Faking the Pucking Shot (LA Vipers #4)

Chapter 1 Beatrice

BEATRICE

“Choose one,” Sienna demands, holding out a box full of wrapped gifts. I know exactly what they are, and I narrow my eyes at her.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” I mutter as I reach out and select one from the middle.

“It’s about damn time, is what it is,” Sienna, my best friend and salon manager, states happily.

She’s been trying to get me to one of these things for as long as I can remember.

Today is her birthday, and the LA Vipers are playing at home. It’s a big game too, apparently. Basically, I didn’t stand a chance in hell of getting out of it.

“It’s going to ruin my outfit,” I complain as I rip into the paper. “No one will care if I don’t wear anything hockey related.”

“I will,” she argues, the box tucked against one hip and her free hand on the other as she gives me the look that secured her both the job at my salon and the position of my best friend a few years back. “You know the others won’t complain.”

“Good for them,” I mutter as I let the gift-wrapping float to the floor and hold up the jersey I selected.

Donnelly. Number seventy-seven.

I bet he’s an asshole.

The only thing I ever see of hockey players is them lording it up as if they’re better than everyone else.

“Well, go on then. Put it on,” Sienna encourages.

With a groan of irritation, I follow the birthday girl’s orders.

The second she sees my back in the mirror behind me, she sniggers.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she forces out through her giggles.

“I’m not wearing this if you’re just going to laugh at me. What’s so funny?”

“It’s nothing, really,” she argues. I glare at her, and she rolls her eyes. “Fine. It’s just funny because he’s totally your type.”

“An arrogant athlete is not my type.”

“You never know if you haven’t tested one out. Have you never seen a photo of him?”

I shrug.

“Oh, just you wait.”

“I’d rather not,” I deadpan as she drags me out of her apartment before I have a chance to pull the jersey off. We’re meeting the others at a restaurant before heading to the arena for the game. Just because Sienna is already head to toe in green and white, it doesn’t mean I need to be.

“You’re going to love the boy aquarium, and you know it,” she states as the elevator doors close behind us.

I mutter some kind of agreement, but the truth is, anything to do with sport is my worst nightmare. Playing, watching…none of it is my thing.

“Don’t you dare,” Sienna warns once we’re in the back of the rideshare and I make a move to pull the jersey off.

My eyes flick to the birthday crown on her head, and I smirk. “Sorry, Your Majesty.”

Sienna sticks her tongue out at me before settling in for the short journey to the bar.

She spends the entire ride attempting to teach me the rules of ice hockey.

Other than getting the puck in the goal, most of it goes over my head, and by the time we’re climbing out and greeting the other three who are celebrating with us tonight, I’m still none the wiser.

Rachel, Lessy, and Savvy stand there in their pretty dresses, and I can’t help but smirk knowing that they’re going to be covering them up any moment.

Gift bags are thrust at the birthday girl, and after a round of hugs, we head inside.

The table is already decorated with everything I dropped off earlier, and we quickly find our seats before accepting a glass of Prosecco each.

“Thank you,” Sienna says, wrapping me in a hug.

“You’re welcome.” I squeeze her back just as tightly.

Sienna has no idea just how much I appreciate her friendship. Without her…well, I don’t know where I’d be right now. She’s held my hand through so much. I owe her everything. Throwing her a birthday meal fit for a queen is the least I can do.

With our colleagues from the salon opposite us, also wearing their jerseys, we embark on eating our body weight in bruschetta, tagliatelle, and ravioli before Sienna excitedly leads the way to the arena only a few blocks over.

“Come on, bitches. I don’t want to miss warm-ups, and trust me, neither do you.”

“She’s right,” Rachel, one of my beauty therapists, says beside me. “The things those men can do with their hips should be illegal in public.”

It’s not the first time I’ve heard them talking about this, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Honestly, it’s probably the only thing I’m looking forward to about tonight.

“What I wouldn’t give to experience what those hips can really do,” Sienna announces, making Savvy laugh.

The walk to the arena is short, and before long, we’re surrounded by a sea of Vipers colors as everyone piles inside, excited for tonight. They’re chanting and singing—there are air horns and everything. And I have to admit, the level of excitement is a little infectious.

Although that could just be the Prosecco we consumed with dinner.

“We need snacks and beer,” Sienna announces once we’ve made it inside.

“We do not need snacks,” I call back, my stomach still bloated from the sheer volume of carbs we just consumed.

“We can’t watch hockey without snacks. That should be as illegal as their hips.”

The girls giggle around me as we join the line for snacks.

With our arms and hands fully loaded, we follow the leader of our pack with the crown on her head toward our seats.

“Holy shit, girl. How did you secure these?” Savvy asks in delight as we stop right behind the bench. “We’re going to be able to smell them from here.”

“Gross,” I mutter as I find my seat and lower my beers—yes, multiple—to the floor.

“I’m going to prove you wrong, you know that, right? Now that I’ve got you here, I’m going to make a hardcore hockey fan out of you.”

“Good luck,” I mutter, pulling my cell from my pocket and opening the camera. “Selfie,” I call, stretching my arm out as far as I can.

Five smiling faces just about manage to squeeze into the screen.

“Say, ‘I love hockey,’” Savvy shouts.

I groan as I take the picture. Thankfully, when I check it, I find that I am smiling.

“Oh, oh, here we go!” Rachel shouts, elbowing me in the side as players hit the ice.

The volume increases around us as men dart around the rink.

I watch, waiting to be amazed.

“They’re just skating,” I mutter, firmly disappointed. Sienna has definitely oversold this experience.

