Forbidden Puck: A Hockey Romance

by June Winters

  On the drive back to the condo, I quietly watched as the streets of Boston rolled by my window. I was thinking about last night.

  I'm not the kind of girl that would bone my brother's best friend.

  If that was true, then why did I feel guilty when I said it?

  I wouldn't actually have kissed him, right? Even if I did, it would've been a drunken mistake, and nothing else would've happened …

  I snagged my lip between my teeth.

  Normally, hearing a guy was a womanizer was a total turn-off. But, with Radar, there was something appealing about losing my v-card to a rugged, experienced man, who'd just take it from me without a thought or the pretense of wanting something more. And then the whole thing would finally be over and done with and wouldn't torment me any longer or get in the way of any decent men I met in the future.

  Listen to yourself. That's nothing more than a silly revenge fantasy, and you know you wouldn't actually want anything to do with him.

  Chapter 8

  Puck Bunnies

  Radar

  I was still in the shower when I heard a huge commotion out in the living room. I was sure it was Lance and Ella, but what were they doing? How were they making so much racket?

  Hope they're getting along, I thought to myself. I don't know how much more of their fighting I can take.

  I wasn't sure how much I could take being in the middle of those two, either. Last night was on my mind all day. I realized how weak I'd been in the moment last night—how Ella's big, expressive eyes had captured mine, how her sweet smell had intoxicated me and made me almost do something really, really dumb. I still didn't know what the hell came over me. Was I really that close to kissing her? Or was I just drunk and not thinking clearly?

  Man. Talk about a dangerous situation. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't touch Ella. Not in a million years. It'd be bad enough, since she's my roommate's sister—but the sister of my best friend and teammate? Nope. You can't get any more off-limits than that. If I went anywhere near her, I'd create a firestorm on the team.

  Hell, I've heard rumors of locker rooms that were split over less. I'd heard of guys getting shipped out of town because he boned a teammate's distant cousin. I wasn't about to invite any of that drama onto our team.

  And besides. Not to sound like a dick, but Ella wasn't the type of girl I went for. I liked girls who gave me that star-struck look. Girls who were easily entertained, and easily kept at a healthy distance. Ella? Something told me I'd never dealt with a girl like her before. That she wasn't quite so impressed by the fact that I was an athlete—that she wanted me to be something more than that.

  Why the hell are you even thinking about her like that? I thought to myself as I shut the shower off. You're losing your mind. Cut it out.

  I wrapped the towel around my waist and headed back to my room. That's when I saw what had made all that noise earlier—Lance and Ella had managed to bring home a big and red leather couch.

  I tried to hurry past without stopping. “Hey guys. Sweet couch.”

  “Oh, there he is! Hi RyRy!” Ella sang. She jumped off the sofa, hooked her arm through mine and pulled me to a stop.

  RyRy? The hell?

  “We were just talking about you,” Ella said with mischief in her eyes—eyes that stole a glance at my bare chest. “So what do you think of the new couch?!”

  “Looks great. It's huge.”

  She smiled. “Yeah. We must've looked at 80 different red leather couches today, but they weren't big enough for Lance. I know how much you athletes love furniture made for giants …”

  “It's true.”

  She pulled on my arm, tugging me towards the couch. “Don't you wanna sit and test it out?”

  Lance groaned. “He's wearing a bath towel, Ella.”

  “Yeah, maybe later,” I said.

  “So what'd you do today, Radar?” Lance asked.

  “I hung out with Ilya and his girlfriend.”

  “Cool.” Lance added to Ella, “Ilya's our goalie. He's Russian. So's his girlfriend. She's actually a star in women's tennis—maybe you've heard of her? Natalya Anasenko.”

  “Neat,” Ella said, pretending to be impressed when she clearly wasn't.

  “How about you guys? How'd the shopping go?” I asked, pretending that it was totally normal to be wearing nothing but a sopping-wet bath towel while my teammate's sister clung to my forearm and discreetly ran the pads of her fingers over my muscle.

  This is insane.

