Bashful Pucking Bigfoot (Paranormal Hockey League #4)

Chapter 1 Ollie

OLLIE

Never thought I’d be doing the walk of shame, but here I am, making my way toward the Spokane Sasquatch locker room and dreading it.

I’m team captain, living my dream of playing professional hockey, and I’m afraid to face my team.

Taking a deep breath, I pull open the door and step in.

No one says anything, which isn’t unusual.

No one talks to me, so maybe everything’s okay.

Then I see it—the inflatable sex doll at my stall in the locker room with signs saying “insert dick here” pointing to her mouth and pubic area. It’s vile.

Schooling my features, I move her to the empty stall at the end.

I’ll deflate her and throw her away later, after practice.

For now, we have drills to run to get ready for our next game.

I’m scared to see what they did to my gear in my locker.

I take my skates and cup home with me, but they could’ve cut the straps on my pads or messed with my helmet.

I don’t trust these dickheads. They don’t respect me, and I can’t stand them.

But they’re my teammates, and we must work together if we’re going to have a winning season.

I don’t care if we don’t get along in the locker room, so long as we win on the ice.

I’m not here to make friends.

I’m here to win.

I’m about to start putting on my gear when Coach bellows, “King!” from his office. At least I’m not half-naked. My teammates snigger as I walk by—that’s nothing new.

I knock on the doorframe to Coach’s office, and my stomach sinks when I see our general manager in there with him.

“Come in, King. Close the door.”

I do as the coach directs and take the seat he points to in front of his desk. A knot forms in my stomach.

“King, you’re our captain,” Coach says. “Your job is to put the team first. All you had to do was date a pretty girl for a few weeks on a stupid TV show, and you fucked it up.”

The GM gives a derisive snort. “If he’d fuck, we wouldn’t be in this position.”

My face flushes with embarrassment. As part of a media campaign for the Paranormal Hockey League, a player from each team in the league is appearing on a reality television show.

Trevor Carter from the Atlantic City Devil Birds is dancing on Celebrity Dance Dare, and other teams have players on Secret Singer, Betraying the Pack, Baking with the Bears, and other shows.

I was told to go on Bigfoot Finds a Bride, a dating show.

Last night was the first episode, and I met the human bachelorette who’s hoping to find a husband among twenty-five Bigfoot bachelors.

As the only Bigfoot shifter on the Spokane Sasquatch, I’ve been the face of the franchise.

I was named the first team captain for optics, not because of my skills as a leader or my comfort with the media.

I’m probably the last person they should’ve named captain.

I want to play hockey, not talk to the press.

I don’t even want to talk to my teammates.

Let me play and leave me be. But I’m a team player, so when I was told to go on the show and woo the bachelorette, I did.

It was going okay. She was pretty with shiny blond hair and blue eyes. She seemed nice. But when we were talking one-on-one and she leaned in for a kiss, I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I pulled back before her lips landed on mine, blushing and stammering.

“I…I’m sorry. I can’t do this. You’re really pretty, but I don’t want my first kiss to be with a stranger on TV. I wish you the best.”

Remembering the way her eyes widened and how she jumped up from the loveseat we were sharing causes me to burn with shame.

When they held the pinecone ceremony, where the bachelorette offered the bachelors that were advancing to the next round a pinecone—so their relationship could grow—not a single person was shocked that I wasn’t offered one.

“King, you’re being traded to Atlantic City. You’re done here. You aren’t giving us what we need.”

Averaging two points a game and ranked third in the league for goals isn’t giving them what they need? I’m here to play, not be pimped out.

“Okay. When am I due in Atlantic City?” There’s nothing else to say. They don’t want me, and I don’t want to be here.

“Their GM will be in touch. This weekend.”

I rise from my chair. “I’ll clean out my stall. Is there paperwork I need to sign?”

I’m given the details on who I’m to meet with, and then I leave. No shaking hands. No “Thanks for what you’ve done for us.” No wishing me well in the future.

Fine.

They want an amoral sideshow to boost their ratings, but I’m not about to abandon everything important to me. Not even for hockey.

I’ll finish my year with the Devil Birds, and when they don’t renew my contract, I’ll start my career in computer engineering. A year is more than most people get to live their dream. And I’ve got more than one dream. I’ll be fine.

