Revenge Puck (Shot at Love #1)

Chapter 10

10

Preston

T he morning after our big win, I see a missed call from Tommy after breakfast. I’m in such a good mood that I actually call him back while sitting in the hotel’s restaurant. After all, I’m sitting alone, none of my teammates, coaches, or staff willing to approach me during a meal.

“Preston, my man!” my agent answers.

“What’s up, Tommy?”

“Last night was insane! How did you pull off nailing Riley’s girl?”

Speaking quietly to ensure nobody overhears, I tell him, “That’s not…it’s just a few photos to make him think we’re sleeping together.”

“Well, it was a genius idea because it worked. I’ve never seen Riley go off like that. He played like absolute shit.”

“Yeah, he did. It was fun to watch.”

“And you kept your anger in check, making it through the entire game without even a penalty!”

“Guess there’s a first time for everything.”

“Congrats on the win. Keep doing what you’re doing and offers are going to start rolling in. The Warhawks office seems to still be holding their breath, hoping last night wasn’t a fluke with you.”

“It wasn’t a fluke. From now on, I’ll be fine playing against Christian.”

“All this PR about you finally having a girlfriend is good for your image, too. I’ve been getting calls asking if you want to do talk shows and shit.”

“Hell no.”

“I figured you wouldn’t be up for any of that. That’s why I turned them all down. But if you want to give me a few quotes to pass along about this mystery girl of Riley’s, we could keep the buzz going through the playoffs.”

Elle didn’t seem too thrilled about keeping our fake relationship going last night. I doubt if she’ll want to keep pretending through the playoffs. That’s at least three more games, possibly as many as six.

“No quotes for now,” I tell Tommy. “Let me know if you get any offers.”

“I will. Stay focused and keep winning,” the man says before ending the call.

For the rest of the morning, I try to come up with a way to convince Elle to keep putting up with me.

I don’t think she’s the type of woman to accept money. There has to be something, though…

After a team meeting to watch the film from the night before, I’m in a damn fine mood when I head to Elle’s salon.

The Beauty Boutique .

I only saw the outside in the dark last night, the name painted on a window next to the door with the logo of a comb and scissors, or shears, on it. When I walk inside, a bell overhead chimes letting them know they have a customer. Not that they probably heard it over the sound of hairdryers running.

There are six black and silver salon chairs, three on each side of the place, with room to walk down the middle to a tall desk that backs to a wall. One of the chairs is upright in front of a mirror, another is where they must wash hair in the sinks. And the third chair is in front of a helmet looking thing.

Didn’t Elle mention something about going down on Christian in one of her salon chairs?

I try to mentally scrub that image from my head as I wait for the beautiful blonde to look up from the head of white hair she’s brushing and drying at the same time. Her friend, who is putting some foil on some woman’s hair on the other side of the room, smiles and gives me a wave.

I don’t mind standing there waiting, since it gives me a chance to ogle every inch of Elle. With her blonde hair tied up in a messy topknot, her bare neck looks absolutely delectable. Her flowy, knee-length green dress unfortunately doesn’t hug her curves like the jeans last night. It does give me a nice look at her tan legs. And the things it does to her breasts, pushing them up from the low-cut neck…

“Preston.” I didn’t even notice the hair dryer cutting off. “Hey. I can squeeze you in as soon as I finish up here with Ms. Crawford.”

The mention of squeezing me in has my mind going straight to the gutter. Maybe having a fake relationship after going years without sex is a bad idea. I try to refrain from even self-love during the season, but if I stand here much longer, I’ll have no choice but to go stroke one out. Or two or three.

“Do you mind waiting?” Elle asks, when I didn’t respond. It takes me longer than it should to realize she’s not asking me to delay keeping my hand off my dick.

“I can definitely wait.”

For her and a much-needed release. Like Coach reminded me, there’s too much on the line to lose my edge now.

“Good. There are chairs, a television, and some magazines in the back. I’ll come get you in a few minutes.”

“Okay,” I agree. I’d rather stand around and keep staring at her, but she probably doesn’t want me lurking. Or scaring her customers who all watch me with wide eyes. Still, just seeing her again has me feeling lighter, like the air goes in and out of my lungs a little easier. It’s as if her close proximity has the heavy pressure lifting from my shoulders for a little while.

That’s probably just my dick temporarily taking over all bodily functions from my head.