  “Good,” Ella said. “We brought home what we could. The rest of the big things are getting delivered tomorrow.”

  “Cool,” I croaked, “thanks for making our place nice.”

  The smoothness of Ella's nails, lightly dragging along my warm and shower-fresh skin, was a dangerously seductive sensation. I had to get away from her, and I had to get away from her now, because a carnal pulse began to pump between my legs, whether I wanted it to or not.

  And I was not about to pitch a tent in my bath towel.

  I put a foot or two of space between us. I couldn't help but notice that Lance made the smallest of approving smiles.

  If Ella felt rejected, she didn't show it. She hopped right back to her spot on the couch. “Well, anyway, Lance and I are going out tonight and we were wondering if you wanted to come with us?”

  “Nope. I've got plans. Thanks though.”

  “Aw, c'mon,” she said with a frown.

  Lance butted in. “You heard the man,” he said, and now he was really smiling. “He's got plans.”

  “What kind of plans?” Ella wanted to know.

  “It's none of your business, Ella! Leave Radar alone! Can't you see the poor guy is still dripping wet from his shower?”

  On cue, her eyes swept down my bare upper-torso.

  “The last thing the team needs is this guy coming down with a cold! We've got a game tomorrow!”

  Lance was carving out my escape path for me, and I'd be a fool not to take it. With that, I excused myself and retreated for my room.

  Ella whined to her brother. “If you two have a game tomorrow, then why are you going out tonight at all? We should stay in and play cards or something, just the three of us. … you know, that could be fun …”

  I shut the bedroom door behind me, and their bickering stopped. Or at least I couldn't hear it anymore.

  I dropped my towel and rolled my eyes at myself—sure as hell, I'd grown half-hard out there. I hoped they hadn't noticed. What was she thinking, touching me like that?

  ***

  Having escaped those two, I could breathe a little easier, and was eager to take my mind off Ella. I got dressed, jumped into bed and fired up my tablet. I loaded the MeatMarket app and opened the first few messages I'd gotten in the past couple hours:

  “Hi Radar! Plans tonight?”

  “Ryyyyyyyyyyyyan. Ur so hot.”

  On my MeatMarket profile, I don't openly advertise who I am. Some guys do, some don't. I'm more of the private type of guy. No revealing bio information whatsoever. There's only two pictures of me: the first is me, shirtless at the beach, posing with two good friends of mine from back home. But the camera is far enough away that even the casual fan Brawlers wouldn't know it was me if they happened to see it.

  The other photo was taken in a dimly lit bar, and I'm wearing a ball-cap. Again, most hockey fans wouldn't know the man in the photo was me if they saw it. The most revealing thing about me in that photo is the Brawlers logo on the cap—along with my signature smile.

  It doesn't matter that the casual hockey fan wouldn't spot me in my profile pictures, because my profile isn't for them. It's for a specific group of girls.

  They're called puck bunnies, and they're hockey's version of jersey-chasers. They know my smile by heart—and that smile, along with the hat, all but confirms my identity. And they know that the sparsity of information in my profile is another big clue.

  The puck bunnies have internet communities and forums dedicated to trading information
about us players. What our favorite bars and clubs are, and when we're likely to be there; the links to our private social media accounts; whether we have girlfriends or not. When a puck bunny finds a player, she posts the link to his profile so all the other bunnies can find him too. They'll discuss things like what we're like outside of the rink. They'll share their intimate knowledge of us, too. Our likes, dislikes. Turn-ons, turn-offs.

  What do they know about me? That I'm discreet. That I never text the same girl twice. That, just like on the ice, I've got a motor that won't quit.

  And oh yeah. There's one other thing—one secret about me that the puck bunnies won't share so openly, but only give to other girls they trust.

  I thumbed over to the next message, from Brawlersbabe90, and opened it. Her name was Kara. She'd sent a selfie. She was posing in front of a mirror. She'd unzipped her jeans and tugged them down just enough to give a scandalous glimpse at her lacy pink panties, with a little bow over the crotch.

