PUCKED (A Standalone Romantic Comedy) (The Pucked Series Book 1)

ALEX

The most annoying sound in the world permeates my sleep. I will it to stop. I want to kick its ass for interrupting my dream that includes soft, full tits I can use as a pillow.

The sound is not stopping.

Prying my eyes open, I check the clock on the nightstand. It’s six a.m., an unusual time for my alarm to go off on a non-game day. I palm my phone and cease the noise, then close my eyes, hoping to resume the dream; the perfect boobs, the hot, tight—it all comes back like whiplash.

I had sex with Butterson’s sister. Stepsister. Both times were stellar. Unless it was part of my vivid dream. I lift my fingers to my nose and sniff. Yeah, it definitely happened.

I sit up with a groan. My whole body is sore: my head, my face, and my legs in particular. I call out her name, but I’m met with silence. The bathroom door is open, so she’s definitely not in there. The sitting room is the next logical option. Flicking the light, I discover it’s as empty as the bathroom. My glass of Perrier and her mostly full grapefruit and soda water are on the table where we left them last night. Her phone is missing, so is her pajama top, and her glasses are on the floor beside the couch.

Those glasses—Christ, they’re hot. The Spiderman jammies, too. It should be illegal for a grown woman to look so sexy in comic book-inspired bed wear. That’s when I realize she left without waking me up. I almost double-check the suite, but it’s clear she’s gone, which sucks. Disappointment deflates my dick.

If I was like some of my teammates, I’d be relieved she left. I’m not. The puck bunny thing isn’t my game. That’s not to say I’ve never had a one-night stand with a bunny. It’s more that there have been very few in comparison to media speculation. I’m not all that keen on being someone’s claim to star fucking fame.

Violet strikes me as the opposite of a puck bunny. She was reading Fielding, of all things, during the game. It was as offensive as it was refreshing. As I head to the bedroom, it occurs to me she may have tried to wake me with no luck. I’ve slept through fire alarms in the past, and I’d been up since six yesterday morning. Practice, the game, the fight, the bar, and the phenomenal sex marathon have worn me out.

I drop facedown on the bed. The pillow smells like Violet, and it’s soft like her boobs. I haven’t touched ones that nice since freshman year in college.

I roll over with her glasses still in my hand, unsure how to proceed. It’s too early to stop by her room and return them. Besides, she’s staying with her parents so that’s out. I settle on calling. Her phone goes to voice mail, which shouldn’t surprise me considering the early hour. Violet’s message is short and funny—it cuts off in the middle of a string of profanity—so I’m unprepared for the beep.

“Uh, hi. Hey. It’s Alex. Waters. You spent the night—uh . . . Yeah. I’m sure you remember. Anyway, you left your glasses in my room. So I have them. I’ll hold onto them until you call or I see you. I’ll be back in Chicago in a week and a half. I hope you have an extra pair. Or maybe you wear contacts. You weren’t wearing glasses at the game. About last night . . . I—” The machine beeps, cutting me off. It’s the worst message ever. There isn’t even an option to rerecord.

I don’t call again, afraid I’ll say something even worse. I set Violet’s glasses and my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. My head is pounding from too little sleep. As exhausted as I am, I can’t relax enough to pass out. I have Violet on the brain. I’m not sure what happened between the time she said she wouldn’t have sex with me and the moment she suctioned her face to mine, but I sure don’t regret her change of mind.

Sleeping with my teammate’s sister, step or not, isn’t something to be proud of. Ironically, based on the media, it’s exactly what’s expected of me, and it blows. If Violet finds out about my reputation—assuming she hasn’t already—she may very well never want to speak with me again, no matter how many orgasms I fucked out of her last night. It’s thoughts such as these that keep me awake for the next two hours, wishing she’d call back so I can talk to her before someone else does. Especially Butterson.

My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hit talk, and grumble into the receiver.

“Hey, man. Where are you? You’re holding us up.”

“Darren? Dude, it’s early. What’s the deal? We don’t leave until—” I hold my phone out to check the time. It’s almost one in the afternoon. I was supposed to be on the bus twenty minutes ago. “Shit. I’ll be right down.”

I throw on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Tossing the rest of my clothes into my duffle bag, I run around the room like an idiot, hoping I don’t leave anything important behind.

Stopping in the bathroom, I check my reflection. There’s a hickey on the side of my neck. I don’t recall Violet giving me one, but there it is. There’s no covering up what happened last night now. Annnnd now I’m hard thinking about other things she sucked on. It’s shameful that I have to force myself to focus on hockey stats so I don’t leave the room with a massive woody.

The last thing I put in my bag are Violet’s glasses; I’m careful to wrap them in a shirt so they don’t get scratched. I throw on my jacket, grab my bag, shove my phone in my pocket, and check for my wallet. The elevator is empty. Stopping at Violet’s room on the way down is pointless since checkout happened hours ago. Besides, she hasn’t returned my call. I don’t like how that makes me feel.

