Puck Aholic: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  For all I know, I could have barely escaped with my life.

  The thought is ridiculous, childish even, but it makes the rejection sting less, and by the time I wake up the next morning I’ve all but forgotten about the girl I kissed last night.

  When Brendan, my team captain, calls to tell me his little sister’s new living situation fell through and ask if I’m still looking for a roommate, I don’t for a single second consider that I might have met his sister before. That I might have kissed her, rocked against her through our clothes, wanted to make love to her more than I’ve wanted anything in a very, very long time.

  I’m clueless, and say yes without thinking twice, not realizing what a serious mistake I’ve made until I open the front door an hour later to find Beach Pixie standing on my doorstep wearing tiny striped shorts, a tank top so thin it should be illegal, and a shocked expression that matches my own.

  Chapter Two

  Diana

  Worst luck in the world.

  I have the worst luck in the entire world.

  What are the odds that the man I made out with on the beach last night—the one man in Portland, in fact, whose lips have met mine—would happen to be my brother’s teammate and the only person in my small circle of friends who’s looking for a roomie?

  Slim, is the answer to that question. Very fucking slim.

  Unless, of course, you are me and your bad luck is the legendary stuff of legend.

  Shit sticks…

  I should have stayed in bed this morning.

  Maybe I would have if Carly’s boyfriend Nick hadn’t spilled his coffee on my head as he stumbled past the couch where I was sleeping—thankfully he likes it iced, not scalding—and awoken me with a cold caffeine shower from an X-rated dream starring Muscle Boy. And so far, the coffee bath has been the highlight of this day, polling above learning that the girl I paid a five-hundred-dollar deposit for the studio above her garage has run off to Mexico, leaving her parents (who actually own the house) to apologize profusely for their wayward loin-fruit and explain that the studio has already been rented to someone else, and standing on a stranger’s doorstep hoping my luck is about to change only to be greeted by a shocked-looking Muscle Boy—who is even more handsome in the daylight than he was in the dim glow of the moon.

  Handsome and clearly appalled by the sight of me.

  As he should be. Because this here? This shacking up together in his cozy yellow bungalow? Well, that obviously is never going to fucking work.

  “Hey, Nowicki.” My brother trudges up the steps to the front porch behind me, carrying two heavy black cases filled with camera equipment that he will, unfortunately, soon be carrying right back to the car. “This is Diana, my oldest little sister. She moved to Portland a few weeks ago. Diana, this is Nowicki. He’s a left wing, different line, just finished his rookie season.”

  “Actually we’ve—”

  “Nice to meet you, Diana.” Nowicki, aka Tanner—if my brother weren’t a jock weirdo who refuses to use people’s first names, this third disaster of the day could have been avoided—reaches out to clasp my hand. “I’ve heard good things.”

  “Really?” I frown as my fingers fold around his, ignoring how nicely warm and dry his palm is, and how tingle inducing it is to be touching him again.

  So he wants to play it like this, does he? Pretend we’ve never met?

  Why? Is he actually open to the possibility of living together? Or is he just afraid Brendan will pound his face if he finds out that Tanner and I were dry humping in the sand last night?

  “Really.” Tanner nods as he releases my hand. “Chloe showed me some of your shots. They’re really good.”

  “Oh. Well…thank you.” I arch a brow, taking in Tanner’s slightly-too-wide eyes and the hint of perspiration beginning to dot his upper lip.

  Yeah, it’s definitely the second option. He fears a brother beating, which is amusing, considering Brendan is one of the kindest, most reasonable people I know and respects me enough to keep his nose out of my personal business. He always has, even when my personal business probably could have used some intervention.

  “Where do you want me to put these, Nowicki?” Brendan asks from behind me. “Not to rush the introductions, but I’m pretty sure she’s got her entire two-ton boulder collection in here.”

  “Right, sorry. Up the stairs, first door on the left.” Tanner stands back, pulling the door open wider, revealing a beautiful open-concept living room that seamlessly flows into a sunny kitchen with antique cabinets and an old-fashioned refrigerator that is one of the more adorable things I’ve seen today.

