Page 4 of Pucking Curves

ArcherGravesisthecaptain I’d like to…

“You called him a shitheel and slapped him with your glove like you were insulting his lineage,” Joaquin Reed practically shouts, interrupting my thought before it fully forms. He points an accusing finger across the table at Logan Moreno, drawing my attention. “What did you think he was going to do?”

“Exactly what the fuck he did,” Logan responds casually, shrugging one broad shoulder as he takes a sip of beer. “He got all bent out of shape and started swinging.” He cuts his eyes at Jordan Silvestri, seated beside him. “And this big bitch right here took care of my lightwork. He whipped him all the way across the ice.”

“And nearly got ejected from the game, you dick,” Jordan mutters without heat. But his lips twitch.

“You fucking loved it,” Logan says, shrugging unapologetically.

Jordan grumbles and then holds his thumb and forefinger a millimeter apart, causing everyone at the table to explode into raucous laughter.

“Wait!” I cry, flinging up a hand. My head is swimming with the alcohol pumping through my veins. How much have I had to drink tonight? I honestly can’t remember. I don’t remember the start of this conversation, either. I was too busy drooling over my brother’s fuckable best friend. “Why did you want Jordan to beat him up? Why didn’t you just do it yourself?”

“He couldn’t leave the crease to fight,” Archer murmurs from beside me, a smile in his voice. “He would have gotten ejected from the game. And Diego was still hungover.”

I turn to look at him, swallowing hard when I see how close he’s sitting to me, his arm casually thrown over the back of the bench, those long fingers wrapped around a glass of bourbon just millimeters from me.

I wish I was that glass right now.

My stomach quivers at the thought, bottoming out.

Stop thinking about him like that,I coach myself. It’s no use, though. I’ve done little else but think of Archer Graves inappropriately since he slid his fine ass into the booth beside me hours ago. Actually, scratch that. I’ve been thinking wildly inappropriate thoughts about the gorgeous captain since I met him at Micah and Elodie’s wedding last year.

He’s so damn sexy in a rugged all-American kind of way. His dark hair is just a touch too long, refusing to obey no matter how many times he combs his fingers through it. Paired with startling cerulean eyes, a razor-sharp jawline, and those broad shoulders, he’s…well, entirely too fuckable.

I’ve been getting myself off to fantasies of him since I met him, and judging by the number of women who wear his jersey at every game, I’m not the only one. They scream his name like he’s a freaking rockstar. But Archer isn’t just another fuckboy hockey player like half of Micah’s teammates.

While they’re in the gossip pages because they never stop sleeping around, the only time Archer ever gets a mention is because he doesn’t engage in the same behavior. They juxtapose his teammates’ behavior with his as if placing him on a pedestal. I doubt he’s still holding onto his V-Card, but he isn’t dicking down anyone who offers, either.

He’s…honestly, it’s so cliché but he’s a genuinely good guy. One I’ve been crushing on for far too damn long. There isn’t much in Micah’s world I want. He can keep the fame, the fortune, and the screaming fans. But his best friend?

Yeah, I want him. So badly it’s ridiculous.

Unfortunately for me, it’ll never happen. Micah’s head would explode. Pissing him off is ten kinds of fun for me, but not when it comes to his career. Not when it comes to his teammates. That’s a line I know better than to cross.

I wish like hell it didn’t exist. Especially right now.

What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, right?

I’m pretty sure sleeping with his best friend is not one of those things that stays on the strip with the rest of our bad decisions and Vegas regrets. Mostly because I doubt I’d regret it at all.

Archer’s hand bumps my shoulder, sending sparks shooting through.

I whimper and grab my glass, downing my drink.

“Whoa.” Micah’s eyes narrow on me behind his glasses. “You want to slow down over there?”

“No.” I shoot him an overly sweet smile. “You want to mind your business over there?”

His teammates laugh when he grumbles at me. All except Archer, anyway.

“He’s right,” Archer murmurs, leaning toward me in the booth. “You should pace yourself before you end up with a killer hangover.”

“Maybe that’s the plan,” I whisper to him.

“The last place you want to be with a hangover tomorrow is on a plane with these assholes.” His lips curve into a grin. “Trust me.”

“Speaking from experience, Mr. Graves?”

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