Pucking Dirty (Pucked Up Love #1)

Chapter One

Emilia

I saw a dick once. My lab partner pulled his out mid-project during my freshman year of college. Naturally, I screamed, and karate chopped him across the throat. I'm not sure who was more startled, me or him.

But honestly. I don't know what else he expected me to do. Drop to my knees and slurp it down? No, thank you.

I didn't ask to see it, and it wasn't attractive. It honestly looked a little like a one-eyed lizard dying of dehydration.

Needless to say, I haven't been in a rush to see another one.

So when I march into the locker room at the Washington Carvers' arena to meet my dad, and it's a sausagefest—literally, there are dicks swinging everywhere—muscle memory kicks in.

A startled scream rips from my throat as I assume the position…knees bent, hands up. Ready to do moderate amounts of damage. The one thing I forget to do? Close my eyes.

It's like my brain short circuits, and I can't look away.

The entire locker room falls silent, a dozen sets of eyes locked on me.

I'm staring at their dicks. They're staring at me.

Awkward.

"No weird, dehydrated one-eyed lizard cocks here," I mumble. Guess that solves the mystery of why Chad decided to whip his out apropos of nothing. He was not a show'er or a grow'er. He needed medical intervention.

"Uh, who's the chick?" Logan Moreno, the team's goalie, slowly lowers his hands to cover his junk, humor glinting in his striking blue eyes.

"More importantly, did she just compare our cocks to lizards?" River St. James, second line center and countrywide playboy, makes no move to cover his as he leans up against the wall, flashing his dimples at me.

"Why does she look like she just ripped one?" Micah Rushing asks, his brows furrowed. His wedding band glints on his finger as he slowly yanks a pair of boxers up his muscular legs.

"That smell isn't me. I think it's your sweaty balls." I wrinkle my nose, glancing around. The organization spared no expense on this place. It's fancy fancy. The floor is carpeted, with rows of open wooden lockers instead of the metal cages you'd find in a school. Their jersey numbers are painted in team colors above each one, with the logo emblazoned on the ceiling. But there's a lingering hint of stale sweat, as if it's permeated every inch of the room. "Does it always smell like ass in here?"

Laughter ripples across the locker room as Micah's lips quirk up into a grin. "That's not my ass and balls you smell, sweetheart. You're probably smelling Jordan."

"Fuck off, Micah," Jordan Silvestri growls, lifting a middle finger in the air before his steely gray eyes come to me, his expression severe. With the piercing in his ear, his tattoos, and his long hair tied up on top of his head, he doesn't look like he stinks. He looks downright dangerous. Hot and dangerous. "Why are you in our locker room?"

"Wow. You are a grouch," I mumble, not really surprised. Everyone says he can be difficult. Not that I would really know.

My dad has been the head coach of the Washington Carvers for the last six years, but I've spent even longer on the other side of the country, chasing my dreams. Even if I hadn't been, my dad has always tried to keep me as far from the team as possible.

As far as he's concerned, hockey players aren't to be trusted, especially not around his daughter. I guess he'd know. He played professionally for years before my mom got pregnant with me. She wanted to put me up for adoption. He didn't. That was pretty much the end of his career on the ice.

"And you didn't answer the question."

"She's Lariat's daughter."

I glance to the right to see Archer Graves, the team captain, leaning against a door frame, his dark hair damp as if he just finished showering. He jerks his chin at me, amusement in his blue eyes. "What's up, Emilia?"

"Oh, thank God." My hands fall back to my sides, relief rushing through me at the sight of someone I know. I watch their games religiously, but Archer is the only current member of the team I've ever met. He's also fully clothed. "It's a whole sausagefest in here. I was beginning to think this is all you guys do in here all day."

"Sit around naked?" Archer asks.

"Circle jerks. Isn't that what they're called?" I shrug. "I read about them. A bunch of guys get together and…" I clock the way everyone is staring at me in varying degrees of shock and horror and realize that, perhaps, I shouldn't finish that sentence. In a matter of days, I'll be their therapist. I probably shouldn't antagonize them too much right out of the gate. "You know what? Never mind. You've probably participated. You don't need me to explain the mechanics."

"Did she just accuse Cap of participating in a circle jerk?" Logan mumbles to Diego Tapia, who is staring at me with wide brown eyes and a shellshocked expression.

