Hosed

by Pippa Grant

  But it’s not going to happen. It’s only October and I’ve just told Sylvia she’s coo-coo for Cocoa Puffs and that I’ll have her shit packed up and sent to her office tomorrow afternoon.

  And then she said that I was an emotionally unavailable jerk who is incapable of sustaining an adult relationship. And then I said that she’s a blackmailing, birthday-ruining, manipulative, sushi-obsessed control freak who should try to choke down a carb once in a while because it might make her more fun to be around on pizza night or donut morning or any other day of the goddamned week involving carbs because a life without carbs is a stupid life. And then she flipped me off and told me to “have a nice long, lonely existence, asshole,” before knocking over a tray of champagne glasses on her way to the elevator at the other end of the roof.

  The only good news? Very few of my guests seemed to notice our fight or Sylvia’s dramatic exit.

  It’s nine-thirty, we’ve all been drinking since six, and most of my nearest and dearest are feeling no pain. I should be feeling no pain, too. I’m on my third tumbler of GlenDronach, haven’t eaten anything since lunch because the food at my party is unacceptable—if Sylvia and I were really meant to be, she would have realized I hated sushi two months ago—and haven’t drunk anything more serious than a beer since before the preseason.

  But somehow, I’m stone-cold sober.

  Sober and tired of celebrating, and wishing I could slip out and grab a deep-dish pizza from Dove Vivi. The cornmeal crust thing they’ve done to their pies is addictive, and I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in the world fresh mozzarella, house-made bacon, and a hearty slathering of pesto can’t fix.

  Portland is home to some of the best eats in the world. It’s also home to more strip clubs per capita than any other city in the nation. If I weren’t committed to being a good host, I could have pizza in my belly and boobs in my face in under an hour. But I’m not the kind to ghost on my guests. I leave that for weirdos like my team captain, Brendan, who consistently vanishes from bars and clubs without warning, and clearly has issues with saying good-bye.

  Not that I can blame him. After six years as a happily married man, going back to hitting the scene solo can’t be easy.

  I’m just glad to see him finally out and about again. After Maryanne’s death, he shut down so hard a lot of us on the team were worried there might come a day when we’d show up for practice and learn Brendan wasn’t coming back to the ice, either because he’d lost the will to play, or because he’d lost the will to live.

  That’s how much you should love the woman you’re going to marry. You should love her so much that if she were taken away from you it would feel like your rib cage had been cracked open and some sadistic son of a bitch was cutting away tiny pieces of your heart, slathering them in salt, and eating them right in front of you.

  I’ve never felt anything close to that. For Sylvia or any other girl I’ve dated.

  So maybe Sylvia is right. Maybe I’m going to spend the rest of my life solo, with my loneliness occasionally broken by short-term relationships with various hot pieces of ass.

  “Poor me,” I say, lips curving in a hard grin.

  Seriously, cry me a river, right? I’ve got a multi-million-dollar contract, a stunning loft with one-hundred and eighty degree views of the city, and my health, which is not something I’m stupid enough to take for granted. I was born with the kind of face that not even a black eye from scrumming with those douchebags from L.A. can wreck, and a body that performs—on the ice and in the bedroom. I should be laughing all the way to the dance floor, where I know of at least six or seven unattached hotties, any one of which would be happy to ease my birthday breakup pain by riding my cock all night long.

  What do I want instead?

  Pizza. My pajamas. And a crochet hook with an endless supply of yarn.

  Nothing calms me down like hooking on a granny square until I’ve got one big enough to cover my entire damned bed. I’ve graduated to more complex projects since those early days learning how to hook so I wouldn’t go crazy while I was stuck in bed with mono for three months, but sometimes mindless repetition is the only cure for what ails me.

  And yes, I like to crochet. Again, I’ll ask that you not fucking judge me, because it’s my birthday, because my charity, Hookers for the Homeless, has provided over two thousand caps, gloves, and scarves to people in need, and because my Instagram account—Hockey Hooker—has over a million followers. Clearly, the women of the world have no problem with a man who enjoys handicrafts. Though, the fact that my first post was a body shot of me wearing nothing but a Santa Hat I’d crocheted over my cock probably didn’t hurt.

