Pucked (Pucked 1)

Carrying my travel mug and messenger bag, I open the door and nearly have a heart attack. A guy holding a huge bouquet of flowers stands on my front steps. It’s colossal in the most preposterous way.

I can only see his eyes and the brim of his hat. “Delivery for Violet Hall.”

“Oh. Wow. Thanks.”

I’m surprised flower shops deliver this early in the morning. The flowers are heavier than I expect, and I almost drop them when he passes me the bouquet. After the flower guy leaves, I set them on the table and check out the card while Charlene hovers behind me.I’m glad your beaver made a full recovery.

~Alex“Beaver?” Charlene asks.

“He’s referring to my girl parts.”

“He’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?”

“He’s Canadian,” I reply as if this explains everything.

Charlene plans my wedding on our drive to work. I remain mostly silent as I’m reeling from the phone call last night and the flowers. The trek to my cubicle is telling—I get a lot of looks from the guys in the office. The kind that tell me they no longer regard me as the nerdy girl in accounting. Now I’m the nerdy girl who makes out with hockey players. Someone made a collage of the Internet pictures and taped it to my computer screen.

I rip it off and survey the office for the culprit. Fortunately, Charlene and I have a pre-team-meeting meeting with two of the other junior accountants this morning, so I can evade most of my colleagues until lunch. I gather my things and avoid eye contact on the way to the conference room.

As I flip open the laptop, Dean arrives. Only Jimmy is missing now. Logging onto the system, an alert shows several new emails. Four stand apart from the rest; they’re from Alex. I don’t remember telling him where I worked. I supposed if he searched my name, it wouldn’t be hard to find my email address on the company website.

“Oh my God,” Charlene squeals. “First the phone call, then the flowers, now he’s emailing you?”

“Who’s emailing you?” Dean asks.

I pull the laptop toward me, hiding the screen. “No one.”

“Alex Waters,” Charlene says.

I shoot her a glare. “You’re suspended as my best friend. I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day.”

“I heard there are pictures of you two getting it on,” Dean replies.

“We were just kissing.”

Charlene cuts in. “Didn’t you call it ‘mouth fucking’?”

“Ooooh, ‘mouth fucking.’ That sounds dirty.” Dean taps his fingers on his chin. “So we have his account now?”

“What? No!” I’m appalled Dean would think I could stoop to such low, unprofessional tactics to secure a client for the company.

“Why not? Waters is one of the top earners in the league. He cleared almost eight mil—”

I hold up my hand. Buck makes an obscene amount of money. I don’t want to know what Alex is worth, even if it is as easy as looking it up on the Internet. “Stop! I didn’t sleep with him to get his account!”

“You slept with him?” Dean’s jaw drops, his shock is understandable.

“Shut up!” I stalk across the room and shut the door. “Why don’t you announce it to the whole building since it’s not humiliating enough to have pictures of us kissing taped to my computer?”

“For real?” Dean leans forward. “You slept with Waters? Is the rumor true?”

“I’m not answering that.”

“So it’s true.”

“Enough. We have a presentation to prepare for. Unless we’re changing the topic to the size of Alex’s dick, we need to get going.”

“It would be way more interesting than this.” Dean gestures to the PowerPoint presentation on the screen.

Of course, Jimmy, the last member of our team, arrives, and we have to go through the entire thing again, including the mouth fucking explanation, which Jimmy loves as much as Dean. It’s going to be another long day.I check my phone when I excuse myself to use the restroom. I have three voice mails and several texts. The first voice mail is from my mom. She found the flowers. Obviously she’s been in my place without asking again. The next one is a telemarketer advertising a free trip and the last one is from Alex. It goes something like this:“Hi. This is Alex. I wanted to call and see if anything came for you this morning. I have a game tonight, but . . . um . . . maybe I’ll talk to you later.”I listen to it five times and save it as I did with the first one.

I move on to the text message.Okay, so two messages checking to see if I got the flowers. Odd.

I move on to the emails.

The first one is blank.

The second one reads:The third one reads:The fourth one reads:The email is completely ridiculous. As much as his persistence irritates me, I’m beginning to like the awkward tone and his inappropriate comments. Especially coming from a man who seems so self-assured on the ice—and in bed. I curb the warm fuzzies. He’s still a player.