"Jesus fucking Christ." River falls against Jordan, choking on laughter.

Jordan just shakes his head and shoves him off, muttering something I can't hear. That's probably for the best. I don't think I want to know what he's thinking right now.

Judging by the way the whole team is looking at me, I don't want to know what any of them are thinking right now.

Rambling when I'm nervous has never done me any favors.

"Uh, I think she just accused all of us of participating in a circle jerk," Joaquin Reed answers for Diego.

"No. She just accused all of you of participating in multiple circle jerks," someone growls from behind me half a second before a pair of rough, callused hands cover my eyes.

My protest dies in a whimper as a hard body presses into me from behind. The faint smell of sweat is immediately eliminated by the delicious, spicy scent of his cologne. My head spins, my stomach doing this twisting spin maneuver I like a little too much.

"Pretty sure she meant you too, Nash," someone calls out.

"The hell she did," Nash Whatley growls, his lips dangerously close to my ear. His naked chest vibrates against my back, and I think I whimper. Why does he smell so good? Why is his body so ridiculously hard? Better question, why is he covering my eyes when I'm pretty sure he's naked? I didn't see him, and I'd very much like to see him.

I'm not what they call a puck bunny and never have been. I only keep up with the team because they're pretty much my dad's whole life…and will be mine soon, too. But it's impossible to watch this sport and not know about Nash Whatley, even if this is his first season with the Carvers.

He's a beast of a man with an iron will, gorgeous emerald eyes, and a deadly smirk. Female fans swoon over him in droves, but he never pays them a single bit of attention.

It's one of a million things that make him so fascinating.

His parents were killed in a horrific accident his last year of college. His little sister, Aspen, nearly died too. He was a shoe in for the draft that year. Instead, he opted out. He moved back home and took care of Aspen, only getting back into the game once she was fully recovered. He worked his way up from the minor leagues while raising her, and has been smashing records ever since.

My dad really likes him. And I really like looking at him when they pan to him during games. If now is my one chance to see all of him before I have to pretend I'm a professional with my shit together, I am so taking it.

"Hey. Let me go," I grumble, squirming against him, but I might as well be trying to move a brick wall. He doesn't even budge.

"Out of the locker room, princess. Now."

How he manages to keep my eyes covered and march me toward the door is a mystery, but he makes it seem easy.

"Good luck with your…activities!" I call to the team. "Use lotion!"

"Jesus Christ," someone—probably Jordan—mutters.

"You're fun. Please come back soon," Logan calls through laughter.

"No, thanks. Too many dicks, not enough brain bleach."

"Did anyone else notice that she's been insulting us and our dicks since she burst in here?" someone asks.

Their voices fade as a blast of cool air and the aroma of stale popcorn slaps me in the face. Half a second later, I hear the locker room door groan closed behind us.

Nash drops his hands, and I find myself staring at the cinderblock wall outside of the locker room. For a moment, he keeps his body pressed to mine before he slowly steps back.

I immediately spin to face him…only to realize he's still a lot closer than anticipated. I land against his naked chest, staring at a memorial tattoo inked over his heart.

"Jesus," he grunts, his arms going around me as he hauls me closer. He dips his head, his eyes meeting mine. I knew they were gorgeous, but damn. They're deadly up close and personal, flecks of gold scattered throughout the rich emerald. Something dark and vast flows through them as he stares at me. It's…intense, like staring at the surface of the sun.

"You aren't naked," I say…the first thing that comes to mind.

His lips twitch. So does his dick.

I immediately drop my gaze to steal a peek. What? I'm not the staff psychologist yet.

He quickly halts me with a finger under my chin, tilting my head up toward him.

"Eyes up here, baby girl."

"Why?"

"You don't need to see what's happening down there."

"Why not?"

He stares at me levelly. "Do you always ask so many questions?"

"It depends on the day. Are you always so bossy?"

"It depends on the woman." He grimaces as soon as he says it. "That didn't come out right. There are no other women."

"Because you don't do puck bunnies?"

"Do puck bunnies?" He chuckles ruefully. "Well, that's one way of putting it. But yeah, I don't do puck bunnies." His gaze flickers across my face. "I don't do any women."

"So you're gay?"

His brows wing together. He isn't mad, though. Just surprised by the question, I think. People probably walk on eggshells around these guys all day, every day, afraid of offending them. I am not that person. I can't do my job if I don't cross boundaries and get to the uncomfortable bits. Trauma isn't fun to talk about. If it were, everyone would do it.

