Easy Puck

by Belle, Melissa

  Easy Puck

  Melissa Belle

  Contents

  Easy Puck

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Epilogue

  The Boudreaux Universe

  About the Author

  A NOTE FROM MELISSA

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Melissa Belle

  Easy Puck

  A Boudreaux Universe Novel

  By Melissa Belle

  Easy Puck

  A Boudreaux Universe Novel

  Copyright © 2020 by Melissa Belle

  Published in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed in any form or by any means, except for brief quotes used for the purpose of review, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. All names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, or product names are the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. This book is licensed for your personal use only, and may not be re-sold or given away. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover Art: J. Hunter Designs

  Proofreading: Dawn Yacovetta

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  Published by Lady Boss Press, Inc.

  For my husband —none of this would be possible without your constant love and support.

  Chapter 1

  Hunter

  I check the defender hard into the boards and win the battle for the puck.

  Spinning around, I cradle my prize with my stick as I skate down the open ice toward the goal.

  The goalie pushes out from the net to try to narrow down my angles, but I’m going too fast. With a quick flick of my wrist, I launch the puck off the end of my stick.

  It zips past the goalie’s outstretched glove but sails wide left and misses the net.

  “Fuck,” I growl as I race behind the goal.

  I slam into the first defender before he reaches my errant shot, and Murph dislodges the puck from between him and the boards. Murph has a clear path to the net, and he takes it. He fakes like he’s going low with his shot, and at the last second, he flips the puck up past the goalie’s stick and into the back of the net.

  I breathe out in relief as the buzzer sounds.

  “One to nothing,” Murph says as he pounds me on the back. “We’ve still got a shot to win the division.”

  But when we skate over to the bench and file off the ice, Coach Jones isn’t smiling.

  “Nice goal, Murph.” Coach slaps him on the shoulder and then turns to me. “You do what you need to do to get out of this funk, Storm. You hear me? Whatever it takes. You’re our first-line left winger. I want to keep it that way.”

  His warning isn’t subtle, and I know he meant it that way.

  “Understood,” I tell him. “I’m working through it.”

  “You need my help, just let me know.”

  “Yes, sir.” I continue past him.

  Once we’re off the ice and out of earshot of any media or coaches, Murph mutters to me, “We need you, Hunt. We got lucky tonight.”

  Dean, my co-captain and our star defenseman, catches up to us as we head for our lockers. “Fuck, yeah, we did.” His blond hair is sweaty and sticking to his head as he removes his helmet and throws it into his locker. “We should have beat those guys going away.”

  I grimace. This slump has stretched for nearly four weeks. All of January, and now that we’ve hit February and nothing’s changed, I’m starting to panic. But I don’t tell Murph that.

  Prior to January, I’d been having the best season of my career. There was talk of league MVP, and I was stoked. Lately, all that talk has cooled, and I just want to get back to what I know I’m capable of.

  It was always my dream to play hockey for my hometown of New Orleans. So when they got an expansion team three years ago, and my brother, Liam, and I were picked up, it was a dream come true. Add to the mix our childhood friend, Sean Murphy, who wound up here thanks to free agency, and the three of us are feeling pretty damn lucky. We’ve got a great owner who’s all in, and I want to pay him back for bringing me here—I want to bring a championship to this city. But I can’t do that unless I get myself out of this damn slump.

  I open my locker and toss my own helmet onto the shelf. I take off my skates and then start to strip off my jersey and shoulder pads.

  “I know what the problem is,” a deep, gravelly voice says from my left. “You miss living with me, don’t you, baby brother?”

  I glance up. Wearing nothing but a towel around his waist, my oldest brother, Liam, leans against the locker next to mine. He’s got his usual obnoxious grin on his ruggedly handsome face.

  I cross my arms over my chest and set my jaw as I give my brother a hard look.

  “Liam, back the fuck off. I don’t need to live with you to get out of my slump.”

  “Kind of do, man.” Murph nods seriously, his overgrown dark hair falling into his eyes.

  “We’ve all got superstitions, right?” Dean says, his dark eyes serious. “Most athletes do. Yours is to have a roommate and make sure you stay the hell away from relationships.”

  Murph adds, “So how do you manage? Same way I do—you fuck on the regular. You’re doing that part just fine. But the first one? Clearly, you need a new roommate.” He turns to Liam. “You left him high and dry.”

  Liam shakes his head. “Wasn’t meant that way. He swore he had a new housemate lined up. How was I to know he’d lied?”

  “I didn’t want you changing your plans for me,” I say stubbornly. “I did have someone lined up. But he bailed at the last minute.”

