Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)

Somehow, I survive two weeks on the road without any major public relations disasters from the players or staff. The guys have all been perfect gentlemen, using their time off the ice to try various coffee shops and restaurants.

It turns out Jake Compton is a social media gold mine. He meticulously documents almost every meal he eats. He even managed to snag a few shots of Caleb Sanford looking like the surly eye candy he is.

I’m pleased to say he seems to be keeping Lukas out of trouble too. The men dine together most nights, along with Colton and Jean-Luc. So long as the most seductive photos they post are of the soy sauce dripping from their sushi rolls, I’m a happy PR director.

Honestly, for most of this trip, the team and I have felt like two ships passing in the night. I’ve attended all the games, making some good inroads on future endorsement deals, but I’ve also been hard at work in each of the cities, attending various meetings and charity events.

Mark Talbot has a vision for his philanthropy beyond what he can accomplish with the Rays. It’s my hope that as the charity end of things grows, I might transition away from PR and into more of a philanthropic foundation role. But I have to prove myself first. Mark isn’t going to trust me with his legacy if he can’t trust me to handle basic PR for his hockey team.

At the moment, public relations and philanthropy are the furthest things from my mind, because I’m sitting in the back of a cab, heading over to The Hay-Adams hotel for my obligatory family lunch. Standing a literal stone’s throw from the front steps of the White House, the hotel boasts of having one of the swankiest restaurants in the capital, The Lafayette.

My dad is Hank St. James. In this town, they call him “The Kingmaker.” He’s deep in the pocket of virtually every lobbying group and politician in town. He’s the kind of man-in-the-shadows who can say, “Get me the president on the phone,” and a secretary will actually call the sitting president. He often takes working lunches at this hotel with power-hungry senators and bored billionaires.

By extension, my mom sees herself as a modern-day Jackie Kennedy. She’s tried to raise us girls to be just the same. Behind every powerful politician, there’s a good woman in pearls ready to help him shine. She attends weekly afternoon tea here at The Hay-Adams with her society friends.

My phone buzzes in my hand. I glance down to see a new message from a number I don’t have saved:

UNKNOWN: Did you get my contracts?

POPPY: Who is this?

I smile, watching the three little dots dance at the bottom of my screen. Yes, Lukas sent me a fresh batch of contracts on Sunday night. I have to hand it to him, he’s getting more inventive. This time, he had a ménage à trois with Marie Antoinette and Miss Piggy—both of whom are also way out of his league.

Despite my better judgment, I save his number in my phone.

LUKAS: Are you asking me for nudes, Poppy? A bit forward don’t you think?

I laugh, typing back a response.

POPPY: Is that the only way women can recognize you? Probably because there’s not much happening in the face department, right?

LUKAS: Ouch. Your wounding words always cut the deepest.

POPPY: Walk it off, Lukas. And lose this number. I never gave it to you.

There’s a bit of a delay before his answer buzzes in my hand.

LUKAS: Seriously? I could be having a PR crisis right now. I could be in jail, Poppy. Don’t you want me to have a way to contact you if I land myself in jail in a foreign country?

POPPY: Foreign country? We flew from Philly to DC last night. You’re still in the United States.

LUKAS: Yeah, but I’m Canadian. So, no matter where I get arrested, it will still be a foreign country to me.

Shaking my head, I type out my response.

POPPY: In that case, you have my email.

LUKAS: YOU NEVER ANSWER YOUR EMAIL!

I laugh, feeling a lightness in my chest that wasn’t there a few moments ago.

LUKAS: For your information, I was texting to invite you out to a post-game dinner with the D-men. Very private. Very delicious. But now that you’ve just told me to lose your number, I guess you can lose my invite too. Tit for tat.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I mutter, tapping the call button and lifting the phone to my ear.

He picks up on the second ring. “Poppy St. James, are you calling to beg for your invitation back? I do love a little groveling.”

“No, I’m not calling for an invitation. I’m calling to cancel your reservation.”

“What?” His indignation drips hot and heavy though the phone. “You can’t do that! We’re allowed to go out if we want, Poppy. You can’t just—”

“Now ask me why, Lukas,” I say over him. “Ask me why I might have a problem with the bulk of my star players heading out to a private dinner tonight of all nights.”

He’s quiet for a moment.

“Fuck,” he finally mutters.

“Yeah, fudge is right. I used a lot of favors to get that reservation at Club 7, and I need you there, Lukas. Consider this an official team event. There will be press outside when we arrive, and select fans have been granted VIP access. You don’t have to stay forever, but please—I’m begging here, Lukas. Are you happy? I’m actually begging. Just stay for one hour.”

“Fine!” he barks. “God. You know, usually I love the sound of a woman begging, but when you do it, I feel like my insides are being twisted into a knot.”

I can barely contain my relief as my cab pulls up at The Hay-Adams. “Oh my goodness, really? You’ll come out tonight?”

“I said it’s fine. This restaurant has two Michelin stars and a three-month wait, but it’s fine.”

“Thank you, Lukas. I promise, I’ll find a way to make this up to you. Hey, I can be your wingwoman tonight! Maybe we’ll finally get you a real name to put on those contracts.”

