Fake As Puck: a fake dating hockey romance (Denver Bashers Series Book 1)

1. Xander

Iskid to a halt on the ice, almost tripping over a pair of red lace panties.

The ref blows the whistle, stopping play. I can’t help but laugh despite the way he’s glaring at me.

He skates over, leans down, and stares at the underwear before looking up at me. “You’re on thin ice, Williams.”

“Pun intended?” I ask, like the smartass that I am.

He wags his finger in my face. “I mean it. Any more wise-ass antics out of you and you’re going in the box.”

I hold up a hand. “Those aren’t my panties.”

He glares at me.

“I swear.” I hold back a laugh. “Seriously though, I had nothing to do with this.”

Just then another pair of panties launches from the stands onto the ice, just a few feet away from where I’m standing. Then another. And another. And another.

“Xander! I love you!” a woman hollers from the stands.

“Happy birthday, you stud!” another yells.

“You’re hot, Xander!” another woman screams.

“Marry me, panty dropper!” someone else yells.

I offer a sheepish smile to the ref and shrug.

He glowers at me. “Nothing to do with it, huh?”

“I’m not the one throwing the panties on the ice mid-game,” I say, trying my best to keep from chuckling.

The ref exhales sharply. “Williams, we both know you’re the reason why this is happening.”

I try my hardest not to burst out laughing or utter another joke.

I’m used to this sort of thing happening in the middle of a game. Yeah, I know that makes me sound like a massive douchebag. But it’s true.

I’m one of the top five centers in the NHL. I’ve been a star ever since I was a first-round draft pick at nineteen, six years ago. And when you’re that good, fans take notice. Female fans especially.

When I’m not on the ice, I enjoy spending my free time showing puck bunnies that I can handle my stick off the ice just as well as I can on it. It’s earned me quite the reputation.

Again, sorry. I know I sound like an even bigger douchebag now. But I swear it’s true. It wouldn’t be raining panties on the ice right now if I sucked in bed.

I’ll be the first to admit, I’m no male model. I’ve got a decent face, but there are loads of guys who are better-looking than me. And on any given game night, I look rough as hell with how bruised and bloody I get.

But thanks to hockey, I’m in fantastic shape and I’ve got killer stamina. I’m tall. Women love a tall guy. I’m funny. I enjoy showing ladies a good time in and out of bed. They want a fancy dinner date or drinks at an exclusive club? I’m happy to give it to them. I have the money. When I die, I won’t be able to take it with me, so why not spend it wining and dining a gorgeous woman before I rock her world in bed?

All that combined with my hockey star status earns me plenty of female attention. And, if you ask me, the coolest nickname in the league: panty dropper.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fucking love it.

The ref’s face turns red as he frowns at the countless pieces of women’s lingerie scattered all over the ice.

“Looks like it’s raining panties.” I make a choking sound to keep from laughing.

The ref blows the whistle again, signaling the clean-up crew to come out and collect the two dozen or so pieces of underwear.

“That’s it. You’re going in the box,” he grumbles before grabbing me by the jersey and dragging me to the penalty box. The crowd starts to boo.

“Aww come on, ref. It’s my birthday. Cut me a break, won’t you?” I say, even though I know he won’t.

He doesn’t say a word as he dumps me off in the penalty box. As I settle on the bench, a few of my teammates roll their eyes at me. Most of them are laughing.

“Keep laughing and you’ll be in there with him,” the ref barks at my teammate Theo, who plays left wing for my team, the Denver Bashers.

He reins in his expression. “Sorry,” he mumbles before he skates off with the rest of our teammates.

It takes a couple of minutes to clear the ice and for the crowd to settle. My teammates get ready for the puck drop against the Nashville Wolves. I watch as the puck hits the ice and the players scramble for it.

Just then, I hear someone off to the side of the penalty box yell, “Xander, baby! Happy birthday to you!”

I turn to the side and see a pretty blonde waving at me. I wave back right as she lifts up her shirt and flashes me. My jaw drops as I stand there and gawk at her boobs.

I’ve lost count of how many times a hot woman has flashed me during a game since I started playing in the NHL, so I should probably be used to this by now too. But I’m a caveman to the core, I guess. A fantastic pair renders me speechless every time.

A couple of security guards approach the woman and she lowers her shirt.

“Miss, you need to come with us,” one of them says in a gruff tone.

“Oh, come on. Let her stay!” I holler.

One of the security guys glares at me before they walk off with her. She twists around and blows a kiss at me. I wink at her.

“You’re really saving the world, guys,” I yell. “So glad you were around to protect us from the pretty woman’s breasts.”

When my penalty time is up, I jump back onto the ice and rejoin my team in the middle of play. Theo passes me the puck and I sprint my ass off in the direction of the Wolves net, determined to score. I may be a manwhore who jokes around a lot, but I’m also really fucking good at hockey. Despite all the wild antics that follow me on the ice sometimes, I’m still a top player who scores points and helps my team win.

