The Pucking Wrong Date: A Hockey Romance (The Pucking Wrong Series Book 3)

Ari: Disney, there were rumors a cock sock was involved in last night’s festivities.

King Linc: It’s too fucking early for this.

Ari: Blake and I haven’t gone to sleep yet, so maybe it’s actually too fucking late.

Ari: Walker. Please tell me the cock sock was at least big enough. The anaconda you’re packing needs some breathing room.

King Linc: I definitely know it’s too early to talk about Walker’s cock size.

Ari: Don’t worry, Golden Boy. You’ve got the whole dick tattoo thing happening. You’ve definitely got Monroe dickmatized. You can do one of those Facebook things for her. “Marked safe from Walker Davis’s dick.”

King Linc: Do not ever mention Monroe’s name and another man’s dick again.

Ari: You’re a little scary, Linc.

King Linc:…

I scrolled through the texts, not able to even grin because I was so devastated that she was gone.

Whoever she even fucking was. She was wearing a wig. She didn’t have an I.D. I was pretty sure “Violet” hadn’t even been her name.

Me: Either of you know how to find missing people?

Ari: That was a weird segue. Did you make someone disappear with your dick? OMG. Has your dick disappeared?

King Linc: STOP TALKING ABOUT DICKS.

Ari: Oooh, he pulled out the shouty caps, Disney. I’m a little nervous.

Me: FOCUS. I need to find…someone.

King Linc: Does this…someone…have something to do with the cock sock?

Ari: I thought we weren’t allowed to talk about cocks anymore.

I threw my phone on the bed, huffing as I flopped down in the sheets, trying to soak myself in the scent she’d left all over.

A second later, my phone buzzed. Glancing over dejectedly, I sat straight up…because Lincoln Fucking Daniels was calling. Me!!!!

I cleared my throat as I fumbled for the phone. Act cool, Walker. Act cool.

“Hey,” I said, wanting to throw myself off a cliff at the way my voice had just squeaked.

Fucking squeaked.

“Tell me about this girl,” he demanded.

“There’s nothing to tell,” I said. “I just wondered if you guys knew someone who could find people.”

“If you don’t give me details, I can’t help,” he said in a silky, smooth voice. Holy fuck. I could not imagine people said no to him very often.

“This girl left without giving me her last name. And I’m not sure she gave me her real first name either.”

“Okay, well, my last P.I. was a piece of shit. But this new one has been doing a good job.”

“Ummm…I mean, I’ll take the info…but….what are you using a P.I. for?”

“Oh Disney….” he purred.

He fucking purred.

Click. The bastard hung up on me.

The brilliant, perfect, god-like bastard.

And now…I was even more intrigued.

A second later, a text came through with the contact information for some guy named Jeff.

What kind of P.I.’s name was Jeff?

The wait took forever. Apparently when you only had a first name and where someone had been sitting at a hockey game…it was difficult to find a person. I hadn’t given him the picture I’d taken of her sleeping…even in my desperation. I couldn’t share that moment with someone else.

It was mine.

We lost the first round of the playoffs. I searched the stands for her each home game, trying to see if she would make an appearance.

But she never did.

The loss was even worse than usual because now I didn’t have the season to distract me. Not from the silence from Dallas, not from L.A. pushing me to re-sign…not from the lack of…her.

I clicked through the channels on the tv, scoffing when I saw NHL Network was playing a replay of our game against Seattle.

Because of course they were. The universe just loved fucking with me.

Wait…Seattle. She’d said something about them.

She’d said she’d been at the game because she knew someone from Seattle! Her cousin!

How the fuck had I forgotten that?

Probably because I was trying to block out the fact that she was wearing another man’s jersey.

I’d only just allowed my sheets and the jersey she’d worn to be washed last week…and only because the smell of her had finally faded.

Fucking hell.

I dialed Jeff, who was probably going to ban me as a client soon with how many times I called him on a daily basis.

“Her cousin’s on the team,” I blurted out the moment he picked up.

“Relax, kid, I finally figured that out last night,” he muttered grumpily. “No thanks to you. I could have gotten you something fucking sooner if you’d remembered that important little tidbit.” He huffed dramatically like he wasn’t fucking charging me a gazillion dollars for every hour that he worked. “Check your texts.”

Was it okay for my heart to be beating this fast? Because it was. It was beating out of my fucking ribcage as I pulled up the text he’d just sent.

The fucking video actually.

There she was in a vid that must have been from a security camera in the arena, sitting next to the girl I vaguely remembered from that night. Looking fucking adorable. And perfect.

And mine.

“What’s her last name?” I said in a weird sounding voice.