“No fucking thanks. I can wheel my own dates, Poppy.”

I’m smiling wide now. “Hmm, would we call them dates?”

He sighs into the phone. “Fine. Hookups.”

“Better.”

“Hanging up now.”

“Not if I hang up first,” I chime, tapping the little red button to end the call.

The moment I do, a valet opens my door. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Welcome to The Hay-Adams.”

I take a deep breath, slipping my phone inside my green Gucci Marmont mini. What’s that expression? Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

“My Poppy girl!” Mom stands from the table the moment she sees me enter the dining room. She holds her arms out wide, welcoming me into her loving embrace like I’m the prodigal daughter returned.

I step into her hug. “Hey, Mom.”

“Why didn’t you wear the Chanel?” she says in my ear. “You always look so pretty in Chanel.”

I sigh, letting her go. I wore this Dolce & Gabbana floral print dress and sweater set because last time she complained I was wearing too many block colors. “It’s good to see you,” I say, forcing a smile.

She cups my face and pinches my cheek. “Oh, honey, you too.”

Behind me, Dad stands waiting. “Don’t I get a hug?” I turn, giving him a warmer hug. He melts into it like he might just be genuinely happy to see me. “Good to have you home, Princess.”

“Thanks, Daddy.”

“And look,” Mom says. “Rowan and Deidre are here. And your sister even managed to get away from all those books to come join us.”

I move around the table, giving quick hugs to my brother and his wife and my older sister, Ivy, before taking the empty seat between my parents. There’s one extra seat between Ivy and Deidre. “Is Vi coming?”

My younger sister Violet currently works on the Hill. Daddy got her the position using his many connections.

Mom laughs. “Oh, no. She simply couldn’t get away.”

A few knowing smirks are passed around between the other three. Am I missing something?

Meanwhile, Daddy’s oblivious. He refuses to wear cheaters, so he’s got the menu pressed to his face like he’s trying to decipher a magic eye image. “I hope you all came hungry.”

“Starved,” Deidre replies. “It’s so sweet of you to treat us all, Annmarie.”

“Nonsense. We’re happy to do it. This is a day for celebrating,” Mom assures her.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask as the waiter comes over with a round of mimosas for the table. He starts reading off the day’s specials, but dad stops him with a wave of his hand. Oh, here we go. Classic Hank St. James, always needs to be in control of everything—even our food order.

“We’ll have a round of the soup du jour to start,” he says. “Then the poached pear salad and the seared bass. You can bring those out together, Ed.”

I set my water down, smiling up at the waiter. “Actually, I’d like the chicken. And an order of the potatoes—”

“The bass is better,” Dad says over me. “Get the bass.”

“I don’t want fish.”

“She’ll have the bass,” he says, handing the waiter our menus. “Oh, and add in a couple orders of the crab cakes for the table. That’s not fish,” he teases.

Across from us, Ivy finishes her first mimosa and taps her glass for a refill. She’s got the right idea. I pluck my champagne flute off the table and take a long sip. I’ll likely pay for it tonight with a pounding headache.

Worth it.

Five minutes later, the first course of autumn squash soup is placed before us.

“So, Pops,” my brother says. “How’s your little communications gig going?”

I pause, spoon halfway to my lips. “Well, the ‘gig’ isn’t so little. I’m the director of public relations for a major international sports team. It’s actually a pretty demanding job.”

He smirks, buttering his bread. “Huh, I assumed it was just a lot of party planning and fundraisers. Right, Pop?”

Ass. He knows exactly what I do, and he knows I’m darn good at it too. He even asked me for season tickets when I worked for the Capitals. He’s just resentful because I did what he never could and walked away from our father.

His wife bats at his arm playfully. “Oh, don’t tease her, Ro. It sounds fascinating, Poppy.”

Next to me, Dad hums in agreement.

Wait—who is he agreeing with? Rowan or Deidre?

I pat my mouth with my napkin. “It’s a little more than party planning. In fact—”

“Oh, Poppy, honey.” Mom leans in, hand on my arm. “Did you hear about Ivy’s good news?”

And, just like that, we’re done talking about me.

I glance across the table. “Is Ivy who we’re celebrating?”

Ivy is older than me by eight years, which means we’ve never really been close. She’s a tenured professor over at Georgetown in the Art History department. With her stylish glasses and tweed blazer, she looks like she’s ready to stand up and give us all a lecture on Picasso’s Blue Period.

“Tell her, Ivy,” Mom presses.

“I’ve accepted a one-year visiting lecturer position at the Sorbonne,” Ivy declares.

“Hey, that’s great, Ivy.”

Mom sighs. “Poppy, your sister will be teaching at the famed Institute of Art and Archeology in Paris. Every day she’ll be strolling through Luxembourg Gardens and touring museums along the Seine. Can you imagine?”

“It’s really great,” I correct, taking another sip of my mimosa.

“I don’t think Pop is very impressed, Mom,” Rowan teases. “Hey, don’t they call Jacksonville the Paris of Florida?”

I hum my agreement. “Mhmm, just like they call you the funny one in the family.”

He snorts.

