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

VIOLET

Dean gawks as Alex walks down the hall. “That was Alex Waters.”

“Yup.”

Alex’s hands are shoved in his pockets and his head is bowed. His shoulders are so broad he nearly takes up the entire hallway. He’s a hard man to say no to. Coffee in a public venue seems safe.

Dean waits until Alex turns the corner. “He was here to see you?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s even hotter in person than he was in those pictures of you two making out.”

“What?”

“Uh, uh . . . I, uh . . . sorry. I didn’t mean . . . you look hot, too.” Dean busies himself with rearranging folders on the conference table.

“Why is everyone so hot for Alex Waters?” I grumble. I’m annoyed at how easily I’ve fallen into this trap.

I attribute it to how good he looks when he’s clean shaven and nervous. I want, in a very desperate way, to believe he’s not a fuckwit-asshole-super-whore. I’m still glad I kept my appointment with the gyno last week. Bagged or not, I wanted to make sure I hadn’t contracted any diseases from chomping on rotten wood. From what I’ve read and seen, I’ve slept with a man who’s been with the equivalent of a brothel or two of women. I’m grateful all the results were negative.

“Please tell me you’re going to bang him.”

I choke on a cough. “We’re going for coffee.”

“That’s almost a date. You can totally have sex with him afterward.” Dean nods vigorously, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Charlene and Jimmy show up and save me from Dean’s inanity.

“Charlene told off Alex Waters!” Jimmy says, gesturing wildly to the empty hall.

I gape in disbelief. “Charlene did what?”

“I didn’t tell him off. I gently suggested he watch his ass or he’ll have me to deal with.”

“You didn’t.” I palm my face, mortified.

“He seemed very agreeable. All he did was nod a lot and apologize. I also asked if he could introduce me to Darren when you two are done making up. He offered to send tickets to the next home game, provided I bring you.” Charlene is all smiles.

I can’t believe Charlene sold me out for tickets to a game. She’s seen the Waters Hat Trick interview, I told her about the sexin’, his monster cock, the puking, the relentless emails, texts and phone calls, as well as the assload of gifts I’ve received courtesy of Alex Waters.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, I’m totally serious. I’m not passing up a chance to see Darren Westinghouse play.”

“Charlene, what if I don’t want to go to a game? What if I never want to talk to Alex ever again?”

Charlene turns my laptop toward her and checks out the interview again. I’ve probably made her watch it half a dozen times, dissecting the content or lack thereof. She seems far less offended by his non-responses. In all fairness, she hasn’t slept with him.

She props her chin on her fist, eyeing me speculatively. “He told me you agreed to coffee, so you must want to see him.”

“Who says I’ll see him again after this?”

“I understand the media stuff bothers you, but he seems to be honestly interested in you. I mean, it’s been weeks and he’s actively pursuing you even though you keep blowing him off.” A smug smile is plastered across her face. “Oh, and nowhere in this interview does he say he’s done that Hat Trick thing. All he does is give evasive answers.”

“He doesn’t refute the claim.”

“He was probably coached.”

“As if that’s any better.”

Even my best friend is on Waters’ side. I blame it on his damn smile.

Today makes every other long day seem short by comparison. Meetings drag. Lunch takes forever. I’m distracted all afternoon working on one of the new accounts. I keep daydreaming about Alex’s unit, comparing it to household items.

At five, I freshen up in the staff bathroom. I swish with my emergency mouthwash and give my teeth a quick brush. It’s bad practice to go into a meeting with coffee breath, or garlic breath, or any kind of offensive breath. I’m applying the same logic to coffee dates. Although I’ll negate the fresh breath as soon as I order a coffee. Regardless, I have no intention of kissing Alex. I think.

I reach the lobby at quarter past five. Alex is sitting on the arm of a chair, staring at the elevator. He stands, smoothing his hands down the front of his pants. I follow the movement and, of course, my eyes go right where they’re not supposed to—his groin. I can’t see anything exciting going on there. He’s changed since this morning and now wears a pair of dark wash denim jeans and a button-down shirt. The material conforms to his hot body, showing off every deliciously cut inch of chest and biceps and shoulders. Why does he have to look so good? I’m so pucked.

“I thought we were meeting at the coffee shop.”

“I thought we could walk over together.”

“And you didn’t want me to stand you up?”

His smile is lopsided, one dimple popping out. “Something like that.”

“I could still run.”

“You could try. I’m pretty fast if I’m chasing after something I want.”

The butterflies flitting around in my stomach reach tornado level flutters. Images of him moving across the ice, power and speed propelling him forward, come to mind. Alex chasing after me with the same kind of singular, intense focus is a huge turn on.

