For Pucking Keeps: A Hockey Romance (The Seattle Vipers Series Book 1)

3. Jaz

THREE

“Witness the homo erectus thirstyus,” Lia narrates the scene in front of us in her best David Attenborough voice. Not going to lie, I am definitely impressed. “Latin for puck bunny or puck slut. As you can see”—she points toward the growing crowd, beer dangling between her fingers with her pinky pointed toward the ceiling perfectly, as if we were sitting in a tearoom with cups of tea in hand—“they hunt in packs in an attempt at symbiosis, attaching themselves to a male host and sucking away at their life force.” She laughs. “The relationship is completely parasitic?—”

My laugh is so loud I cut her off. I stop mid snort to look around, not wanting to gather too much attention to myself. I laugh so hard my stomach cramps and tears form in the corners of my eyes. “Homo erectus thirstyus.” I double over, slapping my thigh, my frozen mojito sloshes over the side of my glass and drips over my hand, making me curse. Sobering, because this requires all my concentration, I quickly bring my hand to my tongue and lap at the tangy goodies. I mean, no need to waste a tasty drink, especially one of my favorites. Okay, so maybe this is my third mojito since we arrived, but I’m enjoying this rare night out. Plus, after the heated exchange in front of the locker room only an hour ago, I need the liquid courage in case I run into hockey hotness personified. Torrance Bailey, number fifteen, center and captain of the Seattle Vipers, has me questioning my sanity. I haven’t uttered a word to the man, we haven’t been introduced, yet I feel like?—

Lia hands me a napkin from the bar we are leaning against, and I immediately clean up the rest of my spill.

“Watch BBC America, much?” I arch a brow in question, attempting to keep a straight face and failing miserably. I’m really enjoying hanging out with Lia, and it makes me miss my sisters terribly. I need to reach out to them and accept the dressing down I’m going to receive for being MIA for months. I guess I don’t want to hear ‘I told you so’. Nope. I will not think about my imploded life and the debris left behind in its wake. Tonight is all about fun and inspiration. Crossing my fingers on the inspiration part.

Lia shrugs and takes a sip of her beer. “That and loads of Animal Planet, but my observations aren’t wrong. These women are relentless. Like a pack of rabid hyenas.”

I can’t help the snort that escapes me as I imagine the six-inch heels, short bodycon dresses, and long extensions blowing in the breeze, their sound like a stampede against the packed earth as feral women take down a six-foot-six beast of a man in one go. I shake my head. The poor man of my imaginings never stood a chance as I blink away the vision and purse my lips. “Every sport has them,” I muse as I take in the bar and the groups of women gathered around the main entrance, followed by a flurry of raised voices.

“Let the show begin!” Lia shouts over the thumping bass as the glass doors part and the players enter the bar to a chorus of applause and shouts from fans. The Blue Line Bar is across the street from the arena. Easy access for the die-hard Viper fans to see their favorite players. If they can get in. This place is packed. Lia waltzed us in here like a local celebrity bypassing the line and marching us straight up to the bar. From what she’s told me it’s the only bar the Seattle Vipers congregate to after their home games. The owner is an ex-Seattle Viper player, Lawrence “Law” Hollis. He was injured two years ago when a puck struck his helmet. The accident made national news and was the first time I had paid attention to the mention of hockey at all. The replays of what happened to the man now wiping down his pristine glass bar were horrific and life changing. I can only imagine what it felt like to do what you loved one second and lose everything the next. Well, if I can’t shake the writer’s block, I just might. . .

I take a tentative sip of my frosty drink, keeping my eyes on the door as fine-ass men walk past the line of gawking woman who are literally wolf-whistling. Their eyes hungry, smiles wide, and tits pushed up to their throats to catch the attention of each and every hockey player who walks by. I mean, I’ve seen the catwalk-like runway videos of hockey players leaving the locker room dressed in suits that cling to every muscle and curve of their bodies, but nothing prepares me for seeing it up close.

I narrow my eyes, giving my drink the side eye. Did someone slip me a hallucinogenic? Because this drink has me wide-eyed and drooling. I am a sucker for a man in uniform, but a man in a well-tailored suit. . . My hoo-haa is waving a white flag and ready to give up on our months long dickless siege. I’m a romance author and the best description I can come up with to describe my vagina is hoo-haa. God help me, no wonder I am struggling to write. A wordsmith, I fear, I am not. I blame it on the A-A-A-A-A-Alcohol. Yep, I went there, Jamie Foxx called it.

