The Triple Play (Pucking Daddies #4)

1. Annie

Chapter 1

Annie

G ood girls don’t fantasize about three hockey players with their hands all over her body.

Especially when her boyfriend’s sitting ten feet away.

But here I was…

After another night with Elliot transfixed on the game and barely acknowledging I existed, my halo was slipping.

One hour until I had to sing.

Smokey’s was packed tighter than usual. The walls—lined with signed Atlanta Fire jerseys and broken sticks—vibrated with hometown pride.

Game nights like this made the place come alive.

The sound of sticks clashing and blades cutting across the ice echoed from the TV speakers above the bar, and the crowd leaned in with every flick of the puck.

But Elliot, sitting with his eyes glued to the screen and a draft beer in his hand, his muscles tense and his mouth parted in anticipation, was my biggest clue that an important game was on.

The Fire was on the brink of a win, which meant the bar would be loud, sweaty, and impossible to perform in—at least until the final buzzer sounded.

Bartending at smokey's came with its perks. A steady, reliable job and paycheck, free tickets to most of the Fire's games since the owner’s son played on the team, occasional nights where I could sing, and free drinks for my boyfriend.

I placed my hand on his shoulder to get his attention. “I need help setting up the speakers. Do you know where the XLR is?”

“Why would I know where your cables are?” Elliot grumbled, brushing my hand off and wrapping his fingers around my wrist. “Why is it so hard for you to keep track of your sh—” He cut off as the crowd roared. His head whipped back to the screen so fast I half-expected whiplash.

There, on the ice, Cole Maxwell was seconds from making one of the biggest plays of the night. He was a winger—left, I was pretty sure. Speeding up, he was now inches from one of the away team’s forwards who had the puck under his control. I blinked, and suddenly they were on the boards, Maxwell’s shoulder slamming into him?—

The sound of a whistle cut through the hype, and the white and black stripes of the referee gliding across the ice took up the screen instead.

“Fucks sake,” Elliot snapped, joining in with the crowd in the bar collectively shouting their aggression at the television. “Come on!”

As much as I loved the game, I couldn’t bring myself to be enthusiastic tonight.

Not when I was already exhausted from a full shift here earlier, not when I was trying to nurse my throat after the cold I’d just gotten over, and certainly not when Elliot was hardly paying attention to me.

I slipped behind the bar, giving a fake smile to the coworker I’d been on shift with earlier who was still working the evening game, and got myself a glass of water.

On the screen, Cole Maxwell was led to the penalty box. He spat out his mouthguard and shouted something the microphones didn’t quite pick up, his brows furrowed and nose crinkled.

For a second, I truly understood why so many puck bunnies hung out here.

He was hot — most of the men who played were. But I wasn't a puck bunny and good girls like me dated guys like Elliot.

He was mostly nice, outgoing, published . A starving artist, sure, but so was I— and he was hot, all six feet of him. His dark hair and chiseled jaw had drawn me to him in the first place during my late-night swipe-a-thon.

But sometimes, he had nights like tonight, nights where he was annoyed at being pulled away from writing his latest book and wasn’t going to let that be anyone else’s problem but mine.

I shuffled my way to the staff room to find my cable and take a moment to center myself and sing a few bars away from the crowd and away from Elliot.

The staff room at Smokey’s was barely bigger than a walk-in closet. A scuffed mirror above the sink. A warped bench along the wall. Fluorescent lights that buzzed like they were seconds from dying.

But it was quiet and empty.

I popped a single headphone in to play my backing track for the first song, finding my key, and then turned it off as I sang the rest by memory, my voice cracking on the high note. Grimacing, I downed a bit more water and ran it a few more times, making sure not to overstress my voice. Worst case, if I couldn’t land it, I’d just drop the note to the octave below.

But as I tried again, a different image played behind my eyes. Not sheet music. Not the crowd. Not Elliot.

Colton Miller.

His grin. His swagger. That wild, golden-boy energy like he’d just rolled out of someone’s bed and hadn’t even bothered to fix his hair. I could see him skating toward the glass, sweat dripping down his neck, his tongue between his teeth as he winked at me like I was the only thing he saw in the arena.

Then came Xavi Moreau—dark eyes, darker scowl, helmet off, curls damp with sweat. Broad and brutal and brooding. The kind of man who didn’t ask for permission. Who just pointed and said, “come.”

And Cole Maxwell…

God, Cole.

The team’s oldest vet. Silver at his temples, smirk like sin. The kind of man who could take you apart piece by piece and enjoy every second of it. Slow. Methodical. Ruinous.

My thighs clenched.

What the hell was I doing?

But I didn’t stop.

In my head, I was on my knees in the locker room.

Colton in front of me, tugging me closer by the hair, playful but greedy. “Let’s see how good that pretty mouth really is, sweetheart.”

Xavi behind me, holding me in place, whispering filth in French while he slid one thick finger between my thighs.

And Cole? Cole stood over us, calm and in control, stroking himself lazily with one hand as he watched me fall apart under the two of them. His voice low and commanding. “Good girl. Just like that. Take everything they give you.”

I whimpered—actually whimpered—and slapped a hand over my mouth.

Jesus Christ.

I was flushed from head to toe. My nipples were hard, scraping against the inside of my bra. I reached for my water and gulped it down like it could put out the fire between my legs.

But the images kept coming.

Now I was on my back, legs spread, with all three of them hovering over me.

Colton was between my thighs, tongue buried in me like he was starving. His hands pinned my hips down, and his muffled voice sent vibrations straight through my core.

Xavi sucked on my nipples, telling me in that deep, accented growl that I was his.

And Cole knelt at my side, fingers wrapped around my throat—not tight, just firm. His mouth brushing mine as he said, “You wanted attention, baby? Let me show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”

My hips rocked against nothing.

I leaned against the sink, panting, trying to shake the images out of my head.

This wasn’t who I was. I didn’t do stuff like this. I didn’t even watch porn.

I had a boyfriend. Even if he was inattentive and moody and made me feel like an afterthought.

I didn’t fantasize about getting railed by three hockey players in the staff room.

Except… I did.

And it felt better than anything Elliot had given me in months.

I stared at myself in the mirror. Cheeks flushed. Pupils blown. My lips parted like I’d just been kissed senseless. I splashed cold water on my face and grabbed my phone, hands still trembling.

This was a moment. Just a passing fantasy.

No one would ever know.

I had a set to sing. A boyfriend in the bar. A life to pretend was still working.

Even if part of me was already imagining what it would feel like if any of them walked in right now and caught me like this.

But even as I opened the door to head back into the bar, my skin still tingled where I imagined their hands would be.

I checked my phone — thirty minutes until I had to sing. Ten minutes of game time left, and then the puck bunnies and fans would swarm the bar, waiting anxiously for any players that happened to swing by. A decent crowd, at least. But I couldn’t help but feel a little regretful that they would be who I was singing for and not a crowd that had actually heard my music and wanted to come specifically for me.

I glanced around the bar but my mind went back to my fantasy.

It wasn’t just about sex. It was about being seen. Wanted. Fought for.

My cheeks heated all over again at the thought. What if one of them walked in tonight? What if I had to face Cole Maxwell after picturing myself on my knees for him?

God. I’d die.

Not that it mattered. Players didn’t notice girls like me. I wasn’t the flirty, glossy type with a fake laugh and a selfie-ready smile. I wasn’t bold. I wasn’t wild.

I was just… Annie.

A good girl.

Who never broke the rules.