“Wait,” she mutters. “Hey, look,” she says, pointing as one player hits the ice. “That’s Everett Donnelly.”

“Huh?”

Sienna rolls her eyes. “That’s whose jersey you’re wearing.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

My eyes follow him, but with his helmet thing on and the lights reflecting off it, it’s hard to get a look at his face, other than the scruff on his jaw.

I guess he gets points for that. As for his body?

That’s a complete mystery under all that padding; although, based on the sport he’s playing, I’d predict it’s probably decent.

All of that will wither to nothing, though, if he’s an arrogant jerk like I’m predicting.

I’m stereotyping, I know. I shouldn’t, because I live my life dealing with that exact same thing.

To the outside world, I’m just a beauty therapist. People judge me before they get to know me based purely on my chosen career.

I really should know better than to treat these guys the same way.

I blame the media. They make them out to be fuckboys who are more than happy to use the women who follow them around. The problem is, though, while many stories are blown out of proportion, they have to come from somewhere.

“Rett Donnelly is hot with a capital H. What I wouldn’t give to spend a night with him,” Rachel says.

“Then maybe you should have pulled his jersey from the box,” Lessy points out.

“They were wrapped,” Rachel protests, just in case we’d forgotten the events of the night so far.

I may have chosen mine at Sienna’s apartment, but they all opened theirs in the restaurant. We’re now all proudly—some more than others—wearing our player for the night.

“If I got to choose, it would definitely be Donnelly,” Rachel states, her eyes following him on the ice.

“Well, I’m happy with mine,” Lessy says happily.

“Me too,” Savvy agrees.

“Bea, look. Right now, look at your man.”

I roll my eyes. “He is not my man,” I mutter under my breath as I turn back toward the ice just in time to see the man wearing a matching jersey to mine drop to his hands and knees.

What the fuck is he—oh.

Holy shit.

“That’s—”

“Welcome to the boy aquarium, Bea. A place where we leave our inhibitions at the door and beg to be locked in the sin bin with as many players as we can squeeze in.”

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask, although I don’t take my eyes away from what that man is doing. Rachel was right: doing that in public should be illegal. And it only gets worse as more and more of them drop to the ice.

“Wait, is the goalkeeper doing full splits right now?” I balk. “Grown men should not be able to do that.”

“Hockey players aren’t your normal kind of man,” Sienna muses.

The warm-up time passes all too quickly, and before I know it, the lights have dimmed and names are being called. The entire arena vibrates with excitement and cheers as each player shoots through a cloud of smoke and does a lap of the ice before getting into position.

“This is it,” Sienna says excitedly as the referee stands center of the ice with the puck in his hands.

“Kick-off?” I ask.

She giggles. “Puck drop. He’s literally going to drop the puck.”

“Right,” I mutter.

She’s on the edge of her seat, screaming when our player wins the puck and goes shooting off toward the goal with the other team’s goalie standing in front of it.

I try to follow the puck, but the guys are so fast, it’s a blur.

The entire arena erupts, lights flash, and music starts. The scoreboard changes, showing one to us, and I sit back, wondering when the hell that happened. Last time I saw the puck, someone was behind the goal with it.

By the time the first period comes to an end, I’m fully invested, despite not having a clue what’s happening in front of me.

“I need another beer,” I announce, having drained both of mine already.

Sienna turns to look at me with a wide smile on her face.

“You enjoyed that,” she accuses.

I shrug, fighting the grin that wants to break free.

“It was alright, I guess.”

Her brow quirks. “Sure, okay. I believe you.”

“Good. So, more beer?”

“Absolutely.”

By the time the next period begins, we’re fully loaded with drinks again, and I can’t lie, I’m a little excited for more action.

And boy, do they bring it.

“Oh my god,” I gasp when two players—one from each team—look like they’re about to start fighting. “Surely they can’t just start throwing punches?” I ask Sienna when it looks like it’s heading in that direction.

“That’s the beauty of hockey. Anything goes.”

“What? They literally break into it like they’re suddenly MMA fighters or something?”

“Pretty much. Just wait. If you’re lucky, this will turn into a brawl.”

“Lucky? How does that make me lucky?”

“Remember the hip action?”

Christ, do I? Pretty sure it’s ingrained into my eyeballs.

“Well, watching them fight is similar on the hotness scale.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” I mutter as the two of them part and the teams prepare to start over.

But while the fight may not have started, the players don’t seem to have forgotten about it.

They’re gunning for each other, and each hit is more brutal than the last.

“How don’t they finish games with broken bones?”

“Sometimes they do.”

“And that’s classified as fun?”

“You’ll have to ask one of them,” Sienna points out.

“I think I’m okay.”

“If we’re lucky, we’ll find the club they’re heading to later, and maybe you’ll get to—”

I cut Sienna off with a scream as the two players collide with the boards right in front of us.

“Oh my god,” I cry as Donnelly throws his first punch, sending the other guy’s helmet crashing to the ice.

His opponent immediately fires back, ensuring Donnelly loses his own helmet, giving me my first proper look at his face.

I want to say that I’m disappointed, but that would be a lie.

I stare at the two of them, unable to tear my eyes away as they battle it out.

My heart is racing at a mile a minute as fans around me scream bloody murder, riling the players up even more, I’m sure.

Eventually, their teammates intervene and pull them apart. But as two Vipers pull Donnelly back, he looks up. Blood trickles down his jaw, and his eye is already swelling, but that doesn’t stop him from locking his dark gaze right on me.