  I have no shame when it comes to selfies with my latest project. My friend Laura—childhood partner in crime and current public relations master for the Badgers—says she approves of my social media efforts to promote good will for the team. Her little sister and my crochet guru, Libby, thinks it’s great that I’m using my yarn addiction to raise awareness of the homeless crisis. But let’s get real. I started posing semi-nude for the tail and the attention.

  I’m usually a big fan of tail and attention.

  But now, as Laura and Libby climb the steps leading up to the patio from the dance floor, clearly intending to wish me a warm, bubbly, old-friends happy birthday, I wish I had an excuse not to talk to either one of them. Laura because she’s insane when she’s drunk—once she’s had a few, the usually level-headed La can’t be trusted not to embarrass herself and everyone around her—and Libs because I’m incapable of hiding anything from that girl.

  Ever since thirteen-year-old Libs spent months teaching me how to crochet when I was housebound my sophomore year of high school—keeping me company and furthering my yarn-based education while we watched 80s movies and debated important things like whether Better Off Dead or Just One of the Guys was the superior underrated teen flick of that particular decade—I’ve had a chink in my armor where the youngest Collins sibling is concerned.

  She sees through me. Every damned time.

  When I had a shitty first half of my first season with the Badgers five years ago, Libby was the one who noticed I was being eaten alive by self-doubt and talked me back from the edge. When my charity was getting audited by the IRS, Libby realized I wasn’t nearly as chill about the whole thing as I was pretending to be and sent me a knight’s helmet she’d crocheted and a note promising that everything would work out. And when Sylvia and I had a pregnancy scare last summer, Libby was the only person I told.

  Hearing Libs say that I could absolutely handle being a dad had made me a little less terrified. Not that I’d believed her, but hearing that trying your best and loving your kid is all that really matters from a woman who spends every day with a classroom full of rug-rats was comforting.

  But I don’t want to be comforted right now. I want to get through the rest of this party and then hide out at home and lick my breakup wounds in private. So I plaster on a smile and hope it’s too dark for Libby to see how shitty I feel.

  “Hello, birthday boy!” Laura throws her long arms around me, hugging me hard enough to make my breath rush out with an oof as she crushes my ribs, reminding me she’s also freakishly strong when she’s three sheets to the wind. “I love you, Justin. I’m so glad we’re still best friends. Let’s go do happy-birthday shots on the roof to celebrate!”

  “We’re already on the roof.” I grunt again as she hugs me even tighter.

  “Yes, we are, and as high up as anyone needs to be right now,” Libby agrees, meeting my pained gaze over her sister’s shoulder, her brown eyes anxious. Clearly, she’s also aware that her big sis has entered the bad-decision-making portion of the evening and should be monitored closely until she’s home in bed.

  “No, the real roof, the one through the locked door behind the DJ booth.” Laura points a wobbly hand toward the stairwell on the other side of the dance floor, then twists her long red hair into a knot on top of her head. “I’ve been practicing my lo
ck-picking skills so I’ll be ready when I quit PR to become a spy.”

  “As one does,” I observe dryly.

  “Exactly!” Laura jabs a bony finger into the center of my chest. “See, you get it. So let’s do this. We’ll break the lock, climb the stairs, and be the highest things in downtown. Get shots and meet me there. Or maybe we should stick with martinis.” She moans happily as she wiggles her fingers in the general direction of the bar. “Those Thai basil martinis are so amazing! Perfect with the sushi. Like, seriously brilliant. Sylvia did a bang-up job with the catering, Jus. Especially for a woman who looks like she hasn’t eaten since last Christmas.”

  “Laura, hush,” Libby whispers, nudging her sister in the ribs with her elbow.

  Laura bares her teeth in an “oh shit” grimace before smacking herself on the forehead. “Fuck, I’m sorry. I forgot about the storming out and knocking over a tray of drinks on her way out of the party thing. Are you two okay?”