  “Well, I’ve got a kid at home—and a wife,” Liam says. “And you, Dean, and Murph have got what? Another weekend picking up the flavor of the month?”

  I look into my older brother’s narrowed green eyes. Sometimes, it’s like looking in the mirror. But I’d never tell him that.

  “You were just like us until Cathy got pregnant and you two decided to make a go of it.”

  Liam’s jaw is stone now, and he runs his hand through the same dark wavy hair we can both thank our late father for.

  I tug at my own hair that’s plastered to my head from sweat. “I’m happy for you; don’t misunderstand me.” I raise my hands in a surrender gesture. “I’m just saying—don’t judge me because a part of you still wants to be free and easy.”

  And…I’ve touched a nerve.

  “I love my kid, okay?” Liam’s face is suddenly inches from mine. “And I love my wife. Just because the only girl you ever loved left town…”

  I push him into the lockers. He may be older than me, but I’ve got three inches and twenty pounds on him. Being the tallest in the family comes in
handy when you’re the youngest of four boys.

  “Jesus, Hunt,” Liam says as I hold him hostage. “I’m sorry, okay? Win just pushes all your buttons. She always did.”

  I press Liam harder against the lockers and pin his arm behind his back. “You better quit talking, big brother.”

  As usual, he doesn’t listen. “Why don’t you move on and find a nice girl to settle down with?” he says. “Then you’d have a permanent roommate and wouldn’t be screwing up our playoff hopes.”

  At his last words, I still. “You’re clearly not listening. I don’t do relationships.” Relationships are inherently messy, and I need to put all my focus on my career.

  “Hey!” Coach Jones steps into our space and separates me from Liam. “Ease up, Storms. There’s media around. You two brothers want to go somewhere private so you can beat the shit out of each other like you’re kids again? No problem. But not here. Not when you’re with the team.”

  Coach Jones may not have played in the pros, but he was a star college player, and he’s still in excellent shape. He has no problem shoving Liam and me apart, nor any hesitation in giving us both a lethal staredown.

  I back off, apologize to Coach Jones, and grab my towel. I peel off the rest of my padding and uniform, wrap the towel around my waist, and head for the showers.

  Murph and Dean catch up to me.

  “Let’s get drinks after this,” Murph suggests. “Blow off some steam.”

  “Can’t,” I say. “I’ve got to remedy my living situation, remember?”

  “You have a plan?” He raises one dark, bushy eyebrow in surprise.

  “Sure I do. I have a pet sitter moving in to care for my cat. I’m gone so much I was paying through the nose for last-minute care by strangers I don’t trust to do a good job, and I hate leaving her at a kennel. So, this will take care of two of my problems. Plus, I’ve got a late night planned with Deb.”

  “So, you’ll get yourself a housemate in the form of a pet sitter, which also resolves your cat care problem.” Murph holds up a finger. “And you’ve got plans with your on and off fuck buddy.” He holds up a second finger. “Those two things should kill the slump, right?”

  “Right.” They better, or I could lose my place on the first line. And worse, we could miss the playoffs altogether. I’ve worked too damn hard for that to happen.

  “Who’s the pet sitter?” Dean asks.

  I shrug. “Someone who knows the French Quarter. She used to live in New Orleans years ago. I asked for an older lady who won’t be impressed by my profession, preferably someone who doesn’t follow hockey at all. The agent told me she had it handled, and she’s making sure the woman signs an NDA.”

  “Huh. A chick. Well, as long as you don’t fuck her, right?” Dean says. “That will just complicate things.”

  “I’m not interested in screwing around with a live-in. You guys know that.”

  Murph shoots me a warning look. “And I know you, Hunt. Just remember, a roommate, even if she’s hot, is off-limits.”

  Chapter 2

  Winter

  From the backseat of the taxi, I stare out the dirty window at the city lights as the driver weaves his way through New Orleans.

  He doesn’t drive as crazy fast as the cab drivers in Manhattan, but my stomach’s queasy anyway. Must be that fast food I picked up when I got off the plane nearly an hour ago.

  I shake my head at myself. Who am I kidding?

  My stomach’s queasy because of where I’m headed.

  Home.

  The place I swore I’d never return—New Orleans, Louisiana—where all I ever talked about when I lived here was getting out. Even if I’m only here temporarily, it still feels too long.

  In just a few minutes, I’ll pay the driver and step out into the heart of New Orleans, the French Quarter. I’ll inhale the thick, humid air that reminds me so much of my childhood, air that always maintains a hint of the nearby Mississippi River. I can’t deny I’ve missed the south, but the humidity does nothing good for my hair. Even though it’s early March, it’s already seventy here during the day.

