Page 48 of Pucker Up
Ace wasn’t a serious guy. From what I knew of him, he was a joker who hadn’t taken school seriously. “There’s so much I don’t know about you,” I panted into his ear. I didn’t want to say that I was shocked that he pulled Dewey Decimal out of thin air. Most hockey players that I knew couldn’t point out the campus library on a map, let alone know the filing system.
“I want to know everything about you, Goldie.” He paused for a second and tucked my hair behind my ear, then took off my glasses. “Can you see without them?”
I nodded.
He set them on his nightstand. “We can put them back on when you go down on me.”
If it were anyone but Ace, I would’ve been turned off, but his comment sent me to the next level. I wanted to be Ace’s dirty porn star librarian.
Tucking my fingers into the side of my floral panties, I started to pull them down, but he stopped me. “I thought we were keeping our clothes on tonight.”
“Oh.” I deflated. “Right. I forgot about that.”
“Don’t worry, Goldie. I’ll make you cum right through these librarian panties.”
He did.Twice.
Luckily, there was a loophole in our agreement—the opening in his boxer shorts. And yes, I did wear my glasses while I took him deep in my throat. He had fisted his hands into my hair and moaned out my name as he came.
His body was still trembling when I collapsed, tucked in beside him, underneath those Toronto Tigers-inspired sheets. I rested my head on his chest, my eyes falling heavy to the sound of his athletic heartbeat.
“Goldie.” He stroked my hair. “Why are you called Goldie? Your hair is dark.”
It wasn’t the first time someone had questioned my name—most people thought it was a cutesy short form for “Goldilocks,”which I definitely did not have. “My mom’s favorite flowers are marigolds. She was a bit of a hippie.”
He kept stroking my hair and it felt incredible.
“Your real name is Marigold?”
As a kid, I’d been embarrassed by my old-lady name. Back when I was born, it was still in the category with Gladys and Ethel.
“It’s beautiful. I might not know what the hell turmeric is, but I’m pretty sure that marigold would be a better name for the color of these sheets.”
I rested my chin on his chest. “You’re right. These are marigold sheets.”
“They’re your sheets now.” His voice had a sleepy quality to it. He continued stroking my hair with his eyes shut. “This is now your bed.”
Smiling, I wondered how many puck bunnies had seen my sheets. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly to get the thought out of my brain. Ace wasn’t like the other guys. I didn’t have any proof, but there was a deep knowing in my chest, a feeling. “If we’re talking about names, what about yours?”
He smiled with his eyes shut. “Take a guess. My dad was a huge hockey fan.”
“Of course.” I returned my cheek to his chest, to the comforting thump of his heart. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of it until now.” A lump formed in my throat. A Black Ace in hockey started out as a pretty negative thing, but now was seen as a badge of honor. What iteration had Ace’s parents been thinking about when they chose his name? “Does it have something to do with a Black Ace?”
He squeezed me tightly. “I knew that you’d know what it meant.”
I sat up, leaned on my hand, and rested the other on Ace’s chest. “Hold on. A Black Ace started as a bad thing. I mean, nowit’s an honor. I sure as hell hope your mom and dad didn’t have a bench warmer in mind when they chose your name.” Disgust churned in my stomach. If it was the worst-case scenario, it had a very ‘heir’ and ‘spare’ vibe.
Ace opened his eyes. “Goldie. What’s wrong?” He sat up. “You’re crying.”
Swiping the tear away, I cleared my throat. “I’m trying to understand what your dad was thinking.”
Ace smiled. “Goldie. It’s a good thing. Oh my God. My father isn’t an asshole.” He chuckled and ran his hand through his hair. “My dad’s. His favorite player was a Black Ace, and he hoped that one day I’d be called up to the NHL in the same way.”
“Oh.” I took a deep breath. “That makes sense. I was thinking about the earlier version of the term, the one that had to do with the dead man’s cards.” The term Black Ace had started with a team in the 1940s when a retired player bought a team. When he benched players, he called them Black Aces, referring to a bad luck poker hand consisting of two black aces, also called a dead man’s hand. Now, seventy years later, it’s seen as something honorable, a pat on the back for a player coming into the NHL.
Ace’s whole body shook as he chuckled. “That would be a real asshole move if that’s the reason he named me Ace.” He wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head. “It’s so sexy that you know the history of the game. I can’t believe I found a woman like you. You’ve really done your homework if you’ve gone that far back in history.”
I shrugged. “I’m a researcher.” Telling Ace that I was his coach’s daughter had to happen, but I wasn’t ready to tell him just yet. If the other guys in the study found out, it could impact their responses to my surveys. If we were going to keep things secret, I didn’t see the need to tell him—yet. I wanted to ask Ace more questions about his dad, but that might lead to questions about mine.