“She’s Harley Jacobs’ cousin,” he explained, not answering my question. “Or at least I assume you’ve been looking for the one on the left, and you’re not boning Jacobs’ girlfriend. The girlfriend’s the chick to the right of her.”

“Nope, not that one,” I muttered, feeling dazed as I continued to stare at her, replaying the fucking clip over and over again like a lovesick crazy person.

“The tickets were in his name obviously, so I had to do a deep dive into his family history. You’re lucky she wasn’t just a friend. I’d never have been able to find that shit.”

“Who is she?” I growled. If he were in the room, I would have had my hands wrapped around his fucking throat, trying to shake the information out of him since he was obviously enjoying keeping me hanging.

“You’re going to want to sit down for this.”

“Fucking hell, JUST TELL ME.”

“That girl. She ain’t no Violet. Her name is Olivia Jones…also known as…” He took a deep inhale and paused…because this guy must thrive on fucking with me.

“Olivia Darling.”

“Olivia,” I said the name out loud, thinking how good it tasted on my lips.

That fit her way better than “Violet”.

Wait a second…Olivia Darling. Where did I know that name from?

“Why aren’t you freaking out more about this? You fuck crazy superstars on a regular basis, kid?”

“Watch your fucking mouth,” I growled, as the story came to me. No one was allowed to talk about her like that.

Olivia Darling. Now I knew why that name sounded so familiar.

She was a singer. She’d supposedly been addicted to tons of shit and lost her mind. Something about a conservatorship.

“I might have found her address…” he said slyly, and I realized I hadn’t said anything for a long time.

“Send it over.”

“That’s going to be worth double…I had to use my contacts at the court because her case is sealed.”

“Fine. Just give it to me.”

A second later there was an address in my texts.

Gotcha.

“The stuff that’s out there about her is bad. You sure you want to go there?” he asked.

“Just find out more,” I snapped. He decidedly was not in the circle of trust. Which meant he was definitely not getting that answer.

“Alright. Alright, you can thank me later,” he grumbled as I hung up.

A quick Google search of the address and I was out the door, driving like a mad man to find her. To do what…I wasn’t sure. But I at least needed to be near her.

Three days. That’s how long I’d spent in my fucking truck, parked near her high rise, my eyes fixed on her building like a fucking crazy person.

I couldn’t exactly just waltz up to her front door and say hi…remember me…I mean, at least I knew that now, after the doorman had laughed in my face and threatened to call the police on me if I didn’t “leave the premises immediately.”

Asshole.

Hence why I was now living in my truck. Waiting to get a glimpse of her.

The P.I.’s file was my bible during the long hours. I pored over every article, every scrap of information about her. Googling whatever questions I had.

It was an obsession, one that I accepted more and more every day.

I’d also become obsessed with her music.

I was a country boy, a lifelong listener to country music…and Taylor Swift. But Olivia’s music had become like a lifeline to me, the soundtrack to my days and the lullaby to my restless nights. I’d memorized every song in her catalog, listening to each one on repeat, each note wrapping around my soul like a lover’s caress. They were raw, honest, and hauntingly beautiful, just like her. Each lyric felt like a glimpse into her soul, a part of her that she’d shared with the world.

Olivia Darling was my addiction and I didn’t want anything to make me better.

My phone buzzed.

Ari: Disney aka Dis aka Not Walker Texas Ranger…where the fuck are you? I have news.

I’d been ignoring my phone. Not bothering with anything unless it was Jeff sending me information. But the idea of news was intriguing…

Me: What’s up?

Ari: What’s up? That’s what I get? No, “I love you the mostest.” Or “thanks for finding this out.”

King Linc: Just tell him the news, Lancaster.

Ari: Ooh…pulling out the big guns. A little last name action.

Me: Thanks for finding this out. Now what am I finding out?

I sat up straight when the door to her complex opened and…a seventy year old woman stepped out.

Buzzz.

Slumping back in my seat, I glanced at my phone.

Ari: Dallas called your agent.

I tensed, staring at the text.

Me: You better not be joking with me, Lancaster.

Ari: Hah. Nice try. But that doesn’t do it for me like it does when golden boy says it. There’s simply not enough simping coming from you at the moment over the fact that I just told you DALLAS CALLED YOUR AGENT.

My phone buzzed, this time with an incoming call. Fuck. It was my agent.

Was it hot in here? Did I have a fever? Was my truck leaking gas and I was going crazy from the fumes?

Actually something to consider. I kicked at a chip bag that had fallen to the cab floor.

“Hello,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady despite the fact that I might have been about to spontaneously combust.

My agent’s voice crackled through the line. ‘Walker, Dallas reached out.’

‘Fuck. Tell me they want me,’ I begged…sounding a little hysterical.