I walk to the back, not even sure if the cute little pink and black chairs can hold me, so I choose the black bench seat instead.

And wouldn’t you know, the television is on the local mid-day news, replaying the highlights from last night. They even show a quick shot of Elle in the stands with her sign.

About five minutes later, I hear Elle’s voice setting up an appointment two weeks out, then saying goodbye before the front door jingles.

“Are you sure you want a cut?” Elle asks when she appears in the open doorway, her hands on her hips ready to get to work.

“Yeah, I’m sure.” I follow her back to the first chair. She has to lower it in order to reach my head.

“So, this is the inside of your salon, huh?” I ask like an idiot as she drapes a cape over me and fastens it at the back of my neck.

“This is it. How short do you want your hair? And have you reached a verdict on the beard?”

Is it just me or does she seem to be all business today? Maybe she’s just busy and doesn’t have time for small talk since I walked in without an appointment.

“I’m gonna leave all those decisions in your hands.”

“Really?”

“Really. I trust you,” I tell her in the mirror’s reflection.

Brows high, she doesn’t look convinced. “You trust me? After one kiss?”

“And hanging out last night.”

“Did you see the photos of us from the club?”

“I did. There were quite a few tagging us on social media.”

“My phone is still blowing up because of the kiss and the sign. And about that second kiss you mentioned...”

“Yeah? What about it?”

“Would it be done in public as another photo op?”

“Sure. Why not? It’ll be adding more fuel to the fire before game two tomorrow night.”

“Right.” Elle visibly deflates, as if that’s the wrong answer.

“You are coming to the game, right?” I ask her.

“I don’t have any tickets. Audrey and I pulled a lot of strings for the ones last night that we didn’t even end up using.”

“I can find you seats again,” I assure her.

“Okay, if you can find me a seat, I will be there.”

Showing up at the game and spending time with me are, sadly, not even close to the same thing.

“Will you wear my jersey again?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then what?” I ask her.

“What do you mean?”

“After game two, I’ll have to leave to go back to D.C. for games three and four.”

“If that’s all it takes for the Warhawks to win the championships,” Elle points out.

“What happens to our fake relationship once I leave town?”

“We can pretend we’re making the long-distance thing work at first,” she suggests, wetting my hair down with a spray bottle of water. Grabbing a comb, she runs it through my hair. “Then, either you’ll be back for alternating games five and seven or you won’t. The attention dies down once someone wins, preferably the Bobcats.”

“Agree to disagree.”

Smirking while combing back my hair, she says, “Either way, we could tell anyone who asks that we couldn’t make long distance work, not when I have my business here and you play in D.C.”

“Not even during the summer for the off-season?” I throw the idea out there. Hypothetically, of course.

She waves her hand through the air. “We’ll be old news by the summer.”

“Sure. Yeah. Old news.” Guess that’s a no on hypothetically seeing her after the playoffs.

“So, are you ready to get started?” she asks.

“Do your worst.”

Her fingers slide into my thick mane, soothing and arousing as hell. She’s not even tugging on it and I’m thinking about her grabbing it when my face is between her thighs.

“You have…a lot of hair. Do you know what Audrey calls you?” Elle asks, forcing me to push down the dirty thoughts.

“Don’t you dare, Elle!” the brunette shouts from the other side of the room.

Arching an eyebrow, I say, “Now I have to know what she calls me.”

Ignoring her friend’s continued pleas, she whispers loudly, “Woolly mammoth.”

“Damn. That’s harsh. I don’t even have any tusks.”

“Well, you are going to be a handsome, groomed mammoth when I’m done with you.”

“And when I get cold out there on the ice without layers of fuzz?”

“You can think of kissing me,” Elle says with a smile. “You said that was hot, right?”

“It was crazy hot.”

“Besides, I seriously doubt you have a moment to get cold when you’re constantly skating back and forth the entire game.”

“True enough.”

Elle wets my hair a little more with the spray bottle, then takes a comb and shears to get to work while I try to sit as still as possible.

As the chunks of hair fall away, I ask her, “Is this what you always wanted to do?”

“Own my own business?”

“That and be a, what do you call it, hair stylist? I don’t know what you call a female barber.”

“Stylist is fine.” She flashes me a smile in the mirror. “And yes, I cut off all my dolls’ hair by the time I was five, so my parents stopped buying them.”

“What did you do then?”