The whole team is already on the bus when I arrive. Coach is pissed I’m late because it messes with the scheduled stops on our way to Tampa. The team greets me with hollers and snide comments. I need to come up with a story for last night—I’m usually better prepared than this.

I take the empty seat beside Darren. His brow furrows as he sniffs. “You smell like stale sex.” Darren has been my wingman on and off the ice for the past several years. He’s fully aware last night was an anomaly.

I shrug, passing it off like it’s nothing. As much as I needed a shower, in a sick way, I’m glad I didn’t have time. All I smell is Violet.

Kirk pops up from the seat behind me. “Who’d you bang last night?”

“Some chick I met in the elevator.” My stomach turns. No matter how this plays out, I look like an asshole, and right now I deserve the title.

“Oh, yeah? Only one? No Hat Trick?”

Darren rolls his eyes, and I mumble a noncommittal response.

At thirty-five, Kirk is one of the older players on the team, and this is likely his last season. He hasn’t come to terms with it. He’s been banging every chick he can lately, despite the wedding band he sports. It’s disgusting. In my rookie days, I used to think he was cool. Now he’s become pathetic.

“Weren’t you screwing around with Butterson’s sister at the bar?”

“She’s his stepsister. We were just talking.” I want to punch him in the face for being such a dick.

Bringing Violet back to my room was bad form. I’ll be lucky if this doesn’t blow up in my face.

There’s no justification for what I did. I don’t have a good excuse. This isn’t even close to normal for me. The most I do is flirt, especially with a teammate’s sister. Until last night. I’d been serious about not having expectations. I might have had a chance at resisting her if she hadn’t made the first move, or worn something other than those damn pj’s.

Unfortunately, Butterson overhears my exchange with Kirk. He jumps up from his seat and stalks down the aisle. “Fuck you, dude. You were all over Violet. Now you hold us up ’cause you’re bunny fucking?”

No way in hell am I admitting I was with her last night. “She kissed me, not the other way around.” My verbal defense is weak.

“Bullshit. You followed her outside. She thinks hockey players are dirtbags. Next time she comes to a game, you better keep your hands and your mouth to yourself. She’s a good girl; she’s doesn’t screw around.”

“If you say so.” If she’s witnessed Butterson’s antics I can understand why she thinks we’re all dirtbags, although I’d argue last night might have changed her opinion.

Butterson grabs me by the shirt and hauls me out of my seat. “I’m not kidding around, Captain Asshole. Violet’s not that kind of girl. Lose her number.”

As the captain, I can’t very well have the newest player on the team pushing me around, even if backing down is smarter. “You don’t want to start a fight with me, Butterson. Especially over something you know nothing about.”

His jaw tics. It’s obvious he wants to punch me. His fist slowly unclenches from my shirt. “Stay the fuck away from her.”

Coach stomps down the aisle, yelling for us to cool it. He sends Butterson to his seat and I follow him to the front so he can serve me a lecture. I deserve it, so I keep my mouth shut and take it.

“You’re the captain, not some rookie dickhead. How do you think it impacts the team if you go fucking around with your teammates’ damn sisters?

“I didn’t—”

“Save it, Waters.” Coach holds out his phone. A picture of me with my tongue in Violet’s mouth takes up the screen.

“Fuck.” I palm my face and lower my voice. “Has Butterson seen these?”

“I haven’t shown him, but it’s only a matter of time before he does. What if one of these dipshits did this with your sister?”

Coach makes a good point. If anyone touched Sunny, I’d rip his dick off and shove it down his throat with a ball-sac chaser. It’s something I should’ve considered prior to the wick dip with Violet. “I’m sorry, Coach.”

“I don’t want apologies. I want you to keep your head in the game.” He taps his temple. “We’re halfway through the season, and we’re only behind two teams. If we keep going like we are, we’ll make the playoffs again this year. This is an important series, Waters. Don’t fuck it up with your dick.”

“It won’t happen again. I’ll talk to Butterson and clear the air.”

“You better. He’s a solid player. I need him on point for the next game, not fixed on revenge because you’re getting fresh with his sister.”

“Stepsister.”

Coach gives me a disapproving look. “Like it matters.”

“I got it, Coach. I’ll get a handle on my handle.”

He waves me off, shaking his head. I ignore Butterson’s glare as I take my seat a few rows in front of him. Any conversation will have to take place without witnesses present, and I need time to figure out what to say.

The lecture from Coach and Butterson’s outburst put last night into perspective. Clarity can be a bitch. I already had the impression Violet wasn’t really a one-night stand kind of girl. Not because she said as much—it’s what they all say before they get on their knees or their back—but because she truly didn’t seem the type. Even though she practically jumped me both times.

She was nervous from the beginning—and hilarious. While I didn’t force her to come to my room or have sex—twice—if she hadn’t gotten locked out of hers, I might not have convinced her to come to mine. Regardless, I’d do it again if given the chance. It’s hard not to be into a girl who tells you she loves your cock repeatedly as she comes. This situation makes me the kind of jerk I never want to be.

