Page 12 of The Puck Daddy

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Every week I hit on you, and every week you turn me down. Am I not attractive enough for you?”

My heart goes out to him. I shake my head. He’s a total cutie, but something about him reminds me of my little brother Felix. I actually don’t know anything about Guy. “You’re very attractive, Guy. I’m just looking for something…particular,” I say, for lack of a better word. No way am I confessing to a near stranger that I’m looking for someone more dominant. People never understand. All they see are my muscles and build, and they assume.

All my previous boyfriends and hook-ups assumed I was a top. And all of them were disappointed when they found out I wasn’t. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind topping, but I was always the one expected to change myself for them. No one ever bothered to look after me. No one catered to my wants or needs, even when I asked.

Ideally, I’d love to have a Daddy. The kink has always appealed to me, but other than a few secret interactions at my favorite club, no one has ever been willing to try. And no one has ever bothered to stay.

“It’s the new bartender, isn’t it?” Guy asks.

“Hmm?”

“He’s the ‘something particular.’ It’s because you like older guys, right?”

I’m not entirely sure how to explain it. I couldn’t care less about someone’s age. It’s more about the vibes or their personality. Theo projects an aura of self-assurance and power. It’s thatcommanding presence that I find attractive, not how old he is. Theo might not be a Daddy, but I’ve seen so many interviews with him in the past that it’s easy to imagine. He totally has that energy about him. Figuring it’s easier to just nod my head rather than explain my chaotic thoughts about my crush, I do just that.

Guy sighs. For a long moment, we just sit there deep in thought.

“Adrian?”

“Yeah?”

“I don’t feel so good.” He gags. “Can you help me to my front door?”

I wince. “Of course. I’m so sorry. I should have offered.” Getting out of my car and rushing over to Guy’s side, I wrap an arm around his waist, and he wraps his around my neck. “You have your keys?”

Guy pats his pockets as we stumble across his lawn. When we finally make it to the front porch, Guy turns pale. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he says, still desperately patting at his pockets. “I don’t have my key.”

“Do you have a roommate? Maybe I can knock.”

Guy groans. “Oh, God. Dad’s going to kill me.”

My mouth falls open. “I’m sorry, what? Did you just say your dad?”

Before I can fully finish the sentence, the front door is being yanked open.

To my utter and complete horror, Coach Wilson is standing there, and he looks pissed. I’ve seen Coach with various facial expressions over the last four years. Anywhere from ticked off, to irritated, and what I originally thought was the worst: disappointed. But staring at him now, with his face a deep shade of red and his observant eyes taking in the situation, I can honestly say, I’ve never seen himthisangry.

“Uh, Coach? Wha—what are you doing here?”

“DeLuca.” Coach grinds his teeth and flexes his jaw. “Would you care to explain why you have your meaty fucking arm around my son?”

Oh fuck. I swear my knees go weak. I’m pretty sure Coach is going to punch me.

“Dad,” Guy says weakly. “It’s not Adrian’s fault.”

“I’m so sorry, sir. Guy had a little too much to drink,” I reply, stating the obvious. “I just wanted to make sure he got home safe. I was trying to do the right thing.”

I’m hoping the last two sentences will calm Coach down enough to let me escape, but for some reason, Coach Wilson’s face turns a deeper shade of red.

“DeLuca, I need you to explain why getting my eighteen-year-old son drunk to the point of immobility is considered the right thing to do.”

“Eighteen?” I gasp, reaching for Guy’s wristband under the sleeve of his jacket. “You told me you were twenty-one.”

Guy winces, leaning harder against me, still unable to hold himself up.

Coach’s eyes snap to the wristband, and he sighs. “Guy, give me your fake ID. Now.”

---