be the first time he paid a service to pretend to be his girlfriend.”

  I choke on air.

  And for the first time since we were interrupted, I see something other than irritation flash over Tyler’s face.

  This is sheer pride and amusement. It’s subtle—it’s all in the eye movement—but there’s no mistaking his mood is improving. “Best Christmas present I ever got all of you.”

  “You got them a fake girlfriend for yourself for Christmas?”

  He flashes me a grin. “Still have the website. We can get you a fake extra boyfriend and let him talk to your mother about his complicated feelings about being in a threesome.”

  “You really want a threesome one day, don’t you?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Allie’s smile goes so wide it has to hurt. “Awww! He’s in loo—oof.”

  “Don’t jinx it, idiot,” Keely hisses as my heart starts an Olympic-worthy vault routine in my chest. She points at us. “So, do you really want us to go away, or do you want to hang out with us at the aquarium this morning?”

  “We want you to go away and we’ll get back to you when we feel like it.” Tyler shifts to stand between me and his sisters, and I wonder if I’m accidentally flashing some other body part.

  “Aquarium this morning without you, and we’ll invade for dinner with all of the kids again at five.” Allie nods. “Got it.”

  “Six,” Keely says. “You forgot about the time change. They won’t be hungry at five here.”

  “Six! Right.”

  “I have a team thing,” Tyler says. “You’re on your own.”

  “We know. We’re inviting Muffy.”

  “This is my apartment—”

  “And we love cooking and cleaning here.” Keely beams. “We’ll leave you a ton of leftovers.”

  He sighs.

  I know that sigh.

  It’s surrender with a side of they’re right, I love their leftovers.

  Allie leans around Tyler to make eye contact with me. “And please tell me you’ll sit with us during the game tomorrow. We got a party suite.”

  “My clients—” I start, and both women interrupt me at once.

  “We have room!”

  “Bring them to the party suite too!”

  “Party suites are the best way to watch the games.”

  “Especially with kids.”

  “But we’re getting babysitters.”

  “So we can actually watch.”

  Tyler heaves another sigh. “Are you done yet?”

  His sisters share another look. “Yes,” Allie says.

  “Especially since you need to deal with your cat,” Keely adds. She gives us a finger wave. “Later, taters! We’ll let you get back to…whatever it was that you were doing that’s clearly sweet and innocent.”

  “Agreed. Because I really don’t need to picture Tyler doing anything not sweet and innocent.”

  They leave as fast as they arrived, and I peer around the room for Rufus.

  “Sorry,” Tyler says as he bends and lifts the sofa. Rufus darts out like he’s been trapped under it for hours. “I’d say they’re not usually like that, except they are. They have zero boundaries.”

  “Um, have you met my mother?”

  His gaze locks on mine, and I tilt my brows for extra emphasis while he stands there, staring at me.

  “Fuck,” he finally mutters.

  Fucking. Yes. I support that plan.

  I drop the curtain and the throw pillow. “Can you super emergency lock us in so no one else can get through that fancy door?”

  He’s not looking at my body.

  He’s looking at me, and he looks utterly perplexed.

  “What?” I wipe my face. “Tell me I’m not wearing breakfast. Do I have part of a smoothie on my forehead?”

  “No,” he says softly. “You just—you’re fucking perfect. That’s all.”

  My heart swells so hard and fast at the sincerity in his voice that it makes my eyes a little wet. “So far from it,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t answer.

  But he does snag the dice, toss me over his shoulder again, and carry me to the bedroom, where he locks the door, settles me on the bed, and proceeds to pick which side of the dice he wants to land up.

  And when I should be sucking on his fingers, he sucks on mine. And when I should be tickling his nipples, he tickles mine. And when I should be eating his cock, he spreads my legs and feasts on my pussy instead.

  If Tyler Jaeger doesn’t love me, he’s doing a very good job of making me feel like he does.

  Neither of us say the words.

  I don’t think it’s in us. Neither of us wanted a relationship. Neither of us wants to get married.

  But he’s rapidly become the very best friend I’ve ever had, and I don’t want this to end.

  38

  Tyler

  It’s been years since I wanted my family to meet a woman in my life, but knowing Muffy is off with my sisters at the zoo while I’m at morning skate on Saturday isn’t bothering me as much as it should.

  Also not bothering me?

  Facing the Indies tonight.

  If Gator Cranford’s still holding it against me that I slept with his sister one night in college, when I really did think I could spend forever with her, he can fuck right off.

  “How much you need me to have your back, Jaeggy?” Rooster asks while we’re going through shooting practice. “You want me to rough him up right out of the gate so he’s got all his anger aimed at me, or you want me to lay low so he doesn’t know what hit him the first time he calls you a pussy?”

  “Just play your game. I’m not worried.”

  “Should be,” Lavoie says. “Dude acts like you knocked his sister up with triplets and left her to fend for herself in some backwoods town without running water or electricity.”

  I checked in on his sister on social media for a couple years after college, and I know I didn’t knock her up. She’s living her best life. I’m living mine. No harm, no foul.