  “We’re fine,” I say, cursing silently. So much for avoiding this particular conversation. “She just decided it wasn’t working for her. It’s no big deal.”

  “But breaking up on your birthday sucks.” Laura’s lips turn down hard at the edges. “And I thought she was one of the nice ones. I mean, I didn’t know her that well, but she seemed nice.”

  “She was nice.” I take another too big drink of my scotch. “And now she’s gone. But she hadn’t even unpacked her boxes yet, so it shouldn’t take long to move them all out.”

  “That’s right. I forgot you two had moved in together. Bet that makes you want to keep drinking, huh?” Laura reaches back, putting an arm around Libby, hugging her much shorter sister closer as she not-so-subtly tries to steal Libby’s martini.

  Libby, who I suddenly realize is looking very un-Libby-like in a tight black tank top and a pair of leather pants that cling to her curvy thighs, huffs and swats Laura’s hand away. “Enough! Stop using displays of affection to try to steal my drink.”

  “Why? It worked last time,” Laura says, grinning wickedly.

  “Well, it’s not going to work this time. I’m keeping my martini.” Libby narrows her eyes, which are ringed in heavy black liner and some silver glittery stuff that emphasizes how enormous they are. It’s a look that’s way more rock-star than kindergarten teacher and also decidedly…odd. For her, anyway.

  I can’t remember the last time I saw Libby wearing makeup or tight clothing. She’s a “layers of linen draped around her until she looks like an adorable bag lady or a hippie pirate” kind of girl. I’m used to the Libby who wears ruffly dresses, clogs, and crocheted sweaters, and totes her knitting bag with her everywhere she goes.

  This new look is so unexpected that I’m distracted long enough for Laura to snatch my scotch right out of my hand.

  “Hey, give that back,” I say, scowling as she dances out of reach. “It’s an open bar, psycho. Go get your own scotch.”

  “But it’s more fun to steal yours,” Laura says. And then, with the gleeful giggle of a woman who is going to be very hungover tomorrow morning, she turns and flees into the throng of dancers writhing to the music, tossing, “Come get me when it’s time to break and enter! You know you want to,” over her shoulder.

  Libby sighs heavily, and I turn back to see her watching me with that same anxious expression, making my heart lurch. “I don’t want to talk about Sylvia,” I say, cutting her off before she can ask.

  “Okay,” she says, letting me off the hook far more easily than I expect her to. “But can we talk about something else? Something kind of…private?”

  “Um, sure.” I do a quick scan of our immediate surroundings. Aside from a couple making out in the shadows about ten feet away, we’re alone. Everyone else is either out on the dance floor, queued up at the bar, or lounging on the couches near the fire pit on the other side of the patio, soaking in the view of the city.

  “Thanks.” Libby smiles nervously as she lifts her glass. “Just let me down a little more liquid courage first.”

  “All right,” I say, wondering who this woman is and what she’s done with my sweet, rarely drinks more than one drink, doesn’t own a stitch of black clothing, would never leave the house without putting on a bra Libby.

  I really don’t think she’s wearing a bra under that lacy shirt. And I really can’t stop staring, trying to solve the bra or no-bra mystery, and I’m swiftly becoming way too fixated on Libby’s breasts for my personal comfort.

  “Maybe I should get a drink, too.” I start for the bar, needing a moment to pull myself together, when Libby puts a hand on my arm.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, but I have no idea what she’s apologizing for, only that her touch feels different than it did before. As different as the Libby I’ve known since she was a kid is from this seriously sexy woman standing in front of me.

  HOT AS PUCK is Available Now!

  Sneak Peek from Pippa Grant

  COMING FEBRUARY 1ST FROM PIPPA GRANT

  If you love hockey players and friends with benefits romance, read on for an excerpt of Charming as Puck…

  * * *

  Nick Murphy (aka a hockey god on the verge of being demoted back to mortal status)

  * * *

  Kami stayed over. That’s weird. I must’ve drank too much last night. Or she did.

  Actually, is she still drunk?