He extends his hand. “It’s only a drink and some conversation, Violet. That’s all I’m asking.”

The way he says it reminds me of the night in his hotel room when he told me he just wanted to hang out and then I had sex with him. I slam down the gauntlet on those thoughts. I have to remind myself of the bad reputation he has yet to refute properly. I don’t want to be one of his hockey hookers.

It’s dark out. Fat snowflakes drift lazily from the sky as we cross the street to the little café. I used to come here when I was an undergrad. Right now is prime time for those kids between afternoon and evening courses. It’s still my favorite place to go for coffee and snacks.

A fire crackles in the wood-burning fireplace. The table in front of it is empty, with a reserved sign. It’s the comfiest spot in the café and romantic with the fire and the low lighting. I’m almost glad it’s unavailable.

“Why don’t you have a seat and I can order something for you?” Alex sweeps his hand toward the table by the fireplace.

“It’s reserved.”

He leans in and whispers, “I reserved it.”

Of course he did.

I follow him to the counter to check out my options. I already know what I want.

Alex wraps his fingers around my wrist when I go for my wallet. “I’ll get it.”

“I can buy my own drink.” I sound harsher than I mean to. He’s being so attentive and considerate. It makes me nervous, but I like it.

“I invited you; please let me get this.”

The way he’s looking at me breaks my damn heart. “Okay. Fine.”

A hint of a smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. His palm settles low on my back, and he strokes my spine. It’s distracting. “What would you like, Violet?”

“A green tea latte, non-fat, lactose free, with extra whipped cream, please.”

“Lactose free with whipped cream, eh?” Alex asks.

“It balances the dairy out.”

“Sure. Anything else?”

I assess the extensive selection of desserts. Including food could open the gates for dinner and make this an official date. I’m unprepared to deal with an entire meal.

“I’m okay.” I stare longingly at the caramel crunch cake.

“Are you sure? These cakes look too good to pass up. I’ll feel bad ordering one if you don’t have anything in front of you.”

Cake isn’t the same as real food, so I give in. Alex orders, and the girl behind the counter is saccharine, practically fucking him with her congeniality. Two can play at that game. Moving in closer, my boob presses against his arm. “Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.

His eyebrows rise in surprise, followed by his easy smile. “It’s entirely my pleasure. I’m glad you’re here.”

Alex insists I have a seat while we wait for our drinks and desserts. He even helps me out of my coat and hangs it on the rack near the fire. I sink into the plush chair and sigh, running my hands over the velvet covered armrests. I stare at his ass while he waits patiently at the counter for our order. I also pop a couple of lactose pills.

I’m not the only person in the café looking at him. His presence is as big as he is. The guys seem just as interested in him as the women. A lot of people appear to recognize him. Maybe a college hangout isn’t the best place to have coffee with a famous hockey player.

He brings the cakes to the table. His dessert is some kind of peanut butter chocolate concoction. Mine consists of pecan meringue nestled between layers of whipped cream, topped with caramel drizzle.

Waiting until Alex returns with our drinks would be the polite thing to do, but I’m starving and it looks delicious. I skim the slice with the edge of my fork and gather a thin layer of whipped cream and bits of meringue. It’s the perfect combination of creamy and crunchy, dissolving as soon as it touches my tongue. I sigh in sensory ecstasy.

“Is it good?”

Alex startles me as he sets my green tea latte on the table. He’s close enough that I can see a tiny nick on his chin from his razor and the flecks of green and gold in his otherwise hazel eyes.

He moves his chair closer to mine, so we’re side by side instead of across from each other, and settles into the soft velvet.

“It’s heaven.”

“Can I have a taste of heaven?”

I don’t think he means for it to sound suggestive. He bites his lip as I dig my fork into the cake and pass it to him. Instead of taking it from me, he clutches my hand and raises the fork to his mouth. His lips part and close over the tines. Good Lord, I want to fuck his mouth with my tongue again.

He savors the bite, his expression pensive as he swallows. “Want to trade?”

“No thanks.”

“Are you sure? Maybe you want to go halves? Why don’t you try mine?” He jams his fork into the cake, ready to spear me a bite.

“I’m not parting with my cake.”

“Suit yourself.” He separates a hunk of cake from the thick piece. It’s dense, dripping with chocolate syrup. His eyes drift close, and he makes a low sound in his throat. It’s almost a growl. “If yours is heaven, then this is a mouth-gasm.”

“Mouth-gasm?”

He leans in and lowers his voice to a whisper. “It’s an orgasm in my mouth.”

In the middle of a sip of my latte, I raise my hand in time to prevent it from spraying him and the table. I get my palm and sleeve instead. He grabs a napkin and dabs at the mess.