“Cut my own hair, of course.”

“Of course. Bet they loved that.”

“They eventually bought me a mannequin head along with a few cheap wigs after I nicked my earlobe with the scissors and bled all over the place.”

“Wow.”

“But then when I got older, and I was allowed to practice on actual people, the reason for cutting and styling changed. It was no longer about being creative. It became a way to help people feel a little bit better about themselves, to walk out of the salon with more confidence than they came in with. It’s stupid that women especially put so much stock in their physical appearance, but we do. And when we look good, we feel good. Even if it’s only for a day.”

“Only for a day?”

“My clients tell me they can never recreate how I style their hair at home. The same goes for me, too. My hair never looks as good as it does when Audrey styles it.”

I consider her words for a long moment. “It’s bullshit that those assholes were saying awful things about you last night when you work all day, every day, to help others feel good about themselves.”

“You’re pulling out all the stops today, aren’t you, big guy?”

That wasn’t a line. I meant it. Still, I tell her, “Just because we’re fake dating doesn’t mean I shouldn’t get in some practice on how to talk to women without getting blocked, right?”

“Sure. May as well get your practice in while you can, since I’m a sure thing.”

“How about having dinner with me tonight?” I blurt out.

“Is that an actual request or just more practice?”

“Why can’t it be both?”

Elle shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know why it can’t be both, or you don’t know if you want to have dinner with me?”

“I have appointments until about seven tonight.”

“My bedtime isn’t that early.”

“Then…I guess I could call you after I finish up and freshen up?”

“As late as you want. Let me have your phone and I’ll put in my number so we won’t have to go through social media.”

“Okay,” she agrees, reaching into her front dress pocket and offering me the device unlocked.

Is it normal for women to be so free with letting someone see their phone? Since I haven’t been on a date in years, I would have to delete a few porn sites before I hand over my phone to anyone. Despite my adamant attempt to avoid self-love, I sometimes slip.

After I add in my contact to her phone, I pull up Instagram and my thumbs get busy.

“What are you doing?” Elle asks, seeing the screen over my shoulder.

“Deleting all the hateful shit on your post.”

“There are tons of messages and comments!”

“Saying negative things?” I ask, watching her in the mirror’s reflection.

Elle shrugs. “Well, not all of them. Some are very nice. But there are a lot of shitty comments.”

“Why haven’t you deleted the ones from jerks yet?”

“Because I figured they were like gray hairs.”

“Huh?” I ask, brows furrowing in confusion.

“You know, if you pluck out one gray hair, two grow back.”

“Then you pluck every single one out and be done with them.”

Sighing, she says, “I wish the bad comments didn’t hit so hard that it takes at least a dozen positive ones to even try to negate it, but that’s how it goes.”

“That’s why I don’t even bother reading anything about the team or me in the news. I’ve had enough criticism for one lifetime after how bad I played my rookie year.”

“Yeah? It was tough making the adjustment to the pros?”

“Something like that.”

It’s not like I can tell her, or could’ve explained to my teammates at the time, that I barely got any sleep at night because of a crying baby.

I’ve kept my private life out of the spotlight for almost five years, and I have no intention of revealing it now, not even to Elle.

For the next half hour, I enjoy Elle’s fingers running through my hair, especially when she scrubs my scalp with shampoo in the sink. I can barely hold in my groan. This is so much better than the barber shop.

And while Elle is trimming my beard, I get to stare at her amazing breasts that are right in front of my face.

She does a great job too. Honestly, I barely recognize myself when she’s finished. I look years younger and probably less like a homeless thug.

“Well? What do you think?” she asks when I don’t comment.

Rubbing my fingers over the now neatly short, tidy beard I won’t have to worry about getting food in, I tell her the truth. “I like it.”

“And the hair?”

I thread my fingers through the shorter locks that she put some product in to make it look messy, but in a good way. At least, I guess that was the goal. “Less to wash and drip with sweat, for sure.”

“A glowing recommendation,” Elle says. “Mind if I put that quote on our salon’s social media page?”

“Go for it.”

“Seriously, though, would you mind taking another selfie for me, like a before and after?”

“You sure? I thought the comments yesterday upset you.”

“This photo will go on the salon’s account for the good of growing our business, getting in new customers in the area. Hopefully, they won’t be jerks.”

“Then let’s do it on one condition?”

“What’s that?”