  I rumbled with a hungry growl.

  “How do you like my panties, Radar?” her message read.

  “Very nice,” I texted back.

  I went back to studying her selfie. Brawlersbabe90 was a babe alright, a petite blonde with a hard body. She was wearing a shirt with my name and number 90. A nice detail. One that appealed to my most base, possessive desires. Made me feel like she belonged to me before I'd even met her.

  Kara texted me back. “Think they'd look good in your collection?”

  “Maybe. Club Regret. Midnight.”

  “See you then. xoxo”

  Don't tell old man Shea, but that's how it's done. That's how a guy in my profession has all the no-strings-attached hook-ups he could ever want.

  And that's how I'm gonna forget all about Ella, too.

  Chapter 9

  Night Out

  Ella

  Lance paced back and forth through the hallway, hanging around the bathroom door like an anxious cloud, while I carefully applied mascara.

  He stepped into the doorway and let out another pained groan. “Hurry up, Ella! You take so long to get ready.”

  “I'm almost ready. But please stop pacing around like that. You're putting me on edge.”

  Lance's cell phone rang, and he retreated into his bedroom to answer it. I breathed a sigh of relief—now I could put on my finishing touches in peace.

  Lance was on the phone for a good half-hour, tittering in his bedroom like a schoolgirl, which proved to be quite a blessing in disguise—because I'd decided that I hated the floral print dress I was wearing, and now I wanted to change into another one. I could just hear the bitching and moaning Lance would've made if I wanted to change dresses while he was trying to hurry me out the door.

  But alas, his phone call gave me the opportunity. I changed into a cuter, more flirtatious cocktail dress—something playful, but still sexy enough for the club.

  Just when I was truly ready, Lance emerged from his bedroom.

  “Oh, hey Ella,” he said. He wore a dopey, almost love-struck smile. Dear God—he looked happy. It was disturbing.

  “Gross,” I muttered, “what's gotten into you?”

  “That was Lindsay,” he said.

  “Oh? The butt model wanted to chat?”

  “She does more than just model her butt, okay? Someday, she'll be a real model. Everyone has to start somewhere, you know?”

  “True enough. Well anyway, I'm ready to go.”

  Lance frowned with the weight of some bad news.

  “Sorry sis. I have to cancel on tonight.”

  “What?”

  “Lindsay wants to meet up.”

  “You're really bailing on me?”

  “I told her you were visiting and we were going out tonight, and I asked her if she wanted to come with us. But she said what she really wants is me to head over and hang out with her. She said she had a long day and she wants to stay in.”

  “She had a long day of modeling her butt?”

  “Don't be a dick, Ella. Honestly, I'm super exhausted from shopping all day, too. A night in actually sounds kinda nice.”

  “It didn't sound nice when I suggested it an hour ago,” I quipped.

  “Ella …”

  I blew out a breath. “Nevermind. I'm just a little annoyed. But whatever. You obviously like her, so you should go be with her, I guess. I'll find a way to entertain myself.”

  My oaf brother wrapped his troll arms around me and squeezed. I gave him a half-hearted squeeze back.

  “Thanks for understanding,” he said.

  “Yep.”

  And with that, Lance grabbed his things and rushed out the door.

  Welp. This just figures.

  I sighed, poured myself a glass of wine, and threw myself on the new, gargantuan leather couch fit for the Nephilim. I pulled out my phone and did what I'd do any other night—read work emails and checked out the latest on industry-related blogs and forums. My other hand, operating on pure muscle memory, instinctively went to stroke the cat that would normally be sitting in my lap.

  “Aw, man,” I groaned. “I miss Eucalyptus.”

  This was just like a typical weekend night at my place. Except this was somehow more pathetic. I'd flown out to Boston to escape my sad life, … only to be reminded of exactly how lonely I was in the end.

  “Welp.”

  I took a long gulp from my wine.

  And then I heard a sound down the hallway: a bedroom door opening. Then the crisp, satisfying clap of leather soles on hardwood floor.