“Deidre, honey. You’re not drinking your mimosa,” says Mom. “Do you want something else?”

My brother’s wife smiles. “Oh, no, I’m fine.”

“Really, you can order whatever you want. Spritzer? Bloody Mary?”

“I’m fine—”

“She’s not drinking, Mom,” my brother says over her. “Take the hint already.”

I glance up to see the grin on his face. He eyes me across the table and winks. Everyone turns to stone momentarily as the news sinks in. Mom is the first to break. “Oh my—Hank,” she shrieks. “Hank, she’s—they’re pregnant. Are you pregnant, Deidre?”

“The whole restaurant can hear you, Mom,” Ivy warns, reaching over to steal Deidre’s mimosa.

“Yes,” says Deidre, placing her hands on her stomach. “We’re expecting again.”

“Oh, goodness,” Mom cries, hurrying around the table to hug them both. “My third grand baby! I thought you kids were going to let me go gray before I ever got to hold another baby.”

Dad stands too, shaking Rowan’s hand.

“You’ll just have to wait until next spring,” Deidre assures her.

“We’ve quite given up on Ivy,” Mom goes on. “And we had hope for a minute there with Poppy, but we all saw how that turned out. Now it’s all down to you and our sweet Violet.”

Right, Ivy the academic spinster and Poppy the disappointment. I raise my mimosa in silent salute. Ivy just smirks.

At that moment, the waiter steps in and serves our entrées. I frown down at my portion of fish served on a dollop of creamed parsnips. The waiter places a last plate at the empty seat between Ivy and Deidre. “I thought you said Vi wasn’t coming,” I say, surreptitiously sliding the plate of crab cakes closer.

“She’s not,” replies Dad.

“Then why did they bring an extra plate of fish?”

The mood at the table shifts again. Rowan, Deidre, and Ivy are now all inordinately concerned with inspecting their seared bass.

I set down my fork. “Someone please just tell me what the rest of you already seem to know.”

Mom leans a little closer. “Well, honey, Violet really wanted to be here to tell you her special news in person.”

“What’s her special news?”

“I think we’ll just see if we can get her on the phone.” She dials my sister and turns the phone on speaker, holding it up between us.

Violet finally answers on the fourth ring. “Hey, Momma! Y’all at lunch?”

“Yes, honey, we’re all here!” Mom is speaking much louder than she needs to.

“Is Poppy there?”

“She’s right here.” Mom pats my arm. “She’s waiting to hear your big, exciting news!”

“Hi, Poppy,” my sister gushes. “I’m so sorry I’m missing lunch. Hey, maybe we can grab drinks later tonight. Will you still be in town or—”

“Your news, Vi,” I say over her, not sure I can take much more of this suspense.

“Oh!” She laughs. “Yeah, well I really wanted to do this in person but…I’m engaged!”

I sink back in my chair.

“Isn’t that wonderful?” says Mom. “A baby and an engagement all in one day! My heart is fit to burst.”

“Wait—who’s having a baby?” my sister says through the phone.

“Rowan and Deidre,” Mom replies. “They just told us.”

“Number three,” Deidre chimes.

“No way! Oh, that’s so amazing,” Violet cries. “Give them a hug for me.”

“We will, honey,” Mom assures her. Then she looks sharply at me. “Poppy, don’t you have anything to say to your sister?”

I sit forward, mind racing. “I…well, I guess I didn’t even know you were seeing anyone, Vi.”

The mood on the other side of the table gets, if possible, even more arctic. No one will look at me. Oh goodness, is she pregnant too? Out of wedlock? That would kill our mother.

“We’ve actually been dating for a while,” says Violet. “We were just keeping it hush-hush because we didn’t want to ruffle any feathers.”

“You’ve both been very respectful, Vi,” says Mom with a solemn nod. “And we’re all so thrilled for you. Aren’t we, Hank?”

“We’re very pleased,” Dad echoes, more concerned with finishing his salad.

“I’m sure you’ll be pleased too,” says Rowan, breaking the silence on that side of the table.

At this point, I feel like I’m about to pop an ulcer. “Violet, who are you marrying?”

“Now, don’t get mad at me,” she says through the phone. “You promise? You’re the last one I’m telling because I don’t want you to be mad at me. But just keep in mind that you had your chance once, and you blew it. This is my chance, and I’m not gonna blow it. Right, Mom?”

“You’re a match made in heaven, Vi. Everybody says so,” Mom says, positively beaming with pride.

Oh no, this is not happening…

“Ahh—here he is,” Mom sings, turning in her chair to wave down someone at the door. “Vi, your beau has arrived!”

Heart in my throat, I slowly turn, already knowing exactly who I’ll see behind me.

And there he is, striding into The Lafayette dining room like he owns it, waving at my mother and flashing her his million-dollar smile. Anderson Montgomery, heir to one of the largest architectural firms in the southern United States.

Anderson Montgomery, the man my mother handpicked for me to marry. Together, we were meant to forge a new political dynasty: an empire-building king and his dutiful, loving queen.

Anderson Montgomery, the man I left at the altar three years ago.

The man who is now engaged to my spoiled baby sister.