"My dick is standing at attention right now because you smell like peaches, you sound fucking incredible when you whimper, and you're soft as hell," he rumbles. "I'd very much like to know if you smell that good everywhere, exactly what sound you'll make when I'm kissing you, and if you're just as soft beneath me. No, I'm not gay."

Well, then. I guess I'm not the only one in this hall comfortable crossing boundaries.

I squirm at the thought of him kissing me.

Heat blows through me at the thought of me beneath him.

Neither sounds like a bad time to me.

"What I meant to say is that I don't fuck around."

"Why not? Being a manwhore is pretty much a prerequisite for this sport." It's true. According to my father, most hockey players don't know how to keep it in their pants. I figure it has to do with spending their entire lives working to get to this level. Once they finally do, they're able to let loose for once. They take it to extremes because moderation isn't in their vocabulary. If it were, they probably wouldn't have stuck with a grueling sport they started playing when they were three.

Nash does not strike me as the type who takes things to extremes. He was probably born with his shit together, telling people what to do. It's kind of hot, honestly. I'll never be that put together or self-possessed.

He stares at me for a long moment, his gaze flickering over my face as if he's deep in thought about something. And then he shakes his head, a tiny smile curving his lips up at the corners. "You're going to be a problem, aren't you?"

For him? Absolutely. In general? Also, absolutely. If you aren't causing a little trouble in life, you're doing it wrong. At least, that's my motto.

Hockey players aren't the only ones who have spent a lifetime focusing on their goals. I spent mine trying to get into college. And then I spent my college years determined to be the best. Now that I'm done, maybe I have a few wild oats to sow.

"Who me?" I bat my lashes. "Never."

He chuckles again, shaking his head. "Why do I get the feeling you're lying your ass off?"

"Because you have a suspicious mind? It probably comes with the territory."

"Being in the spotlight isn't too bad." The hint of shadow in his eyes tells me that isn't entirely true. I think being in the spotlight has been a lot harder on him than he wants to admit, especially after he lost his parents the way he did.

People never really let him forget it. He's never allowed to just be Nash Whatley, incredible left defenseman. He's always Nash Whatley, the incredible left defenseman who tragically lost his parents and opted out of the draft to raise his sister.

"Who said anything about that?" I smirk, teasing because I can't resist. I want to erase that shadow, replace it with laughter. "I was talking about circle jerks in the locker room. Doing that where anyone can walk in?" I arch a brow at him. "Talk about risky behavior, Whatley."

"We don't jerk off in the locker room."

"Together or separately? Because, honestly, that seems like a missed opportunity right there. That locker room is fancy."

He growls, something wholly predatory flashing in his eyes as he gently backs me up against the wall. "You talk a lot of shit for someone your size."

"Jealous of my size now, huh?" I ask, my voice breathy as he looms over me, caging me in against the wall. I'm not a small girl. I never have been. I'm five six and wear size twenty on a good day. But next to him, I might as well be four feet and ninety pounds. He's just that freaking big.

"Jealous I don't know what that fucking mouth tastes like yet," he grunts, his gaze dropping to my mouth. "Your size is part of the reason I might just be jerking my cock in the locker room today—for the first time, I might add. And no, I won't have an audience."

"Your team will be disappointed to hear that."

"It's not a team sport, princess."

"Pity," I whisper, licking my lips. "Seems like it'd be way more fun if it were."

"Fucking minx," he groans, his hands sinking into my hips as he leans toward me. My stomach bottoms out, my heart racing at the way he grips me so possessively.

This is it. Nash Whatley is going to kiss me.

He leans closer.

"Whatley! Why the fuck do you have your hands on my daughter?"

I hate my life. It's a cruel, vicious Shakespearean farce. And my father is the Bard himself, penning gosh damn tragedies right through the middle of the good parts.

Nash's eyes whip to mine like lightning striking, his hands falling from my hips. "Daughter?"

"Did I forget to mention that?"

"Yeah, princess," he growls, storm clouds roiling in his eyes. "You definitely forgot to mention that."

"Whoops. My bad."

I should probably feel guilty for not making sure he knew, but I don't. It's been the same story my whole life. As soon as someone finds out who my dad is, suddenly, I'm untouchable. Even on the other side of the freaking country, as soon as people knew, my dating life dried up faster than the Sahara. The only candidates left were the guys hoping to get in good with him…and that was absolutely not happening.