I weave around a Wolves defender, closing in on the net. I move my stick like I’m about to sink it in, but at the last second, I hold back. The goalie falls for it and dives. And then I shoot it in the net. The fans go nuts.

I yell and pump my fist as my teammates come up to me and celebrate the goal. It’s almost the end of the first period and we’re finally on the board and in the lead, one to zero.

No question, I’m a manwhore, a douchebag, and a jokester. But I’m also a star player who always delivers, no matter what.

I glance over at the Bashers bench as they cheer me on. I zero in on Coach Porter standing at the back. He’s not cheering, but he’s not sporting his signature lethal frown. That’s as good as a smile when it comes to him.

As we skate back to center ice, I hear Porter say, “Nice work, Williams,” in a low tone.

Coach Porter is as stoic as a marble statue most of the time. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him crack a smile in the two years that I’ve played for the Bashers. He’s straight-laced and no-nonsense to the core. He can’t stand stuff like panties on the ice and flashing boobs. The fact that he could overlook all that enough to pay me an actual compliment counts for a lot.

I tell him thanks as I get set up with the rest of my team. The puck drops and it’s a scramble for control. I take it and head for the Wolves net. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a Wolves player in pursuit. I see that Theo’s open so I pass the puck to him.

A second later, I slam face-first into the boards. Pain blasts through my jaw and nose, but I manage to stay on my skates instead of falling to the ice.

I shove off the boards, straighten back up, and look to the side. I don’t need to though. I know exactly who shoved me.

Del Richards. Center for the Wolves and a massive piece of shit who loves to dole out as many dirty hits during a game as possible.

He also fucking hates me. Probably because I slept with his ex the night after she broke up with him a handful of years ago. We were teammates at the time too—we both played for Seattle. So yeah, he’s had it out for me ever since.

I wait for the referee or one of the linesmen to call a penalty on Del. In hockey, it’s fair game to check a player in possession of the puck. But I had passed it to Theo a second before Del hit me. That penalty should have been a gimme. But no call.

I can’t fucking believe this.

This is the third time in this game that Del delivered a bullshit hit on me, and the refs and linesmen either didn’t see or didn’t care.

Del cackles as he skates by.

“Aww, did that hurt?” he taunts.

A Nashville defender heads for Theo. Theo hits the puck to one of our other teammates, but Del rockets ahead, taking possession of it and racing toward our net.

Adrenaline rockets through me. No way is that motherfucker scoring.

I sprint after him, my gaze trained on him as he weaves around our defender to center ice.

It doesn’t take more than two seconds for me to close in on Del. The moment he crosses center ice, I hit him. The puck goes flying.

He goes down hard and ah shit, I go down too.

I land on top of him, pain stinging through my shoulder. Damn, the impact was harder than I expected.

“What the fuck!” he booms as he shoves me off.

Around us, our teammates scramble for the puck, which is somewhere off to the side of us.

A second later, I’m back on my feet and spot my teammate Dylan with the puck.

“Atta boy!” I holler as I take off after him.

A second later, I’m slammed face-first into the boards again.

This time, I fall to the ice and groan at the pain blasting through my nose. The referee blows his whistle, pausing play. I cradle a gloved hand over my nose.

“Richards, that’s enough from you,” the ref booms. He grabs Del by the jersey and drags him to the penalty box.

Fucking finally.

A couple of my teammates skate over to check on me while a few others get into a scuffle with some of the Wolves players. The home crowd goes wild. Hockey fans love a fight.

For about thirty seconds, it’s madness until the linesmen and referees separate everyone. Theo helps me up.

“Thanks, man.”

He winces. “You’re bleeding, dude.”

I start to say I’m good, but the ref gestures for me to head to the bench. I huff out a sigh and skate off. I’d keep playing if they let me. This is hockey and a little blood never hurt anyone.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass above the boards. Holy shit. I look like I dunked the lower part of my face in red paint. I could be an extra in a horror movie.

Okay yeah, maybe I need to get cleaned up.

I pass the penalty box where Del is. I slow down and smile at him before blowing him a kiss. He death-glares me and flips me off. I think back to last year when he got into a fight with Theo after a BS hit. It was the nastiest fight I’ve ever seen. The two of them ended up absolutely wrecked, it was a bloodbath. I’m getting off pretty easy with just a bloody nose.

When I reach the Bashers bench, one of the trainers, Lyle, examines my face.

“Can you breathe through your nose?” he asks.

I inhale through the plug of snot and blood. “Yeah.”

Lyle steps aside to grab something. My teammate Isaac, who’s sitting next to me, elbows me. “Hell of a birthday present. What a way to ring in twenty-five, huh?”

“I know, right? Panties, boobs, and a bloody nose.” I start to laugh, but the pain flares up and I stop.

Coach Porter’s glare cuts to me. I clear my throat and mutter a “sorry.”

Coach Porter is one of the best coaches in the league, and playing for him is a once-in-a-career opportunity. He’s got two Stanley Cups under his belt for the two teams he coached before he joined the Bashers. But playing under him is no joke.