  She doesn’t usually lick my ear. Or sleep in my bed. We don’t do breakfast together unless it’s some godawful early morning meeting demanded by my sister, in which case we pretend we’re just the same old friends who don’t bump uglies, because Felicity would fucking kill me.

  However, risk of death aside, if Kami’s up for something this morning, I could get on board.

  My dick’s already showing off.

  My eyes are still gritty. I definitely had too much to drink last night. I barely remember Kami showing up at all after the game last night. It was our season opener, at home, our first regular season game after winning the cup last year, and it was fucking brutal.

  “Lower,” I tell Kami, my voice ragged in my throat, angling my head, because being licked is nice, but if she’s going to lick me, she could go for somewhere better than my ear.

  “Mmmooooooooo,” she answers.

  She licks my ear again, reaching the tip of her tongue right into my ear canal, and I lift a heavy arm to guide her face.

  And then I freeze.

  She’s…furry.

  Like a smooth kind of furry.

  And I’m king of morning breath, but she smells worse than my sister after one of those vegan wheatgrass garlic avocado smoothies she likes to drink.

  “Kami?” I rasp out.

  “Mmmooooooo.”

  I touch her face.

  My eyes fly open.

  Kami has blue eyes.

  The eyes staring back at me are brown.

  And huge.

  And set behind a thick fuzzy brown snout, beneath a rigid brow line, with ears sticking up where I expected to see morning bed head.

  “Fuck!”

  I trip over the tangled sheets while I leap up, my head swimming. The cow watches me with those calm brown orbs. “Mmmmoooooooo,” it says again in its baby cow voice.

  Shit shit shit. “Ssshhhh,” I hiss at it.

  I can’t decide what to think first. My head’s pounding. I’m going to fucking kill my brother-in-law, who is absolutely behind this, unless Kami’s a shapeshifting cow, which isn’t possible, even when I’m hung over.

  Also, after the duck incident, if I get caught with another unapproved animal in my condo, I’m gonna get fucking kicked out of the building.

  I don’t have time to move. The season’s just starting. My parents would move me, but I’m thirty fucking years old. My parents aren’t going to move me.

  Especially since if they did, they’d probably move me into their house, and that’s not happening.

  I might be playing in my home city, but I am not moving in with my parents.

>   I fumble in the dim light, looking for my phone. “Don’t shit in my bed,” I tell the cow. “I’ll get you out of here, just please don’t shit in my bed.”

  My phone’s not where it belongs. It’s not by my bed. It’s not on my dresser. It’s not in the bathroom.

  My pants.

  Maybe it’s still in my pants.

  Where are my—fuck.

  My pants are under the cow.

  It moos at me again. I fist my hair and stare at it. “Get up,” I tell it.

  It stares back.

  It also doesn’t move.

  Or moooooooove, I can hear my teammates saying.

  I grab one pant leg and pull. The cow sniffs at my dangling dick. I move out of the way, because I’m not into getting my family jewels licked by a freaking baby farm animal, even if said baby farm animal weighs three hundred pounds.

  I’d wonder where the fuck Ares found a baby cow, except I, too, know a thing or two about delivering unexpected livestock to apartment buildings.

  And the fucker just one-upped me.

  For a quiet dude, he’s fucking evil. He better never put a baby cow in Felicity’s bed or he’ll wake up strapped to the underside of an elephant halfway around the world.

  I tug and pull on my pants, the cow gives an indignant baby moo, and finally, my jeans come free.

  Without the phone in the pocket.

  I press my palms into my eye sockets and think.

  There was the game.

  Vegas scored on me twice. We still won, because Ares and Frey and Lavoie were on fire, but I shouldn’t have let Vegas score. Could’ve blocked both shots.

  Skipping Chester Green’s with the team afterwards. Opening a bottle of Jack at home. Texting Kami because I knew I shouldn’t drink alone.

  She showed up with that wide, borderline innocent smile. I was buzzed. She teased me about it. Said she wasn’t going to take advantage of me.

  Turned on The Mighty Ducks.