“We keep up our act until the finals are over.”

“You want to keep seeing me through the finals?” she repeats, not the least bit enthusiastic. She’s not having second thoughts about getting back with Riley, is she?

“I want to keep seeing you, Elle.”

“While you’re in town for game two and when you’re back in town for game five?”

“While I’m in town for tomorrow’s game, and if I have to come back for game five,” I amend, because I hope the Warhawks can win four straight games to take the trophy.

“So, we’ll keeping seeing each other until you stop coming to Greensboro, whenever that may be?”

“Yes.” When she doesn’t instantly agree, I tell her, “Come on, Elle. It’ll be fun. And it’ll drive Riley fucking crazy.”

Now she bites her bottom lip, before finally saying, “Deal.”

I’m glad she agreed, even if I had to bring up Riley to seal the deal.

Since I’m about her height sitting, Elle takes a few snaps of us with her phone and then I’m out of excuses to lurk around the salon any longer.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask after she removes my cape and blows the loose hair from my neck with a hairdryer.

“Nothing. It’s on the house.”

“Are you sure?”

“A friend doing another friend a favor.”

“Friends. Right. Well, thank you.”

“Thanks for coming by.”

“Hope to see you tonight.”

Nodding, she says, “I’ll let you know when I get finished up.”

“Can’t wait.”

After I walk out of Elle’s salon, it’s like the world is too quiet, too empty without her next to me, her fingers no longer running through my hair.

I’m obviously developing stalker tendencies since I have her Instagram up, probably before I make it half a block to my car.

Only this time, I also look for The Beauty Boutique ’s page. It’s got a decent following already, and there my face is, front and center next to the picture from yesterday. What I don’t like is that Elle cropped herself out of both. We’re gonna have words about that at dinner.

Before I can send her a message asking for a copy of the original pictures, I recognize a few other men scattered through the client photos underneath mine.

Of course, Riley’s smug ass face appears several times. That one I don’t care for but was at least expecting. It’s the other men, at least half a dozen other Bobcats hockey players, all freshly cut and facial hair shaved or trimmed.

Elle was adamant yesterday that she wasn’t a puck bunny, but these photos tell a different story. She’s been up close and personal with at least…seven.

Before I can stop myself, my feet turn around to stomp right back to the salon. Thankfully, Elle is alone, sweeping up my black hairs that are all over the floor, her friend somewhere in the back.

“Hey. Is everything okay?” She frowns when she looks up and sees me.

“You said you weren’t a puck bunny,” I remark, holding up my phone to show her the photos instead of trying to name them all.

Elle blinks up at me as if waiting for me to say more. When I don’t, she just shakes her head and lowers her gaze to the broom that’s sweeping the floor once again.

“Well?”

“Are you seriously asking me if I slept with all those players? Wow, Preston. Now who sounds like an asshole? I’ll give you a hint—it’s not Christian or those jerks online.”

Damn. Her comment puts me in my place, making me feel about two feet tall.

What the hell is wrong with me? It’s bad enough that she had to deal with all the strangers bad-mouthing her and slut shaming her yesterday. Did I really just come charging back into her salon to basically call her a liar and infer she’s slept with men before she even knew my name?

Yes, yes, I did.

“I’m sorry, Elle. That’s…I’m not sure what I was thinking. I just got irrationally jealous, which is stupid since we just met yesterday…”

“And we’re in a fake relationship,” she adds.

“Fake. Right,” I agree. “And I know there is no excuse for me acting like a possessive dick, but it has been years since I dated a woman. Guess I’m out of practice on what’s appropriate…”

Elle slowly bends down to sweep the hair into a dustpan then dump it into the trash can before facing me again. “Slut shaming isn’t that new of a concept.”

“I wasn’t…that wasn’t…the problem wasn’t that I thought you had been with them as much as it was thinking that they had been with you.”

Frowning even harder, she crosses her arms over her ample chest and huffs, “That doesn’t make a lick of sense.”

“I guess I just feel sort of protective of you. I know you can take care of yourself. It’s just, if any of them used you then hurt you like Riley did, I would kick their asses.” When Elle winces at the term “used” I immediately want to take it back, swallow it down my throat. Too late now...

“Preston, I think you should try to figure out how to resolve conflicts without resorting to violence, even if it’s figurative and not literal.”