  And then a series of excited grunts sound from the other side of the room near the white brick fireplace, and I can’t help but smile. There, with her pink-and-brown-spotted nose pressed to the gate of one of those free-standing pens made to corral dogs and toddlers, is the cutest damn miniature pig I’ve ever seen.

  “Oh my God, she’s a doll!” I float through the door and across the room, abandoning my duffle on the porch to keep my hands free for important things like scratching this beauty’s chubby belly. I squat down at the gate, and Miss Adorable greets me with a fresh round of grunting. “What’s her name?”

  “Wanda,” Tanner says from behind me. “But be careful. It takes her awhile to warm up to strangers. She can be cranky with new people at first.”

  “No worries. Animals and I are all good.” I wave away his concern with a flip of my wrist as I reach over the gate to stroke Wanda’s lightly furred back. “It’s humans you have to watch out for. Right, Wanda?”

  The pig grunts again before retreating to the far side of her pen, where she roots beneath a large pink blanket until only her small, intelligent eyes and wiggling snout are visible at one end of her cover-cave.

  “It’s okay, sweets,” I say. “I’m shy sometimes, too.”

  “And I’m the Queen of fucking England,” Brendan mutters as he starts up the stairs. “Don’t believe her for a second, Nowicki. That one doesn’t have a shy bone in her body.”

  Tanner coughs, and I turn to see him watching me with a mixture of amusement and anxiety that is also pretty adorable. He’s nearly as cute as his pig, but that doesn’t matter. If we’re going to do this roomie thing, we’ll be doing it as friends, nothing more. And friends don’t care if friends are tall, built like a brick house, or blessed with the sweetest set of dimples ever to grace a chiseled face.

  “Wanda’s why I need to find a roommate before the season starts again,” Tanner says, motioning toward the snuggled-up pig. “I need someone to feed, walk, and play with her a couple times a day while I’m on the road for away games. But I’m assuming Brendan mentioned that?”

  I nod. “He said there were some pet care responsibilities, and that was the reason the rent was so reasonable.”

  “Do you think you can handle that?”

  “Like I said, I’m good with animals.” I glance toward the stairs, making sure Brendan is out of earshot before I add in a softer voice, “But if we do this, we forget about last night, okay? Seriously. It’s like it never happened.”

  Tanner steals a nervous glance over his shoulder. “That’s a good idea no matter where you decide to live. Dating the relatives or exes of teammates is frowned on in Badger land.”

  Before I can assure him I’m not up for dating anyone, no matter what team they play for, Brendan tromps down the stairs, jabbing a thumb toward the second floor. “Go check out your new digs, Squirt. It’s a sweet space. Lots of light, nice view of the backyard, and your own bathroom.”

  “Squirt?” Tanner echoes, grinning.

  I point a stern finger at his chest. “That’s for big brothers only. No one else gets to call me that.”

  “Except our sisters,” Brendan adds, stopping beside Tanner. “Diana’s the runt of the Daniels’ litter.”

  “Shut up, Brendan,” I warn, glaring at my brother.

  But Brendan only laughs and slaps Tanner on the shoulder. “Help me grab
the last of the bags? That way we can get them in one go and save the runt’s tiny legs three or four trips up and down the stairs.”

  “Sure, happy to help,” Tanner says, following my brother toward the still-open front door.

  “Yeah, well, you guys may have gotten the brawn, but I got the brains,” I call after them. It’s been my standard comeback for short jokes since my teen years when it became clear I was going to spend the rest of my life looking up the nostrils of my siblings—both younger and older.

  But to be honest, I’m not so sure about the state of my brain these days.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have resigned from the National Park Service, abandoning a quietly successful, albeit lonely, career as a nature photographer and non-profit PR consultant to try my luck in the big city. Maybe I should have stayed on the road, rolling from one federally-subsidized moldy cabin in the woods to the next until the day I got too old to hike up mountains to photograph bald eagle nests and retired to a tiny cottage I’d saved up enough to purchase after sixty years of pinching pennies and eating bulk granola for every meal.

