Puck One Night Stands: a grumpy-sunshine, best friend’s brother hockey rom com (Chicago Racketeers Book 1)

“I’M NOT DOING THIS. It’s ridiculous.”

“You’re doing it. You know it’s a good idea.”

“Someone else can do it. It doesn’t have to be me.”

“It doesn’t have to be you. But it should be you. Quit whining.”

I frown at the older woman next to me as the elevator from the top floor of our building hits the ground floor, and the doors swish open. “You look like such a sweet woman,” I tell her. “But I don’t get an ounce of compassion or coddling.”

She snorts as she steps off the elevator into the lobby that is now teeming with people. “I used up all of my compassion in nineteen eighty-eight. You’re too late.”

“No,” I say, my hand on her back as I guide her through the crowd of people dressed in black and silver and hyped up for tonight’s game. “I distinctly remember you being nice when I was a kid.”

“I was faking it. You have to be a real asshole to be mean to a kid,” she says, giving me a grin.

I chuckle. I’ve known Valerie for thirty-four years, ever since my grandfather hired her as his personal secretary. She’s one of the few people who can make me chuckle. Or who can get away with telling me to quit whining.

We step out into the fading sunlight. The Racketeers play at seven tonight, and the crowd is getting thick outside the arena. I guide her through the crowd and then hand her off to Bill, one of the security guards. “Take Val to her car, please.” She doesn’t typically stay this late on a game night, and I don’t like that she’ll be out in all this traffic, but while the fans are all coming in, she’ll be going out so it should be fine.

“Evenin’ Val,” Bill greets her.

“Hi Bill,” she says with a smile. But before she heads off in the direction of the employee lot, she turns back. “You,” she says pointing at me. “Go do the promotion.”

“I don’t want to.” It’s not whining, it’s just a fact. I’m not a people person. I might even go so far as to say I only truly like about three people on the planet, and Val is one of them.

“I don’t know why we have to go over this every time,” she says with a sigh. “It’s part of your job. You have twelve VIP tickets to hand out as a surprise to fans.” She waves her hand around at the people milling about. “How hard can that be? You’re going to make twelve peoples’ nights. That’s so nice.”

I roll my eyes.

She shakes her head. “Go. Do it. And yes, you have to smile.”

“Dammit, this just keeps getting worse and worse. I’m leaving before you tell me I have to actually talk to them too,” I say.

“Nathan William Armstrong,” Valerie says. “You find twelve people who love this team, you walk up to them, smile, say something nice, and give them those fucking VIP tickets, or I’m not bringing you any tortellini soup on Monday.”

I groan. Valerie has a big family gathering this coming weekend and her family knows how to eat and, more importantly, cook. She always brings me leftovers the Monday after their get togethers.

I give her a long-suffering look. “Fine.”

Then I notice someone standing a few feet behind Valerie and Bill.

Someone with long red hair, and a sweet curvy ass.

She seems to be alone. Or waiting for someone, I amend, as she looks at her phone.

“Fine,” I repeat, this time with a brighter tone. And even an almost-smile.

Valerie blinks at me. “Okay. Well, that’s better.”

Valerie and Bill move off, and I approach the redhead. She turns slightly, giving me more of a side view.

Great breasts to go with her sweet ass…yep, this handing out surprise VIP tickets suddenly seems like one of the best ideas our PR department has come up with in a long time.

“Excuse me.”

She turns to face me fully, and I actually feel the entire universe pause for a moment of collective appreciation as her curious green eyes lock on mine.

Damn. She’s… adorable. Round face with a sprinkle of freckles just across the bridge of her nose. Long lashes on those emerald eyes. Full pink lips.

She’s looking at me inquisitively. “Yes?” she asks.

Her voice strokes over me, and I feel my blood start pumping harder.

What the fuck is that? I’ve definitely felt immediate attraction before, but this feels different. Do I know her? Have we met somewhere before? I doubt it. I don’t think I could forget those eyes or that fiery red hair. But damn, there’s something about looking at her that makes me think I could do this, just this, for hours.

