Pucked Over Page 2

So I did what any hot-blooded Canadian woman would when a hot man—hockey player or not—threatened extreme violence on her behalf: I grabbed his face and stuck my tongue in his mouth.

I played it off as though I’d done it to make Benji jealous. But I hadn’t. Mostly I wanted to kiss Randy’s face for what he’d done. Play a little tonsil hockey with him. Plead insanity for a minute.

His beard was soft where it touched my lips and chin. His mouth tasted like Corn Pops. His tongue—oh God, his tongue. Despite my unexpected assault, he’d kissed me back. Benji’s freak-out had become mere static in the background. Sunny and Miller must have returned from their “walk in the forest” somewhere between Benji’s insult and my jumping Randy, because when I opened my eyes, there they were, witnesses to my attack.

Mortified, I locked myself in a bedroom at the cottage for the rest of the afternoon. I told Sunny I needed to be alone. During that time, I relived the kiss over and over, wondering if it was so electric because Randy had defended me, because I was angry with Benji, or because Randy was so damn hot.

I promised myself I wouldn’t attack him like a starved lion on steak again. But by dinner, Benji had taken off, his raging texts cementing my conviction that we were now as over as we were going to get. Calling me a “flat-chested, cheating whore” wasn’t much of a point-winner in my book.

And still here was Randy. Gorgeous. Cocky. Chivalrous. Maybe a little arrogant. An excellent kisser and an absolute flirt. I needed a distraction, and he seemed like a good one. We ended up dry-humping in the kitchen. Later he came to my bedroom with promises of fun and orgasms. No obligations. No strings. Just a casual fling. Inhibitions loose from drinks and hormones raging from all the flirting, I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to, either.

Randy followed through on his promise to distract me from my problems. The orgasms were out of this world. Intergalactic.

But we didn’t have sex.

He was okay with being a rebound lay, but he drew the line at revenge fuck. I didn’t ask what the criteria was for one or the other, but as the receiver of plenty of non-penetration-related orgasms, I could hardly complain. At the time. Regrets came later.

I thought he was so sweet. Until he and Miller went to a charity car wash the next morning, leaving Sunny and me at the cottage. The guys were only going to be gone a couple of hours, and Randy promised more orgasms upon his return. I had plans to make them the sex kind.

Then things got complicated. Before they even got back, pictures of Randy and Miller with what appeared to be topless models went viral.

I got a little ragey.

Pissed that I’d been hoodwinked, I deployed a black permanent marker with the wrath of a thousand PMS-ing women on a full moon. I defaced every pair of Randy’s underwear with the same message: TINY DICK INSIDE. It was a lie. A fabrication. Based on what I’d felt the night before—it was too dark to see—he was packing a substantial stick in his pants.

I gave his T-shirts a similar treatment, decorating them with ASSHOLE, so he knew how I felt about the bullshit he’d pulled. Like I would let him give me any more orgasms after some bunny’d been all over his dick, probably riding it because I wasn’t allowed to.

Rolling over in my bed, I sigh and blink away the memories. Turns out it was all a misunderstanding. But by the time I got the real story, it was too late. The damage had been done. I couldn’t take back the clothing destruction.

It’s been a month since all this went down. A month of reliving the hours spent in that bed with him. A month of embarrassment over my overreaction. A month of being horrified that I let the whole situation happen in the first place. Tonight there’s a charity exhibition game, and Randy’s playing. Sunny’s forcing me to go with her because her boyfriend, Miller, set the whole thing up. So I have to see Randy again. I’m not sure what’s worse: my residual mortification or the fact that at least twice a week I wake up on the cusp of an orgasm, with Randy’s stunning face and body burned into the back of my lids. My body is clearly interested in receiving the pleasure he generously provided again. And again.

And again.

But that’s too bad because I hate him. Smug bastard.

I hate him more because I can’t get my body on board. He was supposed to be a distraction. A fling. Screwing around for the sake of gratification and nothing else. He’s the last man I should want. He’s a player. He lives for the game. On ice, off ice, it’s all the same. And I don’t want to make the mistake of ramming my tongue down his throat yet again. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough when it comes to Randy Ballistic.

Chapter 1

Run, Run, Run!


The game is over, and Sunny—formally known as Sunshine Waters—my best friend since grade one, is currently projected on the Jumbotron for the entire arena to view. Miller is mauling her while “Walking on Sunshine” blasts through the sound system in celebration of his team’s win. Actually, the real winner is a twelve-year-old boy named Michael and his family. Proceeds from this charity event are going toward his treatment. He has a brain tumor.

Miller and Sunny’s overly affectionate display would be cute if I wasn’t such a jaded bitch. Right now I hate everyone in happy relationships, including Sunny.

Okay, that’s not entirely true. If anyone deserves someone to love all over her, it’s Sunny. Prior to Miller, her boyfriends were sucky.

He, however, is a great guy. I didn’t think so at first, but like mold, he’s grown on me. I look away from the screen when they kiss, surveying the rink and the players milling around off the ice. I’m seeking out one player in particular, just to torture myself.

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