By the time we get to Tampa, everyone is bagged, so the first order of business is checking into the hotel, getting settled, and resting up for tomorrow’s practice.

Darren and I share a room. Our accommodations are standard: two double beds, a couch, flat screen, and a minibar stocked with water and energy drinks. Darren tosses his bag on the closest bed and gives me a look. I’m waiting for the questions. He’s never been part of the puck bunny scene. I envy his ability to say fuck it and fuck the guys. I wish I’d had a similar mindset at the beginning of my NHL career.

Darren grabs two bottles of water from the minibar and tosses me one. “So what happened?”

I crack the lid and drain half of it in two gulps. I’m dehydrated from last night’s activities. “Nothing.”

“Right. A giant hickey magically appeared on your neck.”

“Like I said, I met a girl in the elevator.” Normally, I’d be upfront with Darren, but the situation is complicated.

Darren shakes his head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

He disappears into the bathroom. I’m not sure if he actually knows what I did or if he’s playing mind games. The shower turns on. His questions will wait; Darren takes long ass showers.

I check my phone for the tenth time today. I have twelve emails from my agent, Dick. He lives up to his name, but he gets the job done. I’m inclined to ignore his emails until I see one titled: ENDORSEMENT OFFER MUTHAFCUKA! I open it and scan the email. It’s not an actual offer, but it’s close. I’m a top contender for the Sports Pro Elite campaign. This is huge. It’s what I’ve been waiting my entire goddamned career for. This kind of endorsement could set me up for years, and it could bring more endorsements with it.

In my rookie days, I was passed over by another significant endorser. Ever since then, I’ve been aiming for the top as a big FU to the ones who didn’t believe I’d be more than a bench warmer. Dick rambles on about some Bachelor of the Year bullshit I don’t care about, until he mentions that it could affect the SPE campaign. I’ll do whatever it takes to win it. I’ll even pose in my damn jockstrap.

I send Dick a quick message in response, and we set up a phone call for the following day to hammer out the details. I’m riding the high as I check my missed calls.

I haven’t heard from Violet, so I decide to shoot her a text.

I instantly want to unsend it. I meant for it to be funny, not offensive. After a few minutes of staring at the screen, waiting for her reply, I dig out my iPad and tap into the hotel Wi-Fi. A search for Violet Butterson comes up with nothing. She told me what she does for a living but not where she works, so that’s a dead end.

Momentarily stumped, I consider my next plan of action. Facebook is a safe bet. Even my eighty-seven-year-old great-granny has an account. I locate Butterson in my friend list, and search his for Violet. Her last name is Hall. A friend request is out of the question; first I need to establish contact and maybe see her again. Also, pissing Butterson off more isn’t in my teams best interests. I can creep her instead. Unfortunately, her privacy settings are high.

Butterson’s feed and his photo albums are accessible. I find a few pictures of her with Sidney at what appears to be her work. I screenshot the image so I can look it up later. She’s bound to have an email address in their directory.

Next I search the album labeled Summer Vacation with the Halls; it looks promising. I’m right. It contains loads of pictures of Violet. They’re a few years old. Her face is softer, rounder, and her hair is different. She wears a variety of bikinis in most of them: pink and lime green striped, pale blue with ruffle-things on her chest, and a white lacy halter set.

Shouty caps in the comments draw my attention to another picture. A message from Violet to Buck reads: GET READY TO HAVE YOUR ASS KICKED, YETI!

I click on the image. It’s one of Violet from behind. The right side of her bikini bottom has ridden up, so half her ass cheek is hanging out. Butterson’s caption reads: Hungry? I can see why Violet might not appreciate the humor, considering it’s her bum eating her bikini.

Some back and forth ensues, all in shouty caps. Violet slings creative insults. I return to the album and continue to scroll. Whoever took these pictures spent a lot of time focused on Violet. She’s highly photogenic. There are a few of her with Butterson. I find one disturbing; he has her slung over his shoulder, and her ass is in the air with his huge paw of a hand wrapped around the back of her leg. What’s most concerning is how high his hand is on her thigh. Maybe he used to have a thing for her. It would explain their conversation at the bar.

The next image is an action shot of Violet flailing followed by her landing in the water. Arranged in a slideshow, the progression of events appears like a flip book. The final shot is the best. Violet pulls herself up on the side of the dock, one knee on the edge, hair fanned out in a dark wave. Her cleavage is outstanding. I can imagine how hot the position would be if I was, say, doing her from behind against my kitchen island.

For someone so protective of his stepsister, Butterson doesn’t have any qualms sharing revealing photos on a highly public profile. I can’t mention it to him, or he’ll know I’ve been creeping Violet.

Before I consider my actions, I save the best pics to my iPad. My rationale? I’ve seen her in less. Even as guilt gnaws at me, I scan to make sure I’ve got all the good ones. Darren comes out of the shower, so I tuck away my iPad. My invasion of privacy is shameful. Everything I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours is reprehensible on so many levels. I’m disappointed in myself. But I’ll probably whack off to the pictures when I’m alone anyway.