Though my fingers are itching to do more than look. I want to touch. I want to run my hands through her hair. I want to see if her cheek is as soft as it looks. I want to glide my thumb across her lower lip and feel her warm breath as she breathes out…

“Can I help you?” she asks, clearly confused about why I’m just standing here like a dumbass staring at her and not speaking.

I’ve never felt the word flummoxed before but…this must be exactly what that word means.

I pull my shit together. “Yes.” I shake my head. “Actually, I’m going to help you.”

“You are?” Her lips curl slightly as if she’s amused.

“First row, a VIP ticket for tonight’s game.” I pull one of the tickets out of my inside suit jacket pocket and hold it up.

“Oh.” She frowns and glances toward the cars pulling up at the curb, dropping people off for the game. Then she looks back up at me. “I, um, have tickets. I mean, my friend does. I’m waiting for her to go in. But we’ve already got tickets.”

“Not tickets as good as these,” I tell her. “It’s a special promotion. We’re upgrading twelve fans tonight. I’ll upgrade your friend too.” I reach into my pocket.

“Well, we’re… I mean, it’s not… there are four of us, actually,” she tells me.

Okay, even better. The faster I get rid of these damned things, the sooner I can go back upstairs. I pull four tickets out and hold them out. “Done.”

She looks from me to the tickets and then back to me. “Really? Are you sure?”

“I am.” I want to know exactly where she’s sitting. That will make it easier to find her after the game. Why and for what I’m not exactly sure, but I’ve got three periods of hockey to figure that out.

“There are probably some kids you should give these to, not me,” she says, still not accepting the tickets. “I’m sure they’d be thrilled.”

This may be an actual first. This woman is rejecting upgraded seats? It makes her intriguing beyond her natural beauty.

“I have a whole bunch more. If I promise to find some kids to give the rest to, will you take these?”

She reaches out tentatively. “Well, okay then.”

I make sure our fingers connect, and I don’t let go of the tickets immediately. “What’s your name?”

She meets my gaze. “Danielle.”

“Hi, Danielle. I’m Nathan.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Nathan.”

Damn, I like the way she says my name. “My pleasure, Danielle.”

Her smile grows, and I let the tickets slide from my fingers. “I hope you enjoy the game.”

“Thank you.”

Just then a red Honda Civic pulls up at the curb and a guy in blue jeans, a plaid shirt, and wearing a blue baseball cap spills out of the backseat.

“Dani!” he exclaims, righting himself just before tripping on the curb.

He bounds over to her and wraps her in a huge hug.

I can smell the beer on him from three feet away.

She grimaces. “Hey, Ben.”

“Sorry I’m a little late. I met some of the guys after work,” he tells her as he lets her go.

Obviously, the meeting was to pound a six-pack of beer. He actually sways a little on his feet.

“That’s okay. I’m still waiting for Luna and Kyle too.”

“Yeah, Kyle texted. They’re almost here.”

“Great.”

I know I’m scowling while taking this all in. Maybe this guy is her brother. Her drunk brother who she doesn’t like hugging. Because it was clear she did not enjoy that hug.

“I’m so glad you finally said yes to them setting us up,” Ben says, looping an arm around her. He looks her up and down. “Damn, you look hot.”

She tugs her black cardigan sweater back up onto her shoulder, where Ben’s arm pulled it down. But the move doesn’t quite pull the V-neck of her T-shirt up enough to cover the swell of the tops of her breasts.

I really fucking hate Ben.

I also really fucking hate that I just gave Ben a VIP ticket to the game to sit next to Danielle.

I catch her eye. “Are you okay?” I ask, my voice sounding harsher than I intend. But fuck this guy who thinks he can show up loaded and ruin Danielle’s night.

She nods but mouths, thank you in return.

I nod as she turns back to Ben, who belches loudly and doesn’t apologize.

I’m definitely not letting her out of my sight tonight.

As if I was going to anyway.

I turn and make my way through the crowd. I shove two VIP tickets at two middle school aged boys that I notice decked out in fan gear. I think they almost pass out from excitement. I get rid of the other six by giving them to a family standing in line at the concession stand.

There. I did my duty. I even smiled. I think. Maybe. Kind of.

Smile or no smile, I gave them to kids as promised to Danielle.

Val can get off my ass.

