Page 141 of Pucking Wild

Ignoring his confused protests, I slip past him and make my way to the stage.

As it happens,belting out god-awful renditions of ‘Careless Whisper’ and ‘Any Man Of Mine’ to a generous crowd is a great way to flip that ‘fuck it’ switch. By the time I sing my last note and the crowd goes crazy, I beeline straight for Ryan, determined to get drunk.

“That was amazing,” he calls, waving his phone. “I got it all recorded.”

I just roll my eyes. Of course, he finds my utter lack of singing talent charming.

“Add it to the collection,” Shelby teases from across the table.

I glare at her, hands on my hips. “Now, is thatnevertalking about it again?”

She just laughs and mimes zipping her lips shut as she moves off to go say hi to the new arrivals.

I sit down at the picnic table between Ryan and Caleb, and Cay slides me a hard cider.

“Peach?” I say, sniffing the glass.

“Strawberry,” he replies.

“Mmm.” I take a sip, delighting in the taste. I like my beers the same way I like my desserts: sweet and fruity. And Caleb may not drink, but he’s a whizz at ordering them for me. I think he used to be a bartender during his dark days.

Ryan watches us, one brow raised.

“Oh,” I say with a laugh, patting Caleb’s shoulder. “It’s our weird friend thing. Mars and I have sea turtles, Cay and I have fruity beer, and Jake and I are actually friends.”

He just shrugs, checking out the menu.

We all settle in as a pair of ladies not affiliated with the Rays take the mic to perform a Streisand ballad. The cute hostess is actually a waitress, too. She leans her hip against the edge of the tables, laughing and flirting with the unmarried guys as she takes orders, flicking that black ponytail over her shoulder whenever she thinks Novy is looking.

“Here you go, honey,” the waitress says at Ryan over the opening notes of a second show tune. She bats her lashes as she slides him his beer. “Can I get you anything else?”

Let’s be clear, she’sonlyasking Ryan. Cay, with his shiny wedding ring and handsy husband, may as well be invisible. And I’m most definitely the competition. I have a feeling we’ll have to smash our own tomatoes if we want ketchup tonight. Either that or Ryan can pull some out of her shirt later.

“Nah, I’m all good for now, Cami, thanks,” he says, totally oblivious. “Hey, they’re actually pretty good,” he says, his eyes locked on the ladies in sequined shirts trading melodies.

Cami is still just standing there, waiting to see if she’ll get a look or a word. I raise a brow at her, and she casts me a simpering smile before she saunters off.

The ladies at the mic finish their stirring rendition of ‘The Way We Were,’ and everyone claps as they take their seats. When Morrow is called up to sing, the crowd goes wild. Even more than the Rays home crowd is the table in the back corner of screaming women. Their hair is cut and styled similarly, their makeup effortlessly contoured, and all of them are wearing cleavage-bearing shirts and jeans and skirts so tight they probably had to be sewn into them.

I peer around Caleb to get a better look. “Umm…guys? What’s with the Morrow fan section? Is he that much of a ladies’ man?”

Ryan and Caleb both follow the line of my gaze. Ryan groans as Caleb rolls his eyes.

“What?” I say, glancing between them.

“Those are the puck bunnies,” Caleb replies.

“Really?” I look again, curious. Rachel told me about this phenomenon. Apparently, it happens across pretty much all the major sports. Women will form fan clubs and haunt all the local favorites of the team—restaurants, coffee shops, clubs. “Isn’t it possible that they’re just actual fans of the sport?” I say with a shrug.

“Do you see any of us playing hockey right now?” Josh asks from across the table, balancing his son on his knee.

“Fans we like,” Jake adds from the other side of Cay. “You know, I think I actually have the most interesting conversations with female fans.” He turns to Caleb. “Remember that stats chick in college who did a paper on your shooting ratios?”

Caleb nods. “Her research got me a hat trick in my next game.”

“Yeah, fans like that we like,” Jake says again.

“So, you wouldn’t call the bunnies fans of the sport?” I ask.

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