Page 5 of Mother Pucker

Sure, I’ve hooked up with a few puck bunnies over the years, but no one’s ever taken my focus for more than a night. I keep things temporary and transactional–that’s just how I like to work . . . or rather,play. Taking my eye off the puck for longer than that isn’t an option.

Because I don’t make the same mistake twice.

The woman, who still hasn’t moved, continues to watch me from her spot at the entrance. She’s an adorable little thing, pocket-sized in comparison to my six-foot-three build, but there’s nothing slight or inconsequential about the way she holds herself. She radiates confidence, sophistication, and–if I’m not mistaken by the glint in her eyes–fire.

I’m an intimidating man, in spite of the grin I’m always sporting, but I have a feeling she’s not one to cower.

She tucks the longer strands of her hair behind one ear, a large gold hoop dangling from the lobe, and I notice the ink on the inside of her wrist, though I can’t tell what it is.

I also notice the lack of a wedding ring.

“You like what you see, Doc?”

She freezes, her eyes becoming huge saucers, and even though her skin color is a deep brown, I imagine her cheeks are burning.

She fumbles for a response, finally blinking out of her stupor. “Shit. Um . . .”

She shifts from one foot to another before I gingerly turn around, leaning my shoulder blades on the wall behind me and holding up my phone to show her how I caught her. “Watched you walk in and check me out like you were fixin’ to make me your next meal.”

A soft gasp leaves her lips and a confident hum runs through me, like I just caught the cat pouncing on the canary.

I run my tongue over my bottom lip, satisfied with the way she watches the movement. “And while I’m usually the one to do theeating, I’m not entirely against being offered up on a platter for you, Doc.”

She seems to regain her composure, straightening her back, before her eyes sharpen on me, clearly not loving my directness. “Mr. Parker, I’m sure you’re used to women–puck bunnies, I believe you call them?—kneeling at your feet, but I assure you, that won’t be the case with me.”

My smile widens as a vision of her doing exactly what she claims she won’t, plays in front of me. “We’ll see.”

She clears her throat, clutching her purse a little tighter to her side, as if it’s threatening to run away from her. “I was told you were hurt and in need of someone to look at your–” she looks down to the way I’m standing, “leg, which is why I’m here. My name is Shayla Kumar, and I’m a physical therapist. Now, if you’re done using up the space inside this room with your overinflated ego, I’d like to begin my assessment. Are you ready for me, or do you need more time to get over yourself?”

A soft, rumbling laugh flutters in my chest. I like this girl’s sass. In a world where most women only want my time, my fame, or my money, this woman doesn’t seem to give a shit about any of it, nor does she give a shit about putting me in my place. “Not sure if I’m ready foryou, Doc, but I do think I’m ready for you to examine me.”

She keeps her expression neutral, stepping forward and not remarking on whether she caught my innuendo.

After asking me a few things about my physical history and pain level, she has me stand on both my feet. I gingerly do so while she makes her visual assessments. I wince when she asks me to squat, because yeah, that hurts like a motherfucker.

Her slender throat bobs as she swallows. “I’m going to need to see where the strain is exactly, so would you mindundressing?” And before I can do as she asked, she jumps to clarify. “Uh, only down to your underpants, please.”

My brows rise and my smirk follows. “Myunderpants?”

Shayla sucks in her cheeks, her blush evident. “What I mean is, please just take off the rest of your hockey gear, aside from your underwear, and lay on the bench.”

She turns around while I do as she asks, though I take off the uncomfortable boxers I’m wearing with the jock built in, and put on a pair of gym shorts from my locker. I move slowly to avoid another shot of pain traveling up my leg. Then, placing both my palms on a nearby bench, I scoot onto it before laying down, wincing when pain thrums through my leg.

Shayla drops her bag onto another bench before shuffling closer, but right as she does, we both hear a vibrating sound coming from inside her purse.

Her eyes flick to it before they find mine, and I swear the tops of her deep brown cheeks turn pink.

I risk a glance at her pocket, where her phone is tucked in, before my brows fold. Maybe she has another phone inside her purse for work? “Do you need to get that?”

She scurries to her purse, opening it and fiddling with something inside, but the mortification on her face worsens. A frown pulls on her mouth, and I hear clicking noises, as if she’s pressing something to turn it off, but the sound only increases to a long, pulsing buzz.

“Shit.”

She continues to jostle the contents inside her purse for a few more seconds before she gives up with a huff and shoves it back on the bench while the vibration continues.

The corner of my mouth lifts. Who is this woman, and why the fuck do I find her so intriguing? Nothing about her comes off as comedic, but just watching her over the past few minutes–from the way she got caught ogling me, to the way she’s nowglaring at her purse with disdain, as if it’s her new enemy–has me silently chuckling.

“Do you . . .” I try to wipe the smile from my face, tilting my head once more in the direction of her purse. “Do you need help with that?”

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