The door opened again and honestly, thank fuck it was another gray haired, hundred year old looking granny, because I may have died from excitement between seeing Olivia and this phone call.

“They sent over an offer.”

I was dying, about to melt into my seat.

My phone buzzed as texts came in.

Ari: WALKER PUCKING DISNEY DAVIS, WHY AREN’T YOU RESPONDING?

King Linc: Maybe he’s not interested in Dallas.

I pretended like he’d said that in a very sullen, distraught, devastated voice.

Ari: Psshh. Disney would never.

‘Six years. Sixty million,’ Tucker said, obviously done with the blank silence I was giving him.

“Fuck,” I whispered, and the fucker laughed at me.

The door to Olivia’s building opened again and I glanced up, watching it almost absentmindedly, expecting it to be another old lady…since Olivia apparently lived in some kind of retirement home judging by the ages of the other residents in the building.

But it was her.

My angel.

It was like I could breathe again. Like I’d been jolted back to life. Like the blood had returned to my veins.

And to my dick.

I stared at her like a lovesick puppy, memorizing every detail about her, from her long, wavy dark auburn hair which I was actually obsessed with…to the L.A. Cobras hat she was wearing.

That hat had to be a sign. She was thinking of me. She was missing me too.

Or at least that’s what I was telling myself.

My agent was giving me what were probably very important details about the deal, but I was catching maybe every tenth word as I studied my girl.

A second later, a man in a three piece suit emerged from the building. Olivia had stopped just outside the entrance, and I watched with sick dread as the slick haired, slimy looking DEAD man grabbed her arm, leading her to a car waiting at the curb.

I could hear my heartbeat in my ears as I watched them. Who the fuck was that? And why was he handling her like he owned her?

He slid into the car after her and it pulled away.

And I followed it.

“Walker! Are you listening?” Tucker snapped, exasperation clear in his tone.

“Yeah, just get the deal done, Tuck. I’m good with it.”

“I just told you L.A. beat Dallas’s offer.”

“They beat sixty million?”

I stared at the phone, wondering how this was real life. And why this was all happening at the same fucking time.

Keeping one eye on the road and the car I was tailing like I was some kind of James Bond character, I flipped through a couple of pictures in the file Jeff had sent me, trying to see if the guy was in there.

“Gotcha!” I snarled. Marco Davine. Olivia’s agent and one of her conservators, along with her mother. From what I’d read, it had been shocking when the judge had appointed him as co-conservator. A lot of financial ethical issues with that one.

“Gotcha what? Do I need to call you fucking back? It’s not like I’m over here trying to get your dream deal on your dream team, Walker.”

The sass on this one.

“Sorry,” I muttered unrepentantly as I turned left after the car.

I was terrible at this. Fuck.

For the first time…I wondered if Dallas was the right move. Because I couldn’t leave her here.

No. I would just have to figure that out. She would come with me. Somehow.

“So what’s the plan, Tuck? I want Dallas,” I finally got out as Olivia’s car pulled into the parking lot for Ray Therapy Center.

“I already countered, asshole. I should have a response by tomorrow.”

I grinned as I parked on the other side of the street. “That’s why you’re my guy.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he barked, trying to sound grumpy. I could hear the smug smile in his voice though. Tucker knew he was the best. The rest of his clientele agreed.

But my smile faded as Olivia got out of the car, everything about her body language defeated as she trudged into the clinic.

“I’ll talk to you later,” I said, my voice trailing off before I hung up.

I sat there in tense silence, ignoring my phone, and watching the doors. An hour later, she came out, her head turned down, her arms wrapped around herself.

I picked up the docs again, looking at the terms of the conservatorship that Jeff had gotten from the court file.

Davine and Olivia’s bitch looking mother basically had complete control over her.

What the fuck?

Nothing about that woman had seemed like she needed to be watched over. She’d been sad, flighty, twitchy…yes. But nothing that even hinted at the claims the two fuckers had presented to the court.

Drug addict.

Mentally incompetent.

A danger to herself and others.

I trailed the car back to her apartment, dying inside as I watched her walk into the building…at least without Marco.

I stayed there, waiting for any sign of her.

Minutes turned into hours, and still, she didn’t reappear. Eventually, I went home.

I tossed and turned that night for hours, one of her songs playing on repeat, the soundtrack to my agony…and what must have been hers.

I’m trapped in a cage of my own design,

Lost in a world where the sun won’t shine.

My heart cries out, but my voice is stilled,

In this prison of sorrow, my dreams are killed.

Every day, I paint on a smile,

Hiding the tears that I’ve cried for a while.

I’m a bird with clipped wings, unable to soar,

In this cage of regrets, forevermore.