“Jaz.” Lia leans in to get my attention, but I’m too enthralled by the men on parade in front of me in various states of suited and booted sexiness. Jackets off, shirts open at the neck, two-piece, three-piece suits, and wait, there are even some rolled up sleeves. Forearms are yummy.

“Jaz, you’re going to need a bib if you don’t close your mouth and stop drooling all over the floor.” Lia taps my chin and my mouth snaps to attention, closing as I try to pull myself together. The last thing I want to do is appear as desperate as the women in front of us. I’m far from it. I don’t have the time, the heart space, or anything else to give in relation to chasing the opposite sex. But I do have eyes. Damn.

Clearing my throat, I adjust my stance and lean back against the bar once more. I hadn’t realized I’d taken a step forward. Yep, definitely blaming that on the mojito. “Well, I don’t want to cause an accident from my pooling saliva,” I joke, wiping the corners of my mouth, making Lia laugh.

“Hey, I get it. I’m immune to the spectacle that is my brother and his teammates. But to the unsuspecting newcomer, it’s a bit much.” She thrusts her arm out at me and lifts her brow, suggesting that yes, I am the newcomer in question. I watch as the players move around the bar, some take up residence in nearby corner booths while others seem to gravitate toward their wives and girlfriends.

I take it all in, you know, for research purposes, keeping up small talk with Lia. She spots her brother, Ridley, followed by a few other rowdy teammates as he enters the bar, and like the Pied Piper himself, the pack of vultures begin to trail behind him as he moves through the bar, finds a booth, and begins to hold court.

Lia sucks in a breath through her teeth and rolls her eyes at the scene. “He didn’t used to be like this. He had a fiancée, loved her, wanted to give her everything, but she had her own ambitions.” Lia sighs heavily as the squeals of laughter ring out from her brother’s table. Ridley looks up then, as if he knows his sister is watching him. For a moment I can see her disappointment reflected in his gaze. His smile falters for a millisecond before he plasters on a panty melting smile for the woman in his lap and turns his attention back to her.

I don’t know much about Lia’s brother, other than he plays professional hockey. I assumed the playboy persona was who he was. “Did he cheat?” I ask curiously, genuinely interested in knowing more. I look around the room and try to see it through the eyes of someone in a relationship with one of these men. The trust has to be absolute, ironclad. Because the way these eager women wait for these men to show weakness so they can pounce, it must be damn near impossible to stay faithful. Hell, my personal experience proves you can’t even trust your own friends.

Lia knocks back her drink then turns around and I follow her lead, leaning in to hear her answer as she waves Lawrence down for another drink. “Nope. Like I said, my brother loved her, he was faithful. Two years ago, I never would have imagined the man behind us.” She throws her thumb back over her shoulder aggressively and continues. “But Brea wanted her music more, and I can’t say that I blame her, but she could have tried to make it work. It tore Rid apart, and these are the pieces I am left with. A broken brother, star hockey player, and now fuck-boy extraordinaire.”

My eyes widen at the name she just said, and my mouth flies open once more. I swear, I am going to swallow a fly from all the gaping I’m doing tonight. “Wait! Do you mean Brea Brookes?” I do a little happy bounce of excitement. Yep, too much drink indeed. When I first arrived in Seattle I saw her play at a local bar, and I became a fast fan. The piano playing melodic singer is a woman after my own heart. I could feel her heartbreak in every song lyric.

“The one and only.” Lia turns her head, swaying slightly as she meets my waiting smile of elation. “Well, I can see by the smile on your face you’re a fangirl.” She sighs. “She makes it damn near impossible to hate her, Jaz. I get it.” She looks over her shoulder and I follow only to see Ridley with his tongue down another woman’s throat. Now that I know the truth behind his behavior, I see him differently. This is a man who is losing himself the only way he knows how. A man who doesn’t want to get hurt again, and as fucked up as it is, protect his heart.

“Well, now I understand the meaning behind her songs,” I say as I lift my now empty drink in the air to catch Lawrence’s attention. “I can relate,” I whisper under my breath. I have probably met my drink quota for the night, but I am nothing if not thorough. If I am going to pay for it in the morning, I may as well go all in.

“Ladies.” Lawrence smiles, bright and cheerful, not at all bothered by all the people demanding his attention. The wedding ring on his left hand looks loud and proud, keeping the adoring women at bay. He gestures behind us having a silent conversation with someone over our shoulder. “Looks like someone has taken care of your tab tonight.” He winks setting another drink in front of Lia and me.