  Yes, it was poorly paid work, and grueling at times, but it was satisfying, peaceful, and familiar. I knew what to do when I ran into a bear with a newborn cub while roaming a trail, or got caught halfway up a cliff face in the middle of a thunderstorm. I have no idea what to do about lying city slickers stealing my money, public transportation that seems designed to confuse the hell out of me—despite Portland being named a top ten city for getting around without a car—or potential employers who are so profoundly disinterested in my resume they can’t be bothered to confirm receipt of my emails.

  So far, the transplant to the city isn’t going nearly as smoothly as I’d hoped. And shacking up with a drop-dead gorgeous guy who I have no doubt would be a dynamite fuck buddy, is the very definition of Bad Idea.

  It’s been way too long since I let off that particular kind of steam, and as Tanner walks by with my duffle slung over one shoulder and my yoga bag hitched over the other, the sight of his hands on my things is enough to give me more bad ideas. Bad ideas that involve climbing Muscle Boy like a jungle gym and taking advantage of my new aerial-yoga-acquired flexibility to see how many ways we can get tangled up in each other before we collapse from exhaustion.

  But I know how that would play out. Muscle Boy would end up being the latest in a long line of men who give new meaning to the word “douchebag,” because no matter how hard I try to find a nice guy, I always end up attracting snakes, liars, losers, and sociopaths.

  Or, I revise, as Tanner disappears up the stairs, gamely helping move in a roomie he had no idea was crashing his solitude until a couple of hours ago, he could prove to be every bit as nice as he seems. Given the chance, our instant chemistry might lead to something more, and then I would get to play the role of douchebag, because I’m never going to be good girlfriend material.

  I’ve already had my “once in a lifetime” love, and I screwed it up. Now Sam is engaged to marry a beautiful humanitarian lawyer princess, and I’m going to spend the rest of my life alone. Because it’s better to be alone than to play pretend with a man who deserves better than a girl who’s always going to be hung up on the one who got away.

  The one I threw away because I was too blind to realize that Sam was different, special, a diamond in a world full of…turds.

  I wrinkle my nose, looking down to see Wanda letting loose a surprisingly large load of droppings for a mini pig, her bottom positioned so the turds tumble through the slats of her enclosure, leaving a revolting pile inches from my sandaled foot.

  “I told you she takes a while to warm up to strangers,” Tanner says, shaking his head as he surveys the present his little darling has left on the carpet.

  I arch a brow. “You think this is a message for me?”

  “Absolutely,” he says. “She’s crazy smart. Aren’t you, Wanda?”

  Wanda offers a series of musical grunts in response.

  “Now go get a puppy pad so I can clean up your mess.” Tanner props his hands on his hips. “Go get a puppy pad. Right now. You’ve been a bad pig. That’s no way to welcome our new roomie.”

  After another grunting session that is decidedly more resentful in nature, the pig prances across her enclosure on dainty hooves, grabs a puppy pad from a stack of several, and trots back to Tanner with the absorbent sheet clenched between her teeth.

  “You little brat.” I laugh, not sure whether to be offended or impressed.

  “This isn’t a regular thing,” Tanner assures me. “She’s house-trained. She uses a puppy pad or goes outside unless she’s trying to prove a point.”

  I cross my arms. “And her point is…?”

  “That she considers you a threat,” he says, his green eyes narrowing. “She isn’t a fan of other women. But once she understands that you and I are just friends, she should settle down.”

  “So the pig is in love with you?” I grin up at him. “Is what you’re saying?”

  He shrugs. “The ladies love me, Diana. It’s my cross to bear.”

  I’m still working up a comeback—too distracted by how nice my name sounds on Tanner’s oh-so-kissable lips to be snappy with the repartee—when Brendan hustles down the stairs, waving an arm for help getting the last load from the back of the SUV.