  Radar? He's still here?

  I sat up in a hurry and tried to shake the lonely desperation from my aura.

  ***

  Radar passed through the living room with purpose—that is, until he saw me. He stopped in his tracks, and the look he gave me said it all. He twisted and pointed a finger down the hallway, towards Lance's bedroom—a dumb-founded gesture that seemed to ask, 'but, your brother …?'

  I shook my head. “Lance left.”

  “I thought you guys were going out tonight?”

  “We were. But Lance had a last minute change of plans.”

  He gave a sympathetic frown.

  “It's okay though,” I said unconvincingly. “I don't mind.” I must've been a sorry sight, looking all sad and frumpy on the couch.

  Radar, on the other hand, was dressed to impress in an expensive slate-gray suit and a smart white-and-blue checked shirt. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were left undone, showing off his large and protruding collarbones and the tops of his round, muscular pecs.

  But the fit of every item he wore was impeccable. The jacket accentuated his tall, broad-shouldered frame, and the pants hinted at his impressively-built leg muscles. My eyes momentarily wandered over the satisfying lines, mounds and bulges that swelled in all the right places.

  Radar can dress himself, alright.

  He stood straight as a board, not moving from that spot, just observing me in all my pity. My cheeks began to grow warm—was it from the wine, or the embarrassment and shame? Who knew. All I knew was that Radar stood there, feeling sorry for me, and I wanted to shout—just go away already! Leave me!

  I took a self-conscious sip of wine. “You don't have to feel sorry for me, you know.”

  “Who said I feel sorry for you?”

  “It's obvious you do. You're standing there, looking at me like I'm this pathetic puppy. I can fend for myself. Spending the night by myself isn't the worst thing ever.”

  And it's not like it's anything new to me.

  “Did Lance say where he was going?”

  I nodded. “Lindsay had a bad day and so she wants him all to herself tonight.”

  He laid his giant hand across his face and rubbed his eyes. “That sounds like Lance and Lindsay, alright.”

  “Oh well. That's okay.” I flashed a polite smile. “Have a good time tonight, Radar.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

  His body leaned in the direction of the door, but something seeme
d to stop his feet from actually moving. He looked like he had something to say, but he struggled to find the words.

  “You're not leaving.” I sighed. “What's wrong?”

  “I shouldn't say.”

  “You'll feel better if you get it off your chest,” I said, matter-of-factly. “That's something I live by.”

  “That's right. Lance mentioned that you have an honesty policy.”

  “I do. So? Care to get it off your chest?”

  Radar sighed. “Okay. Sure. You're all dressed up, you look nice, and you're ready to go—yet you're staying in. I feel bad. I feel like I should invite you out with me, at least.”

  “So why don't you?” I blurted out. Blame it on the wine. Or blame Lance for stranding me here in the first place.

  But Radar let out a labored laugh, as if it were an impossibility.

  “Ah. I get it.” I gave an understanding, if not cynical, bob of my head. “Because you're going out to meet a girl, and I'll be the third wheel.”

  “How'd you figure that?” he asked.

  “Oh, please. I know how you hockey players are.”

  He smiled with a hint of embarrassment.

  “Besides, Lance told me that you're a real player off the ice.”

  “Did he?” He neared and lowered himself into the couch cushion next to me. Not too close—but close enough that the velvet richness of his woodsy cologne snuck into my personal space and hijacked my senses.

  He smells so nice. I wish he didn't have to leave.

  “Well, if we're going by your honesty policy, then I guess I have to admit to that,” Radar said. “And yeah, I am going out to meet a girl.”

  “That's cute. What's her name?”

  “Umm—” Radar squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to remember. “Fuck, I forgot.” He pulled out his phone, checked something, then stuffed it back in his pocket. “Kara. That's right. Kara.”

  “I take it you and Kara have been going steady for a while now,” I teased.

  He gave a coy smile and an uncomfortable little laugh at the knowledge that his sleaziness was on full-display. That was also when I noticed his smile was a perfect row of piano-key teeth.