Page 2 of Pucked Up

I almost stopped him, but the guy at the bar who’d started casting me careful looks was totally my type. Now that I could see his face properly, I saw he had a sort of Mediterranean vibe with dark olive skin, bright, dark eyes, and a smile that made his eyes crinkle in the corners.

He probably had a name like Rodrigo or Guiseppe—not that I’d ever learn it because one of my rules for the one-and-done night was that we didn’t exchange details like names or phone numbers.

But he was someone I’d like to take my time with, so I hoped he could come up with something sexy for me to call him.

I had a hotel paid for and my Uber app ready to go if I started drinking and the guy so much as nodded my way.

Watching with my breath in my throat, Tiago jumped onto the stool beside him and leaned over. His gaze flickered back in my direction, though I knew he couldn’t see me from there, and he shot a smarmy little grin my way.

I saw the way the stranger’s spine went a little straighter when Tiago spoke, and I could see when he tried to steal another glance at me.That’s right. Reel him in.

Tiago slid my card across the bar toward the bartender, and the stranger said something I couldn’t make out. I was pretty goddamn good at reading lips too, so it was extra annoying. But I could see he had an accent.

It looked almost…French? Which was something I recognized, considering my entire dad’s side of the family almost exclusively spoke French. But his accent was not Quebecois. It was the snooty, fancy-ass Parisian French that was still a mystery to me.

I took a breath, then let it out as the stranger ran his thumb around the pointed edge of the card. It had my rules on it: pick a fake name, promise to wear a condom, accept that there won’t be any details, and if he ever saw me in public again…no he didn’t.

I got turned down more than my offer was accepted, but this man spun on his chair fully, and his dark gaze found mine. Christ, he waspretty. Definitely older than me, which made my small stature and baby face feel even worse.

But hey, we weren’t going to parade ourselves around for public consumption, were we? And I was pretty sure he’d be more than happy with my body once he got my shirt off. My legs were tiny and skinny as fuck, but my upper body was thick, and I had a decent hockey ass with plenty to grab.

I worked myself into exhaustion for this body, damn it. Not only was I bound and determined to win my way back into the Paralympics and hopefully get a pro league contract in the next year or two, but Iwanted people to stop looking at me like this giant fuck-up.

I wanted something more than just…this.

I was a community college advisor, and most of my day was taken up by trying to convince students not to take classes they didn’t need and would delay graduation. Or convince them that yes, they did need to take college math.Orexplain to them a thousand times over why dropping a class two-thirds of the way through the semester would, in fact, affect their GPA.

It was hardly the star hockey life that my dad and grandfather had envisioned for me.

It wasn’t the life I envisioned for myself.

So I got my kicks where I could—and sex like this was scratching a very, very deep itch. I wasn’t opposed to the idea of falling in love, but that person would have to be special. They would need to understand that my little family here would always be the most important thing to me.

And that my goals mattered. I wasn’t about to sacrifice them for anyone. I’d already fucked up once. I wasn’t doing it again.

So…anonymous was easier. Safer.

Better.

The man tapped the card on the bar—I couldn’t hear the sound, but I could easily imagine that littletap-tapit made hitting the marble. He didn’t look at Tiago again. Instead, he slipped off the stool and sauntered over with a grace I would never feel in my own body.

My legs started kicking under the table, but they were strapped down, so there was no way for him to notice. Yet. I folded my hands beside my empty drink as he gripped the back of the chair across from me and gave it a tug.

Unfortunately, I could hear the squeak on the tiles, and it made the sides of my jaw hurt.

“Apologies.”

I couldn’t help a small laugh. Yeah, the fucker was French. “It’s fine,” I answered—it was in my tongue, Quebecois, and his eyes widened, and he dropped down a little harder than he might have intended because I was pretty sure he bit his tongue.

I almost laughed at that, but I did havesomeself-control.

“French?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Canadian.” I strained to hear if there was disappointment in that word, but I couldn’t make out more than low tones as I watched the curve of his lips as he spoke.

Sticking out my hand, I waited for him to take it. As I expected, his palm was warm and without any sort of real calluses. He had a soft job. A desk job. By the look of his body, he was no stranger to the gym, but it was obvious his hobbies weren’t hard work.

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