I land in Atlantic City three days later.

At almost seven feet tall, I’m not built for flying coach, so when the Devil Birds sprung for first class, that was a relief, at least. Some players would be depressed about being traded mid-season, but I’m pumped.

Not only will I be closer to my brother and his wife, but now I have a chance at winning the league championship.

The Devil Birds are a talented team, and I’m going to do everything within my power to help them get there.

My smile slowly spreads as I imagine hoisting the Dickinson Cup over my head and skating past my former teammates after they lose the biggest game of their lives.

Then they’ll regret trading me away like I was nothing.

“Can I get you a refreshment, Mr. King?”

A flight attendant is standing next to my row. No one’s sitting next to me, and I appreciate having the row to myself. I hate making small talk in the best of times, and now is definitely not a good time.

“Orange juice and a bottled water, please?”

“Of course, be right back.”

I can feel her attention on me as she gets my drinks from the front galley.

It’s the same notice women everywhere have been giving me since I accidentally announced I was a twenty-four-year-old virgin on national television.

I’m not ashamed of it, but it wasn’t something I ever planned on making public.

It’s no one’s business. Ever since then, I’ve felt like there’s been a bounty on my…

head. Women calculating on what it would take for them to be the one I choose to go all the way with, imagining what it would be like.

It’s demeaning. Like there’s nothing more to me than my sexuality. I have a whole new appreciation for what women go through every day. No wonder they choose the bear. Luckily, I’ve picked up a few tricks and put down the tray table of the empty seat next to me to keep her from entering my space.

“Thanks,” I say as she places my drinks on the table along with a bag of pretzels.

“My pleasure,” she replies with a flirtatious grin. “I fly into Atlantic City a few times a week… Maybe we can get together?”

I hate these kinds of interactions. The right thing to say always escapes me.

I don’t want to be rude or hurt someone’s feelings.

Nor do I want to lead anyone on or open the door to future contact I don’t want.

I wish I could be like my older brother Finn.

He always knows what to say and never has a problem talking to women.

Where he’s confident and polished, I’m tongue-tied and awkward.

I reach up to adjust my glasses, remembering at the last moment I’m wearing my contacts.

I prefer to wear my glasses in everyday life, but I didn’t want my first meeting with my new team to be colored by my black-framed glasses.

I want to look like a hockey player, not like the computer engineer I studied to be.

“Oh. Th-that’s nice, ” I stammer. Heat rises to my cheeks, and I hope my beard hides it. “I’ll be really busy with hockey, and the team has a private plane.” I’m nodding like I’m a Bigfoot shifter bobblehead, but I can’t stop.

“Excuse me, miss?” comes a savior from the row behind me. “Could I get a cup of coffee?” If I had Devil Birds tickets to give out, this dude would be getting as many as he wanted.

Thankfully, his interruption starts a chain reaction that keeps the flight attendant busy throughout the remainder of the flight.

A few people ask for autographs and selfies as we walk down the jetway.

I realize I don’t know what number to put with my name.

I was 36 on the Sasquatch, but I have no idea what will be on my jersey with the Devil Birds.

I can easily see over the crowd as I enter the small terminal of the Atlantic City airport, an advantage of being almost seven feet tall.

I’ve traveled here before, visiting my brother, so I know the airport’s layout and easily spot Jake Whitman, the general manager of the Devil Birds, waiting for me.

He lifts his chin in acknowledgment when he sees me and holds out his hand in greeting.

“Hey, Oliver, welcome to New Jersey,” Jake says as we shake hands. “We’re happy to have you here.”

His grip is strong, but not in a jerky “Let me prove I’m superior” way.

I appreciate that. As a larger shifter male, a lot of guys try to test me like I’m going to fight them.

Other than a couple of times on the ice when I was younger and protecting teammates, I’ve never been in a fight.

I’m a nerdy computer guy who happens to be good at hockey—I’m not a brawler or some macho man.

“Call me Ollie. I’m happy to be here.”

“We’re thrilled to have you,” Jake says.

“We’re happy to not have to play against you any longer.

Getting you is a big piece of our playoff puzzle.

The second we heard you were available, I was on the phone.

I’m sorry you got dealt dirty like that, but we’ll take care of you here. Welcome to the flock.”