  “Guy can’t touch me,” I reiterate to my teammates.

  I’m floating on air.

  Muffy’s coming to the game tonight. She politely declined the party suite with my family since a bunch of her clients wanted to come, so they’re sitting together in the nosebleed section.

  It sucks that I won’t see her in the front row like I did when she’d come with Kami, but knowing she’s there is all that matters.

  Plus, when I offered to get her tickets for all of her clients, she literally grabbed me by the balls and made me promise they’d be nosebleed tickets, or else.

  I got the impression withholding sex was the very least that she’d do. She doesn’t like feeling like she owes people, and I don’t want to come home to her scrubbing my toilets in an effort to pay me back.

  And I’m not one to deny the fun of the nosebleed section anyway. That’s where I saw my first hockey games.

  The game isn’t about the seats. It’s about the experience.

  Lavoie sprints ahead to take his turn at shooting at Klein, who’s starting tonight.

  Murphy’s not making noise about retiring, but he’s also up there in goalie years, and the brass want to develop Connor more so we’re not stuck in a bind if Murphy ever leaves.

  We know it’s coming, even if he doesn’t. And maybe it’ll take two or three years, but it is
coming.

  He’s different with the wife and kid.

  Looks good on him.

  And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel sorry for him being shackled in a marriage.

  Might actually want what he has.

  I hit the front of the line and take off to try to score on Klein, send the puck right in the five hole, and circle the net with a fist pump. “Next time,” I call to my buddy.

  He ignores me, because Frey’s already barreling toward him from the other side.

  Frey’s another one with a family. Calls Gracie his wife, though if they’ve made it official, I didn’t get an invite. She’s not keen on being a princess, and Frey loves his dad and his brothers and his country, but he could care less about the whole royal-prince stuff too.

  Dude has the luxury of not caring though. He’s pretty far down the line of succession.

  I’d give up a country for Muffy.

  Fuck, I’d give up hockey for Muffy.

  And that realization has me freezing hardcore as Rooster circles to join me back in line.

  He grins. “Look like you got hit upside the head with the cooter stick.”

  “The what?”

  “Cooter stick. You done gone and fell in loooove, but you don’t know if it looks like love because you’re in love with getting it up again, or if you’re getting it up again because she’s got the one cooter your dick can’t live without.”

  Lavoie snorts in front of us. “Leave him alone, Applebutter. At least until after the game, yeah?”

  Rooster doesn’t bat a lash at his new nickname. “Not a chance, Cap’n Dunk-hat. Not if it gives him something to live for.” He smacks me in the ass with his stick. “Good on you, Jaeggy. Play your heart out for her. Better’n playin’ your heart out for yourself. Or for your dick. Gives a man more to live for.”

  “You ever been in love?” I ask him.

  He grins. “Every single fucking night.”

  Yep. Completely the dude we all love to hate.

  “You tell her yet?” Lavoie asks me.

  No, I haven’t told her.

  This is our honeymoon period. What if it’s lust and not love? What if I say I love her and it scares her away?

  This is Muffy. She acts like she doesn’t give two shits what anyone thinks of her, and she talks the talk when it comes to her clients loving themselves first, but she doesn’t apply it very well to herself.

  “You’ve been flirting for a year, you passed out at a funeral for her, she’s living with you, she’s all you talk about, she’s hanging out with your family, and you haven’t told her you love her?” Lavoie’s practicing puck control while we move up in line, his stick patting the puck back and forth, but all of his attention’s on me. “You don’t think she’s serious?”

  “We hooked up because neither of us wanted anything serious.”

  “Jaeger. You’re in something serious.”

  “I know, but I don’t know if she knows. And what if this is just the honeymoon period? What if this all wears off next week?”

  “Gotta man up and talk to her, Jaegs,” Rooster says. He’s spinning in a circle like he’s thinking of trying out for the Ice Capades if this hockey thing doesn’t work out, except he’s trying to balance his stick on his chin. “Otherwise, six months down the road, she’s gonna dump your ass because she’s realized it’s been six months and that smells like a relationship. I’ve smelled your socks. Don’t get more attached if she can’t handle it.”

  “Or we get six months down the road, she realizes I’m everything she’s ever wanted, and all my patience has paid off.” When my balls don’t shrivel, I know I’m kidding myself in thinking this is a passing phase and that I’ll get tired of it.

  What I don’t know, though, is if she’s as serious as I am.

  And that was the one thing that didn’t work out for me the two times I tried it before.

  Two.

  I’m a wuss when it comes to relationships. Scared of commitment because of two things that happened before I was old enough to drink, hiding behind not wanting to live with my sisters for the rest of my life, when the truth is, I’ve been waiting my whole life for someone as fun, bright, amusing, and unexpected as they are.

  Lavoie’s shaking his head. “Tell her.”

  “And what if she bolts?”

  “What if she’s waiting for you to say it first and she’s afraid you’ll bolt?” He grunts. “You’ve met her mother. I’ve met her mother. If ever there was a woman who’d have issues, it’s Muffy.”