Now I can sit in my owner’s box and concentrate on finding out more about Danielle.

Is that over the top? Yes. Is that out of character for me? Not exactly. But for a woman? Yes, definitely.

I don’t care. I don’t have to explain myself to anyone.

I head up to talk to the media people. Then I track down Wade, the kid who works as the mascot, Sammy the Malamute.

After all of my plans are in place, I finally take a deep breath. There’s only a few minutes until game time. I need to get up to my box and make sure Danielle got to her seats.

I round the corner and someone plows into me.

Beer soaks my dress shirt and pants, even splashing up into my face.

What the fuck?

I wipe the suds out of my eyes. And find myself staring at the shocked face of none other than Ben the Loser.

I look to his left.

Danielle is standing there, staring at me in horror.

But the front of her oatmeal colored t-shirt is soaked as well.

Ben, on the other hand, is completely dry.

Of course, he is.

“Oh, shit!” he finally exclaims. “Damn, man. Sorry!”

I wait for a beat. Is he going to apologize to Danielle? Is he even going to look in her direction?

I don’t say a word to him, but I reach for her hand. I tug her toward me, then turn and start in the opposite direction. My chest is damp, and my hatred of Ben has solidified, but I also think the idiot just did me a favor. Danielle’s hand is small and warm in mine, as she trips along behind me for three steps before she catches up.

I hear a confused Ben say, “Where are you going?”

“Um…I don’t…” She looks up at me. “Um, where are we going?”

“We need new shirts.”

“But…” She clearly doesn’t know what to say to that. She glances behind her, but doesn’t pull away.

I continue striding down the hall until I get to the storage room. I shove my free hand into my pocket, pull out my keys, unlock the door, and shove it open. The motion sensor light flickers on and I tug Danielle through the door, letting it bump shut behind us.

She’s breathing fast, but I don’t think it’s from the walk.

“I’m really sorry,” she says nervously, glancing around the room.

“Why?” I ask, crossing the room to the Racketeers hockey T-shirt shelves. I need to keep moving. And not look at her.

The t-shirt she’s wearing is a beige color. It’s not white. It didn’t become see-through when it got wet, but it’s plastered against her like a second skin. Because, of course, Ben got the large beers. Two of them. That or he was carrying one for her. But she has a bottle of water in her hand, so I’m guessing both of those were good ol’ Benny’s.

“For getting beer all over your clearly very expensive suit.”

I grab a white t-shirt with our mascot emblazoned on it for her. I also pull out one for myself, a solid black with a small logo on the upper right hand side of the shirt. With my suit jacket back on, it won’t even be noticeable.

Am I the only guy walking around the level where the concessions are, and where the fans are coming up the ramps and into the stands, in a suit? Maybe. But it’s important for the administration to be out and about when the fans are in the arena, to see how our employees interact with them, to see how they react to various experiences like the mascot meet-and-greet, the Feeling Pucky? contest, and the Stick It to Cancer fundraiser.

Or so our PR department keeps telling me.

“You didn’t get beer on my very expensive suit,” I tell her as I cross back to stand in front of her. “Or on your shirt.”

I hand her the T-shirt and let my gaze glance over her wet shirt.

I’d been right about the breasts. Very nice.

Her cheeks are pink, and I want to touch them again. Hell, I want to touch all of her. Instead, I yank on my tie, unknotting it, then slide it from my collar. I toss it down on the clothing rack.

She watches the entire process raptly.

“So you and Ben…” I trail off, hoping she’ll fill in the blank.

Her eyes are on my fingers as I start unbuttoning my shirt.

“Um, nothing,” she says absently. “He’s roommates with my roommate’s date for tonight.”

Perfect.

“He’s a dick,” I point out.

She nods. But I don’t think she’s really hearing what I’m saying. I’m almost done with my buttons and her eyes are glued to my chest.

I shrug out of my dress shirt, and I watch as her mouth drops open slightly.

Every single second I’ve spent in the gym is now one hundred percent worth it. She’s staring at my bare chest with wide eyes, visibly swallowing. Her cheeks bloom with color, and her arm holding the T-shirt goes slack.

I grin.

She doesn’t see it. She hasn’t looked up for nearly a full minute.

