Page 49 of Pucking Sweet

I snort into my cocktail. Fuck, why am I still drinking this?

“Sex, Lukas,” she says louder. “I’m talking about you getting some good old-fashioned bodies pressing, hearts beating, physical intercourse.”

“Jeezus.”

“I wouldn’t dare call it lovemaking,” she adds with a wink. “I know that would send you running for the hills faster than me shouting ‘who’s available for a TikTok challenge’?”

Okay, and now I’m laughing. “I think I’ll just keep passionately pounding drinks tonight. But not this,” I add, taking a half-step away to set my cocktail down on a nearby table.

“Come on,” she says again. “It’s been what, two weeks since Little Lukas last saw any action? That can’t be good for your health. It’s certainly bad for the reputation.”

I round on her. “Okay, first, he’s not so little. Reach your hand down there and check if you don’t believe me.”

“Hard pass.” She makes a show of stirring her cherries into her ice instead.

“And second, let’s just turn this spotlight around, eh? How long has it been foryou? Since you know so much about me, let’s hear more about you, wingwoman.”

She drains the rest of her cocktail and looks me dead in the eye. “Three years.” Stepping around me, she discards her empty glass and takes mine.

Three years? Poppy hasn’t had sex inthreefucking years? Pleasegod, tell me that doesn’t include masturbation. I don’t think I ever go longer than three days without jerking one out. And don’t tell me a woman as hot as her hasn’t had plenty of opportunities. She could have anyone in this club—guy or girl—with a curl of her finger. What the hell is she waiting for?

I’m about to ask just that, but we’re interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the team. Things get crazy for a few minutes as all the Rays descend on the bar. We laugh it up about how disgusting our signature cocktail is before most of us switch to craft beers.

Poppy is standing between Morrow and Langers when she calls out, “Our VIP section is upstairs. Just flash them your wristbands. Have a great time!”

A few of the younger guys peel away, already eyeing dance partners. The rest of them make their way toward the stairs. Morrow leans down and says something in Poppy’s ear that has her smiling and shaking her head. She points over her shoulder at the bartender as she talks, taking a seat on a vacant stool. He invited her upstairs and she said no. She wants to stay down here to chat with the bartender. They must know each other. Poppydidlive here not that long ago…

Fuck, so did Morrow. Has he been here before? Have they been here together? Oh god. Now my mind is filling with images of them out on that dance floor, fucking with their clothes on, his hands in her hair. He leads her down the dark hallway to the bathroom. She pulls him into an empty stall, and he’s inside her within a minute, pounding her into the wall—

Oh, goddamn it.

Now I’m getting hard—and pissed. I’m standing here alone like a total fucking asshole, beer in hand, picturing my PR manager fucking my teammate over a toilet.

No, she just said she hasn’t had sex in three years. She also told Coley she doesn’t date the players. Poppy St. James is a proper lady. She’s not hooking up with hockey players in dirty bar bathrooms. I bet she only does missionary, and only if the sheets are Egyptian cotton. I bet she doesn’t even take her bra off, too embarrassed to be seen fully naked. Who was the stiff who last got a taste? Probably a pastor’s son…or an investment banker with a limp dick.

Now, I’m smiling again.

Morrow crosses over to me. “You comin’ up?”

“She staying down here?”

He nods.

“Should someone stay with her?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Nah, Tina will keep an eye on her.”

I take a sip of my beer. “They’re friends?”

He looks at me, the obvious question in his eyes. “Are you?”

17

Novy holds my gaze, and I can tell he’s trying to decide what to say, a joke or the truth. I know the instant he lands on joke. He flashes me a grin that doesn’t quite meet his eyes and laughs, wrapping an arm around my shoulders. “Nah, bud. The day Poppy and I become friends will be the day the Sabres finally win the Stanley Cup.” He clinks our beer glasses together, taking a sip.

Seriously, what’s his problem? Always deflection. Always guarding his true thoughts and feelings. He’s a good enough guy, and a ton of fun to be around, but these iron walls and constant dodges make it hard for me to see him as anything other than a teammate.

“Come on. Let’s go.” He leads me away like I don’t know exactly what he’s doing. If he’s not staying down here with Poppy, apparently neither am I.

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