His cheeks flush, and he shakes his head. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It was unexpected.” I remember vividly what it was like to have an orgasm in his mouth. It was pretty amazing.

He stirs his chocolate-whatever. It’s covered with whipped cream and drizzled with more chocolate syrup. I see a trend here. “I’m really glad you agreed to see me.” One second he’s being all flirty and the next he’s being sincere and vulnerable. I don’t know which side of him to trust, if any at all.

“You wanted the chance to explain.”

My stomach twists, so I leave the cake alone and focus on my drink. He clears his throat, staring into his hot chocolate. The table vibrates from the restless tapping of his foot against the floor. He’s such an enigma. I want these glimpses of sweetness and his awkward fumbling to be authentic, not a facade he wears to get women into bed with him. He takes a deep breath and looks up.

“The way the media portrays me is inaccurate.”

“Uh-huh.” Of course he’s going to say this.

“Uh, excuse me.”

The interruption breaks the tension. Two guys stop in front of our table.

“Are you Alex Waters?”

“Hey.” Frustration lies under Alex’s smile.

“I told you, man!” He smacks his buddy on the arm, his excitement gaining momentum and volume. “I told him it was you! This is so cool. You’re like the best player in the league, hands down!”

“Thanks, man. Listen—”

“Can I get your autograph, man? No one’s gonna believe this!”

“Yeah, sure.” Alex shoots me an apologetic look.

He’s genuinely trying to be nice to this guy whose social skills have lapsed in the face of idolization. The guy pulls out a piece of crumpled lined paper, rambling on about how he plays defense in Junior As and how he wants to go pro. He’s a skinny little guy and clearly a college freshman. Alex lets him go on for a few minutes, snapping selfies and asking questions. He gives them the “Keep working hard and you can reach your goals” speech. I understand why he’s the captain of his team. Once they’re done fawning, Alex gives me a pained smiled.

“I’m sorry.” He dips his pinkie into the whipped cream and slips his finger between his full, soft lips . . . and I’m wet. I want to skip the make out session and go straight to naked. I’ll suck the whipped cream off any damn thing he dips in there. Including the monster cock.

“It’s okay.” I clear my throat and shift around, trying to get comfortable. I need to get a handle on my hormones. We’re supposed to be having a discussion, and my mind is in the gutter.

“What were we talking about again?” He takes a small sip of his drink. Whipped cream forms a mustache he quickly licks away.

“You’re not the person the media portrays you to be. Yet, you sure seem to play the part.” I give him my resting bitch face: squinty eyes paired with pursed lips. It makes Buck run for cover, and Sidney usually finds somewhere else to be if it comes out. Alex sinks in his chair.

“When I started playing for the NHL, the rumors were somewhat justified. The media likes to blow things out of proportion. I won’t deny there was some accuracy. I was eighteen and a rookie. There were lots of girls . . .”

I guess I can understand this. If you’re a single, hot professional hockey player, women are going to throw themselves at you. I’m a case in point, although his appeal was only physical before the Fielding comment.

“Anyway, the Hat Trick rumor is a load of crap. I threw a party when I bought my house, and my cousin came because she wanted to be introduced to one of my teammates. If I’d known then what I know now, I never would’ve entertained the idea, incidentally. Another girl was interested in me, but she . . .” He shudders. “Let’s just say she wasn’t my type. Anyway, the third girl they accused me of sleeping with was my sister. She was underage, and she crashed the party. I was trying to get her under control. Some jerk took grainy pictures and posted them, and the myth of the Waters Hat Trick was born.”

“You never deny it in the interview.” It’s all hearsay, anyway. He can tell me whatever he wants; I can’t disprove it either way.

“No. I didn’t.” He drops his head with a sigh. “It was a bad move on my part. All it’s done is made me look like a total jerk.” He’s whisper quiet. “You have no idea what it’s like, Violet.”

“You’re right, I don’t. I can’t fathom why you would want to come across as a womanizer.”

“Did you know Buck took figure skating lessons?”

The abrupt change in topic throws me. I learned of this after Buck became my stepbrother. I found the idea of Buck in spandex hilarious and disconcerting. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“It’s standard, really. Most of the guys who play professional take figure skating to develop their skills on the ice.”

“It’s usually a year or two, right?”

He lowers his voice to make sure no one eavesdrops. “Usually. I was in figure skating for ten years.”

I almost choke on my latte. “Pardon?”

“I started when I was seven. My mother wanted me to be a figure skater. I picked up hockey when I was nine. I didn’t want to disappoint her, so I did both for a long time. I think she believed one day I’d change my mind and pick it over hockey. Until I was drafted into the minors, she was positive I’d make the Olympics.”