He works his players to the bone, but it makes us better—it makes the team better. In the two years I’ve played for Denver, I’ve never played this hard or this well. The Bashers have won more games with him as head coach than anyone else.

He’s also a hardass. He doesn’t tolerate laziness or disrespectful behavior from anyone, not even his star players. One time he benched me for an entire game because he caught me fooling around in one of the storage closets with a puck bunny before practice.

“No idea why the ladies love you so much. You’re ugly as fuck,” Isaac jokes.

“Someone’s jealous.” I shove his shoulder and he chuckles.

“Not even close. Happily married,” Isaac says, smiling as he gazes at the ice.

It’s true. The guy’s been married for ten years and has twin girls. When he’s not kicking ass on the ice, he’s always with his wife and daughters.

“You should give married life a shot someday,” he says.

“No way in hell, dude.” If there’s one thing I’m certain I’ll never do, it’s get married. I dated a few people in the past, but it never lasted longer than a couple of weeks. I like being single and hooking up. I like knowing that if I meet someone and we hit it off, we can have a blast in bed and then go our separate ways. It’s simple and easy and exactly what I need in my life right now when my biggest commitment is hockey.

“By the way, the guys and I got you a birthday gift. It’ll show up later,” Isaac says in a low voice.

“Really?”

“Yup. Strippergram.”

Coach Porter hollers for him to get out on the ice. Grinning, Isaac hops the barrier and skates off. Well, damn. I’ve gotta hand it to my buddies. They really know how to give me what I want for my birthday.

Lyle starts to clean me up. When he touches the bridge of my nose, I grunt out in pain.

He frowns at me. “You need to see the team doctor. It might be broken.”

I tell him I’ll be fine, but he shakes his head. “No way you’re going back out there. Not until the doc clears you.”

I huff out a breath. “Fine.”

I stand up and head through the tunnel to the room where the medical staff is. I drop my gloves and stick by the door, take off my helmet, and sit on the padded table as I wait for one of the team docs to come in.

A moment later the door opens. When I turn and look, my eyes go wide at the stunning woman who just walked into the room.

My gaze fixates on her long, strawberry-blonde hair and big blue eyes. And then I spend a solid five seconds staring at her lush mouth.

My gaze falls to her boobs and how they’re bursting out of that blouse she’s wearing

“Whoa…”

“Are you done staring at my chest?” she snaps.

I pop out of my trance. Shame heats my face. “I-I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t say anything as she walks up to me and grabs my face with her hand, tilting my head up.

“Hold still,” she says in that hard tone.

As she studies my face, I try not to gawk at her like I just did a minute ago. That was creepy as fuck.

I can’t help but look at her though. One, she’s gorgeous. And two, she looks really young. Like, this woman can’t be older than her early twenties. She looks like she just graduated college. How the hell can she be a doctor? All the NHL team docs I’ve ever worked with are middle-aged or older.

Just then I remember what Isaac said to me.

“The guys and I got you a birthday gift. It’ll show up later.”

“Really?”

“Yup. Strippergram.”

Oh damn…this must be her.

It all makes sense—why she’s so young and hot, and why I’ve never seen her before during any of the sessions with the other team medical staff.

I lean back and gently pull out of her hold. “Hey, you’re doing a really great job of pretending to be a doctor, but you can get on with the rest of your…performance.”

Her frown deepens. “Excuse me?”

I grin at her, raking my gaze along the length of her killer body. “You’re a stripper, right?”

That beautiful angelic face death-glares me. She takes a breath and gently places her hands on either side of my head.

“I’m going to need you to hold still,” she says.

“Uh, okay…”

She moves her hands so that her thumbs are bracing either side of my nose.

I wince. “Oh, um, you don’t need to?—”

Just then she snaps my nose. Pain blasts through my face, and I howl in agony.

“Fuck!” I groan.

When she lets go, I cradle my face in my hands.

“You had a slight fracture in your nose,” she says in a calm, firm tone, like she didn’t just fuck my shit up a second ago. “I snapped it back into place. You should be fine now.”

My head spins as I claw my way through this pain fog.

I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand while holding up my other. “Wait, so you’re actually a doctor? Like for real?”

Her perfectly arched eyebrows crash together, like she can’t believe what I just said. “Yeah, like for real,” she says, mocking me. “I don’t know who the hell told you I was a stripper, but they’re mistaken. Dr. Gregorson is on leave, and I’m filling in for the rest of the season.”

I blink at her. “Shit…” I shake my head, pissed at myself for the way I just fucked things up with the new team doctor. “I’m sorry…”

“Dr. Porter.” She crosses her arms over her chest and glowers at me.

It takes a second before the name registers in my brain. Partly because my nose and face are still throbbing, and partly because I’m not that smart to begin with. Obviously.

“Dr. Porter?” I ask. “Wait, are you related to Coach Porter?”

She looks at me like I’m an idiot. “I’m his daughter.”

Dread slices through my gut. I was wrong a second ago when I thought I fucked up. I actually royally, monumentally fucked up. I just hit on and pissed off the daughter of my coach.

I’m fucking dead.