“I know. You’re right. I should. But growing up, my parents and coaches encouraged me to use my size and strength to be a bully on the ice. That’s what I was good at, not skating, not scoring. Just being scary, hitting people, and hurting them so I could one day go pro.”

“You are good at it, and it pays you millions of dollars a year, so I get it. Maybe you could just try to keep your temper on the ice. No, not just on the ice, but in the games.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said your teammates aren’t fans of you always roughing them up.”

“That only happens in practice.”

“Since they’re your teammates and not your enemy or opponents, you can’t take it a little bit easier on them in practice?”

“No. I’m trying to prepare them for the hits during games.”

“Have you ever hurt any of them?”

“Nothing major.”

Shaking her head, she says, “I don’t think you’re supposed to hurt people on your team, Preston. That could be one of the reasons the Warhawks haven’t extended your contract.”

“How do you figure that?” Elle’s a sweet girl, but she doesn’t know anything about the behind-the-scenes politics with agents and owners and shit.

“All those guys in those photos are Christian’s teammates, and they actually like him. It’s why they let him convince them to come here for haircuts to help me and Audrey out, as a favor.”

“Yeah, I’m aware of how they all worship the ground that prick walks on.”

“It’s not just because he’s a good player, the leading scorer in their games. He’s actually friends with them. As arrogant as he can be, he always gives them the credit they deserved for assists or blocking goals or whatever else. They hang out together several times a week. They’re almost as close as a family.”

“Are you telling me I should be more like Christian fucking Riley?”

“Only as a team player. Not in your personal life, obviously.” Elle rolls her pretty hazel eyes that look a little more green and less gold today. “He could definitely learn a few things from you about being a better man when it comes to relationships. Or at least a lack of wanting the distraction.”

“How long did you two…date?” I ask rather than use the more indecent term.

“Five months.”

An actual whistle of surprise escapes me. “That’s a long damn time, Elle.”

“Long enough that I thought we were together, as in not seeing anyone else, since he came over most nights. All the nights he was in town.”

“But when he went out of town…”

“He couldn’t keep it in his pants. Or didn’t want to keep it in his pants. He should’ve at least told me. He assumed I knew he was with other women. It was crazy for me to even give Christian Riley the benefit of the doubt that I was enough for someone like him.”

Fuck. I hate Riley just a little bit more for making Elle feel that way.

“You are enough, Elle,” I assure her.

“Not for him, I wasn’t.”

“Riley’s a stupid fool who ruins everything.”

“What do you mean, he ruins everything?” she asks.

“I just meant that he can’t help but get in his own way because he’s an asshole who only thinks about himself.”

“That we can agree on. I don’t think he ever once considered how I felt about him. To him, I was just a warm body whenever he wanted it, but for me, he was more than that…”

“Did you love him?”

Her lips twist as she seems to consider my question for a long moment. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I wanted to, but it was like I knew deep down that he was holding back part of himself from me, so I held back a part of myself, too. He still broke my heart, but I’m not going to waste weeks or months mourning a love that wasn’t ever there.”

Thank god she doesn’t love him. He still broke her heart, though. I don’t even know what to say to that.

I don’t want to say anything. I want to do something, to lash out and punch the son of a bitch in his smug face.

Both of my fists clench by my sides as my temper tries to break free again like before. Before I met Elle. But I push it all down. Getting angry at Christian or hitting him yet again won’t change anything for her.

All I can do is try not to make things worse.

“Sorry I was a dick who assumed the worst about you. I…I guess I have trust issues with people. But I promise I won’t flip out like that again on you.”

“Good. Because of that macho bullshit, I’m this close to being done with you, Preston.” Elle holds up her finger and thumb about an inch apart. Shit. I really am fucking things up with her.

I haven’t seen this tougher side of Elle, and it’s hot, even though I know she means every word. I’m on seriously thin ice with her.

“This is my place of business,” she reminds me. “If a client had been in here when you started roaring…”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’ll go. Wish I could press rewind and leave for the first time again.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Elle lets out a heavy sigh. It’s a sigh that says that she didn’t sign up for me calling her a liar or demanding to know things about her past that aren’t any of my business.

My trust issues come from an ugly, fucked-up history of having the people I loved, the people I trusted more than anyone else in the world, hurt me. That’s another reason why I haven’t tried to date anyone in years.

And even fake dating a beautiful woman is turning out to be even harder than I expected.