From Fling to Ring: A Hockey Romance (The San Francisco Aftershocks)

Chapter 56

LUCY

“Oh God no.You’re one of those people who wears socks with flip-flops.”

Tyler looks down at his feet, then back and me, completely puzzled. “Why? What’s the big deal? Everyone I know does this.”

“No one I know does. It looks weird and besides, doesn’t it drive you crazy to have your socks all stuffed up between your toes?”

“Not at all. It’s very practical. If I wear shoes, my feet are too warm, and if I just wear the flops, my feet get cold. This is the perfect compromise. My feet love them.” He pokes me in the ribs where he knows I’m massively ticklish. “Hey, at least I don’t brush my teeth in the shower.”

Oh my God. What am I doing with this man? “Come on. What’s wrong with that?”

“Um, it’s gross. How about that?”

“If I have to explain the logic behind shower teeth-brushing, then it’s already too late for you,” I say.

“Fine. I’ll learn to live with it. Just promise not to do my laundry anymore. Or remove the tape from my stick.”

I play-slap him. “That was only once that I messed up your stick. And I’ve apologized for turning your shirts pink about a hundred times. I even went out and bought you some new ones.”

He nods. “You did, and I appreciate your effort to try and redeem your guilty ass. However, my favorite shirt ever was in that load of laundry. So I feel I have the right to gripe about it until the end of time.”

I shrug. “Okay. I get it. Don’t blame you.”

“And darlin’,” he says, “while we’re discussing quirks, no more pre-game dinners. Really. I can handle meals myself.”

I look at him, puzzled. “I don’t know why my chili dogs with cheese are not a good pre-game meal. They are very nutritious, not to mention yummy. Petal and Gilly love them.”

“You guys also like those ‘girl dinners,’ which consist of a hunk of cheese and some kind of prosciutto or whatever you call it.”

Really? “It’s called a charcuterie board, and it’s delicious.”

He frowns. “It may be, but a dinner it is not.”

‘Girl dinner.’ I don’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

I crawl on top of him where he sits on the sofa and straddle his lap. He tries to look around me at the TV, but I keep moving to block his view.

Tormenting this man is one of my favorite past times.

“You hockey guys are so weird with your superstitions. But I do like your clean-shaven face,” I say, running my fingertips over his smooth skin.

“It’s not weird. All athletes have routines and superstitions. Like, did you know, I always put my left skate on before my right?”

I’m now running my fingernails over his scalp, something I know he can’t resist. “Weird. That’s all I have to say.”

His eyes close as he falls into a mini-trance. “Mmmm-hmmm,” he mumbles.

“You like this?” I whisper.

“Yeah. Baby, I’m so glad you’re back,” he moans.

“Is that all you want me for? My head scratches?”

His eyes fly open. “Silly girl,” he says, then scoops his hands under my ass and stands up.

“Oooh, be careful,” I scream, hanging off his neck.

With my legs wrapped around him, he lumbers toward the bedroom, where he drops me on the bed and starts sliding my jeans down to my ankles.

“Darling,” I say, “we just did the deed. Are you already ready for more?”

“What do you think?” he asks, pointing at the bulge in his jeans.

He flips me over onto my knees in a powerful move, and I break into giggles at his caveman touch.

“Oh, baby,” I croon, “I love when you manhandle me.”

He crawls onto the bed behind me, pushing my legs apart to make room for himself. His belt and fly open and I hear the sound of his jeans and boxers being lowered, most likely just enough to free his hard cock.

I twist to look back at him. He’s smiling, one hand stroking his cock, and the other smoothing over my ass. I return my head to the bedspread and buck my hips up as best I can to open my pussy to him.

“That’s what I’m talking about, baby,” he groans. “Give me that pretty pussy, all glistening and wet and ready for me.”

His fingers reach between my legs and I nearly explode at his first touch, that’s how much he has me wound up. I bury my face in the bed to keep from screaming while reaching to find my clit. The sensation of both our hands working me over is almost too much. I buck my hips harder and my breath gets raspy.

“Fuck me, Tyler, please fuck me.”

“Mmmm,” he growls. “Baby wants my dick. You think you can handle it?”

God, his naughty words get going. “I’d like to try,” I say coyly.

Well, that’s all my man needs. A second after he positions himself at my entrance, he pushes all the way inside and the waves of a crazy orgasm start battering me.

He fucks me again and again, and I rub circles on my hard clit. I’m floating, like an untethered kite, my head spinning with ecstasy as I raise my ass in the air to take more of him— even though I’m not sure he has any more to give.

