Pucked (Pucked 1)

“Apparently they’re true,” Charlene says with zero consideration for my privacy.

“Char!” I smack her arm.

“What?”

“You had an awful lot of trouble walking the day after your sleepover,” my mom says.

“I’m not discussing this with you, especially not on a plane.”

“Fine, fine. Charlene and I can talk later.” She winks at Char and drops into her seat. I can hear her talking to Sidney. There’s a lot of giggling. I wish she wasn’t such a fan of the overshare, especially with Sid.

We go directly to the stadium upon our arrival. Downtown Toronto isn’t much different than Chicago—full of skyscrapers and horrendous traffic. I’m not sure what I thought it would be like. Maybe I expected elves, like the North Pole, which is ridiculous since it’s only an hour north of the US border. Apart from his monster cock, Alex is just like regular people. If all Canadian men are that gifted, I can understand why people would be willing to deal with the frigid winters.

We make it to the stadium with only minutes to spare. Charlene is shocked by the outfits—or lack thereof—on some of the hockey hookers. Her pleather skirt is modest in comparison.

“Should I have dressed like that?”

Charlene eyes a girl wearing a Waters jersey that’s been converted into a mini-dress, complimented by eight-hundred-inch heels.

“No. Definitely not. Your cooter would freeze and fall off. Then what would you have to offer Darren?”

Our conversation is put on hold as the Hawks take the ice. Even in all the padding and loose-fitting hockey gear, Alex is hot. I can’t wait to get my hands on him post-game. I’m going to molest his fine ass, Buck’s reaction be damned. It’s been two weeks since I’ve seen him; my beaver is hungry for some wood.

The Hawks are up by the end of first period, but something is off with Alex. He’s irritated. I can see it in the set of his jaw and the overly aggressive way he deals with the opposing team. On the bench he’s antsy, following the action of the game with his lips mashed in a thin line. He yells when one of the Hawks defense gets knocked down by a Toronto forward. It’s like he’s looking for a fight.

Buck is playing like he owns the rink. He deflects four goals in the second period, allowing the Hawks to stay ahead. Darren scores a goal at the end of the second period, giving the Hawks a solid two-point lead.

At the beginning of the third period, Alex faces off at center ice. Just as the ref blows the whistle his head snaps up. The puck hits the ice, and Alex’s gloves are off. Toronto’s center doesn’t even see it coming. Alex grabs his cage with one hand and punches him in the stomach with the other.

Alex knocks him down and straddles him, pulling at his helmet. It pops off and rolls across the ice. Then he starts slamming his fist into the center’s face. Toronto guy manages to get a couple of shots in. They’re relatively ineffective. Alex is just . . . kicking the everloving shit out of this guy.

Finally, the refs get their shit together and break it up. His opposition is bleeding all over the ice. I shouldn’t find this level of violence hot.

“What are they doing?” I ask as refs escort a raging Alex off the ice.

Sidney gives me a dubious look. “He’s being ejected from the game, Violet. He just kicked the shit out of someone.”

Of course he has, but what happens now? Alex is fury incarnate as he stomps awkwardly down the hallway in his skates, disappearing from view. Someone needs to calm Alex down. I’m hoping it will be me.

“I need to pee, I’ll be right back.”

I make my way through the stands toward the locker room, aware I may not get past security. I must have a horseshoe stuck where the sun don’t shine because security is too busy chatting up a couple of puck bunnies to notice as I slip inside the locker room.

I can hear a low thud followed by Alex swearing. I peek around the corner.

Alex’s uniform is strewn across the floor, along with his padding and most of his gear. All he has on is a jockstrap, highlighting his package, which appears larger than usual. It could be a figment of my imagination caused by two weeks of his absence.

His muscles are tense, his jaw flexing, and his nostrils flare with his wrath. He hurtles his skate across the room. It slams into the wall, leaving a hole in the drywall.

I’m nervous and my panties are damp. My thought is singular: angry, hot, locker-room sex.

“Alex.”

His eyes are vibrant with ire. His back expands and contracts with every heavy exhalation of breath. He rolls his shoulders, his gaze moving over me in a hungry, feral sweep.