I feel bad for Alex. Why would his mother force him to do something he didn’t love for so long?

“I got razzed a lot for it, especially in high school. Teenagers aren’t always tolerant. The stereotypes were absurd.”

“And yet you choose to perpetuate a totally different one. I’m not seeing how that’s better.”

“I know.” His eyes are on the napkin he’s folding into some origami magic. I can tell this has caused him a lot of unnecessary frustration. While it pulls at my heartstrings, I don’t understand his motivation for the playboy angle.

“Within a matter of months I was drafted to the majors, and the press took notice of me. My years in figure skating came up. There were questions as to whether I could handle the demands. The tabloids got a hold of some footage and pictures of me in skating competitions. I had to work to prove myself on and off the ice. It wasn’t easy.” Alex looks up from the tiny bird he’s crafted out of his napkin. His eyes are soft, pleading for me to understand.

I try to imagine what it would’ve been like, but I’m not a hockey player or a figure skater, so I can’t relate.

“I started playing for the Flames . . . which led to more bad jokes.” He rolls his eyes. “So I did the one thing guaranteed to dispel any misconceptions, and it worked. I spent a lot of time at bars during the after parties surrounded by women. The media ate it up, and my agent even encouraged it. It got me a lot of coverage. At the time it was beneficial, even if it made me look like a player.”

He’s not lying; I’ve seen the pictures.

“The reputation followed me even after I was traded to Chicago. For a long time, I didn’t care. The rumors were easier to manage than some of the other crap. Until now, I haven’t had a reason to want to challenge the reputation.” Alex runs his fingers through his shaggy, unkempt hair. “It’s not an excuse, but can you understand where I’m coming from?”

I can. Judging from his torn expression and the way he can’t stop fidgeting, there’s more to this story, I’m sure. He’s made himself vulnerable by pouring his heart out in the middle of a crowded café. What’s more, I believe him. Teenage boys can be cruel, and men can be ruthless with each other. I’ve seen Buck in action with his friends. I can imagine the ribbing Alex would’ve taken as a rookie. It might have been all in fun where his teammates were concerned, but at eighteen it would be hard to take, especially with the media throwing it at him, too.

“It makes sense.” I poke at my cake with my fork, wary. “It doesn’t explain what you said to Buck about regulars.”

“‘Regulars’?”

“Yeah. When you were at my place and Buck forgot his wallet.”

Alex’s eyes go wide, and the color drains from his face. “Oh God. This explains what happened at the bar after the game last week.” He expels a long breath. “I wasn’t sure what Buck knew, if anything at all, and we hadn’t had the chance to really talk. So we’re clear . . .” He leans in closer until his knee is touching mine. “There are no regulars. There never have been. I don’t care if Butterson knows what happened between us. I’ll gladly take a shit kicking from him if you’ll go out on a date with me.”

“Oh.”

He touches my cheek with warm fingers. This immediately disconnects my brain from my body. All I want to do is lean forward and feel his lips on mine.

“Is ‘oh’ code for yes?”

“Um . . .” He seems genuine. It was easier to shrug off his advances when I believed he was a player. If he turns out to be a liar, I’ll be devastated.

“If you’re going to say no, I could ask your boobs. You’ve already said I can take them on a date, and I did get them a Victoria’s Secret gift certificate. They’d probably be happy to go out with me.” His smile is impish.

It’s hard not to return it. His sense of humor is as whacked out and as inappropriate as mine.

“They probably would.” My nipples tighten at their mention. Stupid boobs.

“Please say yes,” Alex whispers.

“My boobs are willing; the rest of me will come along. I’m not one hundred percent sold on you like they seem to be.”

I can’t believe I’m acting like my boobs have a say in the matter.

“That’s fair.” Alex’s eyes dip down. “I’m glad your boobs are sold on me. I’m a fan.”

I roll my eyes. “I guess the feeling’s mutual.”

“Are you busy tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow?”

“I leave Wednesday for almost two weeks. I’d like to see you before I go if you’re available. We could have dinner? I understand if it’s too short notice.”

“I can check my calendar.” I have no plans for tomorrow night. Even if I did, I’d cancel them. Alex sips his hot chocolate while I pretend to check my schedule. “It looks like I’m free.”

“Great.” He reclines in his chair, smiling widely.

This isn’t what I was expecting at all. I assumed Alex would feed me a load of crap, and I’d be justified in my disdain for hockey players. Instead I’m mentally reviewing my underwear options and worrying whether I have anything date appropriate. A trip to Victoria’s Secret is essential. My boobs want to look their best. So does the rest of me.