  I follow my brother outside while Tanner disposes of Wanda’s welcome present. Even with a jealous pig and a dangerously sexy roommate to deal with, shacking up with Tanner is still preferable to letting Brendan install me in his guest room, the way he’s been offering to do since I announced I was moving to Portland.

  I don’t want to horn in on his new family—he and his fiancée only moved in together six months ago—and I really don’t want to wake up every morning and stumble down the stairs to see Brendan and Laura making goo-goo, lovey-dovey, smoochy-heart eyes at each other while they fix breakfast for my niece. I’m happy for them, I truly am, and I’m glad the dream is coming true for people I care about, but it’s not easy to be around Happy Ever After Coupledom twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

  In fact, it’s flat-out nauseating.

  I’ll take pig droppings any day. At least until I can scour the message boards and find another affordable room for rent.

  Decision made, I grab my laundry basket full of shoes from the back of the Trailblazer and head up the stairs, ready to make the best of my latest bout of bad luck. The one good thing about being the walking, talking, disaster-inclined proof of Murphy’s Law is that I’ve learned to roll with the punches and get back on my feet without wasting time feeling sorry for myself.

  And really, I observe, covertly admiring the view as Tanner bends over on the other side of the room, scrubbing the carpet with a sponge, things could be much worse.

  Sure, I can’t touch, but there are no rules against looking, and the scenery around this place is a truly beautiful thing.

  Chapter Three

  Tanner

  According to the I.Q. tests they gave me as a kid—back when my teachers were still trying to figure out why I was struggling in school—I’m of above average intelligence, though you wouldn’t know it from the abundance of dumb decisions I’ve made in my life.

  There was the time I ate a handful of Legos on a dare, the summer I decided jumping off the roof into a kiddie pool was a good idea, and the afternoon I ran away from my mom at the mall and spent the night locked in a storage room, certain I was going to die of starvation before someone found me. And then there was the time I skipped school with my girlfriend to take advantage of the fact that her parents were out of town on business, only to be interrupted mid-bang when her father decided to come home early.

  That was the first time I was chased into the street buck naked, but sadly not the last. The second was when yet another girlfriend’s husband unexpectedly returned from his deployment overseas—I’d had no idea she was married until a man with a gun was chasing me down the block—and the third was at an away game my rookie s
eason in the minors. A fire alarm went off while I was in the shower. I stepped out of the bathroom to find the air already filled with smoke, panicked, and bolted without bothering to snag a towel.

  Suffice it to say, I’ve made more than my fair share of bad calls.

  But this…

  I glance across the room to where Diana is unpacking a small box in the kitchen, the light catching the blond curls twisted into a bun on top of her head, and experience simultaneous twinges of elation and foreboding. The “doesn’t always consider consequences” part of me is very happy to have Beach Pixie in my house, looking sexy as fuck in that nearly see-through shirt.

  The practical side of me, however, knows this isn’t going to end well.

  I’ve never lived with a woman I wasn’t dating or related to by blood. I know how to behave myself in those situations. I have no idea what to do with an attractive but completely off-limits roommate whose nipples I’ve bitten through her T-shirt.

  Fuck… Even letting my thoughts drift in that direction for a split second is enough to make Long Dong Silver perk up and take notice. Which means it’s time to take control of the situation before I embarrass myself.

  “You want to talk house rules before the tour or after?” I dump the sponge I used to clean the carpet into the trash and cross to the sink to wash my hands.

  “Why not both at once?” Diana pushes her juicer into the empty spot beside the espresso machine and turns to face me with a bright smile. “But if there are more than three, you’re probably going to have to write them down and post them somewhere. I confess I have a bad head for rules.”

  I smile. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  She laughs, lifting one bare, sun-kissed shoulder. “Yeah, well, I’m not always as impulsive as I was last night. Like I said, all the romance of the evening got to me. Made me a little crazy.”

  “And a little smokey,” I add, pointedly. “Which can’t happen here, by the way. No pot or cigarettes in the house is rule number one.”