You know how you can feel someone’s eyes on you? The weighted stare you can feel in the pit of your stomach. The butterflies flutter around, filling you with nervous energy, giddy with just a hint of trepidation. There’s no fear, no alarm bells or red flags being thrown up. Nope. The feeling is almost peaceful. I know without a doubt it”s him, but I refuse to turn around. Instead, I play dumb. Deny, deny, deny. Lawrence smirks, and before I can stop him and ask what he means by that, Lia is lifted off her feet as toned muscular arms wrap around her waist, making her shout in delight.

“Damn it, Devan! Put me down. You’re making me spill my drink!” Lia shrieks , not a hint of anger in her voice. The man in question playfully nuzzles her neck with his nose, warm light brown skin, bright copper-colored eyes, tall, and built like a house, with dimples that would make any woman drop to her knees in worship. He is handsome, clean-shaven, and has a closely faded haircut. . .damn, they do still make them like this. By the looks of things, he has his sights set on Lia.

“Baby girl! My Lia-Bia. When are you going to put me out of my misery?” the man singsongs in her ear as he puts her back on her feet.

I turn, drink in hand, ready to introduce myself when all my words dry up on my tongue. The wind is knocked from my sails as I stare up at beautiful hazel eyes, thick kissable lips and, oh God, is he wearing a bowtie with his grey and black pinstripe suit? Why yes, yes, he is. Torrance Bailey stands so close that I can feel the heat between our bodies. My mouth opens and closes, at a loss for words as he takes up all the space in the room. I’m acutely aware of Lia and Devan watching our exchange but my eyes never leave his.

“Number fifteen.” He smiles, almost shy, boyish even. But this man is no boy. He shifts his stance, sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit pants, practically shielding me from Lia and Devan. It’s a power move, and damn me if I am not melting for it.

“Tor, this is my neighbor, romance author, Jazminne Starr,” Lia says from beside me, not in the least bothered by Torrance’s show of dominance. “Jaz, this is Torrance Bailey. You were wearing his jersey, and apparently he’s turned into a caveman, right along with Devan here.” I hear an audible grunt. I am sure Lia has given Devan an elbow to the stomach as she pushes her way past his wall of muscle.

“Devan Scott.” Mr. Dimples holds out his hand, somehow wiggling his arm through the space between Torrance to get to my outstretched hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

“Jaz,” I reply, my eyes, for some reason, have stopped working because I don’t acknowledge Devan with anything other than my hand in his. There’s that magnetism again, pulling me toward a man I don’t know, and I don’t want to be repelled. This feeling should be the very reason that I put my fourth drink down and find a reason to excuse myself for tonight. I’ve had my fun and I’ve done what I set out to do. I’ve gotten enough information to start my book.

“My friends call me Tor,” Torrance says, swatting Devan’s hand out of the way, replacing it with his. The moment his fingers brush mine, I feel it. The tingles, the electric current, the spark that I write about in great detail in my own books. It’s real. The fucking spark is real! It sends chills of delightful pleasure down my spine. I don’t think I’ve ever felt the spark in my entire life. Not even with my ex-fiancé. I guess that should’ve been a sign, right? I smile, trying and failing to keep the way he is affecting me off my face. I need to rein it in before I am nothing but a puddle at this man’s feet. I’m better than this.

Taking another sip of my mojito, tilting my head to the side in an attempt to take back control, I study the hockey player in front of me. “So, we’re friends then?”

“You are wearing my jersey,” he replies playfully, stepping closer and leaving no space for the holy spirit, as my mother used to say.

Is it me or is it getting hot in this bar?

I take another gulp of my drink; my entire body is buzzing from his close proximity, but I don’t let it show. I’m not that out of practice. “So were the majority of the fans in the arena, so that’s not saying much, Tor.” I smirk, looking up into his perfect face, and it takes all of my strength not to reach up and brush his wayward loc out of his eye.

“Are you suggesting we should be more, Miss Starr?” He leans in even closer, bringing the scent of vetiver and musk with him, making my mouth water. Is it too early in the game to say yes? Yes, please, let’s be more—wait—no. Hell no. Okay, what just happened? A horny presence has taken over my body and is wearing me like a meat suit. That has to be it. I’m going to blame my lapse in judgement on his pheromone-like scent. Getting all up in my space, making me swoon like a bitch in heat.

“So, you write romance novels. Are they the smutty kind?” Devan asks, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, suddenly breaking the flirty bubble between Torrance and me. Flirty might be the wrong word, but I refuse to think of something more appropriate. Not going to lie, I’m grateful for the question.

“Yes, I do. I write smut for a living,” I say, tipping the rest of my drink back, I swallow a big gulp of icy courage. I wince from the pain growing in my temples, spell broken.

Oh shit, brain freeze! If you’re looking for a mood killer, I recommend it.