Being the only virgin left alive never really bothered me before. No one ever interested me enough to get worked up about it when toys do the trick just fine. But I really, really wanted this man to do some touching.

There's no way that's happening now.

I slide out from under his arm, disappointment coursing through me.

His lips brush my ear, sending a jolt through me. "If you think being Lariat's kid is going to save you, you're wrong," he growls.

I whip my head in his direction, my eyes wide.

"This isn't over."

"Whatley!" my dad growls. "Don't piss me off, kid."

Damn. I almost forgot he was charging toward us like a raging bull. His timing, for lack of a more apt descriptor, sucks sweaty hockey balls.

"Found her in the locker room, Coach," Nash says casually, turning to glance at my dad, who is staring at us with suspicion stamped all over his rugged face. "I just escorted her out and was making sure she's okay." He winks at me, stepping away to create some respectable distance. "She's a little upset about what she saw in there. I believe she called it a sausagefest."

Oh, he's good. Evil, but good.

"Fuck." My dad stops midstep, glancing toward the locker room door with furrowed brows. "She walked in there?"

"She is right here," I complain. Being talked around is so aggravating! I'm twenty-four, not four.

"You walked in on them changing?"

"Yes."

"Son of a bitch," my dad mutters.

"Nice to meet you, Emilia." Nash pulls open the locker room door, strolling through it. I may or may not stare at his ass the whole time. I'll never tell.

"You okay, kid?" my dad asks.

I startle, quickly yanking my gaze up.

"Fine," I mumble, and then press my hands to my overheated cheeks, staring at him with wide eyes. "You could have warned me not to go in there!"

He rubs the back of his neck, chuckling ruefully. "Well, shit, Em. I figured you'd call me when you got here, not burst right in."

I eye him sideways. Does he even know me at all? "When have I ever knocked on a door?"

"Good point." He strides forward, pulling me into a tight hug. I squeeze him back, resting my head on his broad shoulder for a minute. I've missed him like crazy. I've always been a daddy's girl. "Were they nice to you?"

"I'm going to need brain bleach to unsee what I saw, especially if I'm going to be helping out around here, but they were fine, Dad. Very respectful," I promise.

"What was going on with Nash?" He pulls back to look at me, suspicion lingering in his gaze. "That didn't look like him comforting you. He was in boxers."

"And I was a deer in the headlights with a team of naked hockey players. Naked hockey players who I'll be discussing mental health things with in two weeks, I might remind you. Would you have preferred that he left me in there? He was just being helpful."

"You sure? I'll send his ass down to our minor league team if I need to do it, Emilia," he says, his hazel eyes completely serious. "If you're going to be working for the team, I don't want them thinking they can fuck around with you. If I need to make an example of someone to drive that fact home, I'll do it."

"Dad," I protest, my heart clenching at the thought of him sending Nash to the minor league team in Pennsylvania. "That's insane!"

"You come first, kid. You aren't getting mixed up with one of these guys. I know exactly what kind of trouble they can be. I used to be one of them. How do you think I met your mom?"

I've heard that story before. My mom was a fan of the team. My dad was a fan of my mom. And she wasn't a fan of motherhood or being tied down. When she got pregnant and he asked her to marry him, she opted out.

It's just been the two of us since.

I still see her occasionally, but we've never been close. I've never known her enough to miss her when she's not around. She's just the woman who gave birth to me but didn't want the responsibility. My dad is the MVP who stuck it out. He's the one who gave up everything to give me an incredible life. As far as I'm concerned, he's a hero.

He drops a kiss on my head. "Let me go light a fire under their asses, and then I'll show you to your office."

"Sure," I say weakly, watching as he strides into the locker room. I swallow hard, leaning against the wall. Looks like my fun with Nash Whatley is officially over. There's no way I'm going to risk him being sent down just because I like him. It's just not worth his career. He was born to play, not to throw it all away for his coach's daughter.

"It was fun while it lasted," I mutter, sighing heavily. At least I got good fantasy material out of it. That'll have to do because my dad was serious. He will absolutely send him down to make an example of him. And then I'll forever be the girl who ruined Nash Whatley's career. Exactly like I ruined my dad's.

I do not need that bad juju following me around. No, thank you.