Only when the black cotton covers my torso does she finally blink. But she doesn’t say a word.

“You should change too,” I tell her.

She looks up and meets my gaze in confusion. “What? Oh.” She looks down at the shirt I gave her. “Right. Yeah.” Then she glances around. “Here?”

I shrug. “No one will come in here.”

She looks at me again. “Um.”

Well, damn. I thought maybe she’d be distracted enough to just start stripping without thinking about it. “I’ll turn around.” But I’m not leaving.

She glances back at the door, clearly debating. Then she turns back to me. “Okay.” Her voice is softer. And she’s looking at me with wide eyes and pink cheeks.

I hope she never ever fucking looks at Ben like that.

If I have anything to say about it, she won’t.

She won’t ever look at anyone else like that.

Yeah, that’s over the top for sure.

I turn away and hear clothing rustling. I’m not even trying not to envision her peeling off the wet shirt, and then pulling the dry T-shirt on. It’s all I can think about.

What kind of bra does she wear? How many hooks are there? What color is it? White or nude? She doesn’t seem like the expensive lacy lingerie type, but more practical.

But I want to buy her expensive lacy lingerie.

Jesus, what is happening to me?

This girl is not my type. I tend to hook up with busy, independent women my age who don’t want anything from me. No ties, no commitment, no sharing of our pasts…or futures. Women who aren’t looking for soft things like cuddles and hugs.

Danielle exudes cuddles and hugs.

I wouldn’t even call what I do dating, and when I run through the list of women I have fucked in the last five years, I doubt very much if any of them have a cardigan in their entire closet.

And none of them like hockey.

But Danielle is going to be sitting right behind the glass tonight at one of the Racketeers biggest games.

And my eyes will be on her all night.

“Okay, I’m done.”

I turn back to find her in the Racketeers tee, her cardigan back in place, her wet shirt in hand.

“Do you need to have this replaced?” I ask, taking it from her.

She frowns. “What do you mean? I’ll just wash it.”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Or ten. You don’t have to hold onto this one.”

She shakes her head. “That’s ridiculous. You don’t need to replace my shirt. Or ten of them. The beer was Ben’s fault.”

Yes it was. Dickhead Ben. She needs to remember that.

“You’re not going to sit and hold a beer-soaked shirt during the game,” I tell her, tossing the T-shirt into the trashcan near the door of the room.

“Well, you’re not replacing it either. You’ve already gotten me this T-shirt,” she says, plucking the Racketeers shirt away from her stomach. “Though, it’s a little small.”

I study her. The shirt is snug. Very snug. It makes her breasts look amazing. “It’s perfect,” I tell her.

She looks up quickly and catches me staring at her chest.

Her eyes widen, but her lips curl. “Yeah?”

“Definitely. That is exactly the right size.”

With both of us changed, she seems to have regained her equilibrium. She actually snorts. “Okay.” Then she adds, “So, you must really love your job.”

“How so?” I ask, because I suspect she thinks my job is something entirely different than what it actually is.

“Because you get to give free stuff away to fans. You make people happy.” She smiles at me. “What a great way to spend your work hours.”

I blink at Danielle, caught off guard. She actually means that. Sincerity is ringing in her voice, and I instantly know that she is way too good for me. Too genuine, too pure, too caring.

Which makes me want her even more.

“I’ve always thought of my job as more of a numbers game.” Payroll versus advertising and team revenue.

“It’s more than T-shirts and tickets,” she says. “It’s escapism. It gives people hope, something to root for, a common bond with other humans. Hockey makes people happy.”

Put so simply by her, it feels like a lightbulb going off. I know that fans love hockey, but hearing this interesting woman phrase it like she has, floors me a little. “You’re right.”

I don’t say anything else.

Damn it. I’m fucking flummoxed again.

She starts for the door.

That spurs me into action. “Let me walk you to your seat.”

She gives a laugh. “No. I can find my way. God knows what might happen if you get too close to Ben again.”

I have a list of about six things I’d like to have happen to Ben. “Fine. I’ll see you around, Danielle.”

She looks back quickly, her hand on the doorknob. “You think so?”

“I guarantee it.”