He reaches under me and holds my breasts during his last, hard thrusts, fucking me to the depths of my soul. I feel my pussy convulse around him as he bottoms out one last time, filling the entire apartment with his deafening groans.

When he pulls out, he flips me onto my back and kisses me long and hard.

“You’re everything I’ve ever needed,” he breathes into my ear, and my heart soars with happiness.

I slide my hand into his and settle back into the pillows. “You’re lucky that ninety-day bet didn’t work out, aren’t you?”

He shakes his head. “Am I ever. And I gotta say, I think I got the better end of the deal.”

“Well now, let’s see if you can keep me for the next ninety years.”

He kisses the top of my head. “You’re on. Care to wager a bet?”

EPILOGUE 1

Tyler’s intro to Lucy’s new book:

An introduction from the man who’s just lucky to be here…

Hey you there. Yes, you with the book in your hands, who’s probably rolling your eyes wondering why some dude has written the intro to the book that’s going to change your life.

Let me start by saying, I had no choice about writing this. Seriously. I have been bribed with the promise of a nice, juicy filet mignon at the restaurant of my choice, as well as not having to take out the garbage for a week. Yes, I am a cheap date.

So I sit here, reluctantly pouring my heart out for the greater good of… what, I’m not sure, to be honest.

But hey, let’s talk about the author of this book for a second, Lucy Daley. She’s part firecracker, part teddy bear. She’ll roast your ass with her sarcasm one moment and snuggle up to you the next. It’s almost impossible to keep up with her, and she waits for no one, me included. I have accepted this as my fate.

So why are you reading this book? Are you looking for love, or did this just pop up on your radar like the book you’ve been waiting for all your life? No matter, stick around. Despite Lucy’s overuse of eye-rolls and lousy taste in movies, I promise you the woman has a thing or two to say.

You see, contrary to what you might be thinking, this book is not actually about finding the perfect guy.

Spoiler alert: he doesn’t exist.

Let me repeat for the people in the back: Mister Perfect does not exist. As in, there’s no such thing.

No Santa Clause, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy, and no Perfect Guy.

I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this. But the sooner you accept it, the better off we’ll all be.

What this book is about is finding someone just as flawed and messed up as you are, but in all the right ways. It’s about navigating the minefield of modern dating with a sense of humor and healthy dose of realism.

So buckle yourself up. You’re in for a wild ride, especially where Lucy uses me as an example of some of the dumb-ass things we men do. I am really good at giving her this sort of material. I don’t even need to try.

It’s my hope for you, that you find yourself a good guy who’s worth keeping around, and that you jettison the losers faster than a cat jumps off a hot tin roof.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I am dying to get back to my beautiful, smart, funny girl. If you ever meet a guy who doesn’t say this about you, well, you know where the eject button is. Press it fast, and don’t look back.

Cheers,

Tyler Brooks

EPILOGUE 2

San Francisco: A Guide to the City’s Charm and its Chaotic Commodes

By Lucy Daley, City Editor

Oh, San Francisco, our beacon of golden sunsets, progressiveness, tech innovation… and seriously questionable public restrooms?

Let’s chat about the less Instagrammable, not so pretty side of SF. For every stunning view from Lands End or gourmet meal in the Mission District, there’s a public restroom that could transport you to a less enlightened era. Sure, we love our cultural tapestry and iconic scenery, but how about a moment of silence for anyone who”s ever braved the bathrooms at Golden Gate Park, the gas station on Ninth Street in SOMA, or the tourist trap that is Fisherman’s Wharf? Here at the SF Freekly, we love an unfiltered perspective on the highs and lows of living in the city.

Today’s emphasis is on the lows—the lows of when nature calls. Buckle up for a deep dive into some of the city”s most talked-about spots and their less glamorous amenities, covered in detail for your reading pleasure (or caution).

Golden Gate Park: Nature”s Wonderland with a Side of Eau de Restroom

We love to put New Yorkers in their place by bragging that our beloved Golden Gate Park is larger than their Central Park, a fact that comes as a surprise to many. After all, how is it that San Francisco can outdo New York in anything?

Rivalries aside, the crown jewel of our city, Golden Gate Park is home to everything from world-class museums to bison (yes, actual bison), sprawling meadows, picturesque lakes, hidden gardens, and polo fields. Sadly, it’s also the backdrop for some of the city’s most neglected restrooms, as if they haven”t quite received the memo about the park”s prestige. Venturing into one is like playing bathroom roulette—will you find TP? Soap? Your dignity? Or some mysterious biohazard on your shoe and, heaven forbid, a new disease? It’s anyone’s guess. The park is a perfect spot for picnics and paddle boats, just not pit stops.