  I’d slug him on her behalf, but I know he’s not saying it to be an asshole.

  He’s saying it because it’s true.

  “Tonight,” I say. “I’ll tell her tonight. After we kick Indianapolis’s asses, and Gator Cranford crawls out of here with his tail tucked between his legs.”

  Rooster punches me in the arm. “That’s the spirit. Go get her, tiger.”

  I don’t want to get her.

  I want to love her.

  39

  Muffy

  I. Freaking. Love. Tyler’s. Family.

  We’ve hardly seen him all day, which is pretty normal on a game day. He has morning skate, team lunch, nap, then it’s time for him to suit up and swagger back to the arena.

  I couldn’t join anyone until after my weekly client support meeting, where I have three clients now dating men I introduced them to, and two more unofficial members of my client roster that I’ve matched in my head as soon as they give me the go-ahead and sign on. Maren is still single, but I introduced her to my therapist this week, and she texted to tell me that after her first session, she’s pretty sure this will be more useful than dating.

  And now I’ve been to the zoo with Tyler’s family, and we’re all gathered in Daisy and West’s hotel suite for dinner before the game, where Daisy’s private chef is glowering at everyone while he stands guard at the roast beef station in the corner.

  Apparently Cristoff needs to be shown all the love for his food, or he threatens to feed Daisy things she’s allergic to. And he’s clearly not serious, because every time he references feeding her shellfish to make her blow up like a balloon, West smiles, rolls his eyes, and shakes his head.

  “She can handle him,” he tells me when he catches me looking confused at his amusement. “Plus, he knows what I did to the last guy who threatened my family.”

  I feel like there might actually be a true story there, especially when Cristoff abruptly stops muttering and eyeballs West with more than a little healthy respect, but Staci leaps in and starts asking me questions about my matchmaking business before I can press for details. She tells me she’s the friend whisperer in her circle back home, and she likes to hook up mom friends who are lonely with other mom friends who’ve been there.

  “Best match you ever made?” she asks.

  “Betty and Sariela.”

  “You made a lesbian match?”

  I nod. “Yeah, but it’s not the best because it was a lesbian match. They were my first match, and it was an accident. They met at my first client support group meeting, which I did on a fluke but has turned out to be the best part of my matchmaking service. I only have like five true success stories, so helping my clients find friends on their way to also finding love is a serious boost to my confidence.”

  “Have you always wanted to match people?”

  “I used to ship people in high school, but I never did anything about it, so after—” I cut myself off, realizing where this will go if I finish my sentence.

  And now half of Tyler’s siblings and a third of his in-laws are looking at me.

  Waiting for me to see what came before after.

  And you know what?

  Screw it. I am who I am. If ever there was a group of people who’d accept me without question the way I’m learning to accept myself, I’d like to think it’s the people who love the man who’s trying to rescue me from myself.

  I nod and continue. “After medical school, I wanted to f
ind something to do to help people, and I’ve always felt like I didn’t quite fit anywhere, so when I overheard two women talking in a coffee shop one morning about how hard it was to find guys who couldn’t look past the way they had a few curves and thought for themselves and liked to do Star Trek cosplay, it was like I’d found my calling. I didn’t have a clue who I’d set them up with, but I told them I ran a service called Muff Matchers and that I wanted to help them out.”

  “Wow,” murmurs Staci’s husband, Javi, whose infected testicles are apparently fine now, and no, I’m not thinking about that.

  “That takes serious balls,” Britney says, because she, obviously, is.

  Everyone looks at Javi.

  “Fudge you all,” he mutters.

  “Fudge!” Britney’s twins yell together.

  The rest of the kids take up the battle cry, and soon Tyler’s parents are sharing a look and snickering to themselves while their children try to get the grandchildren to focus on food again.

  It’s fucking awesome.

  They’re dysfunctional in their own way, but I adore them. Every last one.

  I get hugs all around when we split up at Mink Arena. They’re heading to the party suite, and I’m meeting my clients at the hot dog stand across the street.

  It’s relatively new, but it’s seriously hopping.

  Mostly because whoever opened it licensed the use of Thrusty, the Thrusters’ official rocket-powered bratwurst mascot, for marketing purposes, and they sell Thrusty Dogs and Thrusties on a Stick.

  Not gonna lie. If I’d thought of that first, I probably wouldn’t be matchmaking.

  Brianna’s the first to arrive, and she’s dressed for the occasion. Thrusters jersey, Thrusters sweatpants, Thrusters handbag, and Thrusters bratwurst hat. Legit, the hat is like a three-dimensional stuffed bratwurst on her head, like those Cheesehead hats, except Thrusty’s flying out of her forehead instead of a block of cheese eating it. “I’ll get a foam finger inside,” she tells me.

  Maren arrives next, and she takes one look at Brianna’s hat and gasps. “Want! Oh my god. Where did you get that hat?”

  Brianna beams. “I made it.”

  “You made it?”