  My phone rings just as the driver veers right sharply, and I brace myself to avoid slamming my head against the window.

  “Hello, bestie,” I say as I answer.

  “Yay, you answered! That must mean you’ve landed!” Charly’s cheery voice comes through the receiver clearly.

  I swallow hard, wishing I felt a hundredth as happy as she does living here. Charly Boudreaux Danbury has the perfect set-up—she and her husband, Simon, leave for months at a time to visit his family in England and for him to run his coaching business, and they also spend a lot of time in Miami where Charly has a second shoe shop. With five siblings and an amazing mother all in New Orleans, she has the wings and the roots, which is all I ever wanted.

  “That’s right. I’ve landed,” I say to Charly, trying to sound positive.

  “Oh, sugar, you’re miserable already,” she says in concern.

  The driver winds through the streets of the French Quarter, and I glance around with interest. It may be nighttime, but the Quarter never sleeps, and people are bustling about the curved streets. The pet sitting job that I applied for is right near here, which was one of the things that drew me to the position. I grew up wishing I could walk around the city at leisure, and this will give me the chance.

  “How did your last audition go? The one for the lead on the new Broadway show?” Charly asks me.

  “Um…” I pause. “Not great. It was super competitive.”

  I don’t tell her I bombed that audition, much like the one before, and that was the impetus for my manager insisting I take a few months’ break and leave town.

  “Your voice is shot, Winter,” Pat said. “And you’re not the same. Get out of the city for the spring and summer, and come back in the fall for audition season.”

  “But I can’t miss any time here,” I protested. We had just met for coffee around the corner from Times Square where Pat delivered the bad news about my latest failed audition. “I just got my big break. That’s why I’m getting all these calls. You know that.”

  We both knew that one more blown audition might cement my reputation as a one-hit-wonder. But Pat was kind enough not to say anything. He just patted my shoulder and told me he’d stay in touch. And there I was, standing on the sidewalk with a half-finished cup of coffee and a nearly-finished career.

  “I’m sorry, sugar. Let Simon and me take you out tonight,” Charly says, bringing me out of my thoughts. “We’ll meet up with the others and go to the Odyssey, not fancy like you and your big-star self are used to with all those Manhattan clubs, but it’ll still be fun.”

  “That sounds great,” I say. “But…” I hesitate and cut myself off.

  But Charly’s not my oldest friend for nothing. “Hunter won’t be there,” she promises. “Well, I can’t swear that he won’t be out and about, but everyone knows better than to invite him to come with us when you’re going to be there.”

  I exhale as the cab comes to a stop outside a stand-alone residence.

  “But you do know you’re going to have to see him sometime,” she says gently. “I mean, I know you’re returning to New York, but you’ll be here for a while, and the Storm brothers are kind of a big deal around here. Especially once the ice hockey team came to town, and Liam and Hunt became its two biggest stars.”

  “It was easier when he played hockey out west,” I murmur. “I could come home and know he’d be elsewhere. But now that he’s here…”

  “I get it.” Charly’s voice softens. “But he’s definitely here now. And he’s pretty much impossible to ignore. You’ll see the billboards of the team around the city, and his handsome face is plastered on all of them.”

  “Have you gone out with him at all?” I never ask her about the boy from my past, but I’d rather know in advance than be surprised later.

  “A few times,” she says. “My brothers have seen him a bunch too. And not just a
t his games.” She pauses. “Hunter’s party side hasn’t exactly let up since you left.”

  “I’m sure it hasn’t. I know I’ll have to deal with him eventually. I just need a little time to get my feet down first.”

  I don’t want to admit that seeing Hunter Storm again is the hardest part about returning to New Orleans.

  I pay the driver and grab my one small suitcase. The rest of my stuff will be delivered to my parents’ house tomorrow, so I’m traveling light. At least I don’t have to live with my parents. I’ll see them plenty, but the idea of moving back into my childhood bedroom is a bit too much.

  I look up at the house before me curiously.

  It’s freshly painted in white with blue trim and is much better taken care of than I’d expected it to be. I had assumed it would have a barely lived-in feel, because the agent I spoke with explained how the owners are rarely home, but that they don’t like to move their cat every time they leave on business. She said the owners are a young couple with a baby and that the man’s line of work is rather “unconventional,” but she didn’t elaborate. And I didn’t ask. This is New Orleans—unconventional could mean literally anything.

  It’s a two-story, townhouse-style home with a cute front porch and upper balcony. Being in the city, it’s right next to the neighboring homes, but it has a driveway that leads into the back of the lot, and the entire property has a warm, homey feeling. And the location can’t be beat. It’s on a quiet side street only a block from Jackson Square.