Ninth Street Gas Station: Where Only the Brave Venture

Then, there’s the gas station on Ninth Street in the chichi South of Market neighborhood, which is less a pit stop and more of a terrifying dare. Here, ‘out of order’ signs are the norm, and the faint smell of gasoline competes with… other odors. You brave souls who venture into this restroom are the unsung heroes of San Francisco’s daily grind.

Sure, this place is convenient for topping-up your tank, but its bathroom is a dive into despair. You’d think with Silicon Valley just a hop and a skip away, someone could engineer a self-cleaning toilet, or at least a soap dispenser that isn’t bone dry. Spoiler: they haven’t. It’s a stark reminder that in a city with absurd rents, you still may end up longing for basic hygiene in public spaces.

Fisherman’s Wharf: Come for the Clam Chowder, Stay for the... Nope, Just Go Home

Ah, Fisherman’s Wharf. While us locals steer clear, a visit to San Francisco is not complete without a stroll here, sampling clam chowder and dodging aggressive seagulls and the smell of hundreds of sea lions. But the public restrooms? They’re a horror story wrapped in conundrum, smothered in tourist desperation. With the foot traffic this place gets, you’d hope for facilities that don’t resemble a crime scene. From hurried cleanings between the waves of tour buses to the sheer challenge of keeping up with the constant demand, the restrooms here are a gamble. Unfortunately, hope is not a strategy here. Consider ducking into a nearby hotel lobby or charming café when the need arises—trust us, it’s a solid plan.

So You Want to Enjoy SF Without the Bathroom Blues?

Navigating San Francisco means embracing its eclectic charm while sidestepping its more fragrant pitfalls. Our advice? Keep a mental map of acceptable restrooms or lean on trusty apps that crowdsource the cleanest facilities (we here at SF Freekly are currently building just this). San Francisco is too beautiful a city to have your day marred by a traumatic toilet experience.

SF, We Love You, But You”re Bringing Us Down

There’s a funny sort of camaraderie that comes with surviving a bad restroom experience in San Francisco. It’s the sort of story that gets traded at parties like urban war stories. “You think that’s bad? Let me tell you about the time I…” This shared struggle doesn’t just build character, it builds community. Plus, it’s a reminder that even in a city as glamorous as San Francisco, everyone has to deal with the same mundane realities. And, let’s be honest, there’s something so satisfying about a tech billionaire and a street artist facing the same dilemma of a suspicious toilet handle.

San Francisco, you’re like that high-maintenance friend we adore but secretly find exhausting. Your highs are high—breathtaking views, incredible food, and an unmatched tech scene. You’re a place of beauty, innovation, and community, where every foggy morning offers a new possibility. But oh, how you test us with your public restroom lows. To fully love you, we must navigate you wisely, because in this city, even a simple call of nature can become an adventure. Here’s to loving you, warts and all, and to keeping our bathroom visits as scenic as our city views (or at least trying to).

EPILOGUE 3

Mom’s Snickerdoodles

1 3/4 C flour

2 tsp cream of tartar

1 tsp baking soda

1/2 tsp salt

3/4 cup butter, room temp

1 1/2 cups sugar, plus extra for rolling cookies

2 eggs

1 1/2 tsp vanilla

1 tbsp cinnamon

Oven 400 degrees

Combine flour, cream of tartar, soda, salt - set aside

Cream butter and sugar, 2-3 mins

Add eggs one at a time

Add vanilla

Add dry ingredients

Form dough into small 1-2” balls, then roll in cinnamon sugar

Bake 6-8 mins

If you enjoyed Lucy and Tyler’s story, check out Tyler’s little sister Ruby’s and his teammate Chuck’s sizzling San Francisco Aftershocks story, next:

From Wink to Kink

Have you ever accidentally booked yourself into a sex retreat?

No? Me neither.

Until I did.

Rather than signing up for the librarian wellness retreat I attend every year, I end up at an X-rated summer camp for adults, a risqué sex retreat where I meet a hot hockey player who looks like he just walked off the cover of a romance novel.

Picture me, whose idea of a wild night is rearranging my books by color, being schooled in the art of pleasure by a man who lists breaking hearts and booty calls along with slapshots and stick handling on his resume.

He’s the perfect example of every fantasy I’ve ever had, every alpha I’ve ever read about, and the vision of raw masculinity every romance novel tries to capture.

It’s not until I admit I’ve made the most delicious mistake of my life that that I learn this mix-up is the best thing to ever happen to me.

This man has me reconsider everything I thought I knew about romance.

My only question is, what happens when it’s time to go home?

Available September 12, 2024