Cocky Mother Pucker (Hollis U #1)

Chapter 1

Nick

Someone’s hand is on my dick.

I peel one eye open and stifle a yawn, relieved to see the pretty brunette sleeping next to me.

Slowly, I reach my arm up and stretch, groaning softly as I try to remember her name. It’s something unique. Like, Aspen or Ainsley. Maybe Addison?

Oddly enough, this isn’t the first time I’ve woken up with a stranger’s hand around my cock.

I think back to last season when my teammates and I went out to celebrate after beating Boston State at the College Winter Classic for men’s hockey. I drank my weight in tequila, blacked out, and woke up on the floor of my hotel bathroom with Boston State mascot’s giant fuzzy hand around my cock.

So this is definitely a step up from that.

I yawn, my brain slowly crawling out of the sleep-fog. That’s when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I turn and see a cute redhead stirring in her sleep, lying behind me.

Oh, damn.

That’s when I realize that I’m sleeping on the pull-out couch in the living room and not my bed.

As quietly as I can, I sit up and glance at the two women on either side of me. Memories of last night’s house party replay like a slow-moving highlight reel.

It was my twenty-first birthday, so my housemates threw me a huge party.

I remember taking shots of vodka in the kitchen with the two ladies while laughing and joking around, then moving to the couch in the living room to play truth or dare, which led to us making out, which led to us shedding our clothes and getting wild in front of the entire house party…

I scrub a hand on my stubbled cheek and chuckle softly to myself. Damn indeed.

Yeah, I know how this looks. Like some kind of deviant sex fest. It’s not that deep, though.

I’m just a guy who likes to have a good time. And when you’re the star center and captain of your college hockey team, like I am, it’s easy to have a good time.

Especially when you share a house with three of your teammates who are cool with letting loose and having fun. We’ve hosted countless parties in the year that we’ve lived together. They always get wild.

“Dude, what the hell?”

I look up and see Travis Maxton, my best friend, teammate, and roommate, standing at the bottom of the stairs, frowning at me.

I press my index finger to my lips, shushing him. As quietly as I can, I move away from between the two still-sleeping ladies and slide off the couch bed.

He groans and looks away from me. “Dude, I don’t wanna see your dick. Cover up.”

I hold back a laugh as I step around a cluster of empty beer cans. I spot what I think are my sweatpants on the floor. I pull them on.

“You’re just jealous of my massive size, Travvie.”

He rolls his eyes, annoyed. He sets his gear bag on the ground, careful not to make noise. “Why aren’t you dressed for practice?”

I grin and glance back at the sleeping ladies. “I was busy entertaining my guests.”

He huffs out a heavy sigh and shakes his head, like he’s never been more irritated.

You’d never guess that Travis and I are best friends based on half of our interactions. Most of the time, he’s rolling his eyes at whatever dumbass thing I’ve done or said.

But that’s our dynamic. I’m the jokester. He’s the serious one.

It’s been like this ever since middle school, when we played on the same hockey team and became friends. I get on his nerves. We give each other shit.

But we’re also there for each other, no matter what. When I injured my shoulder sophomore year of high school and needed surgery to fix it, he visited me every day at the hospital and studied with me when I had to miss school so I wouldn’t fall behind.

When his mom was diagnosed with breast cancer during his senior year, he missed a bunch of practices to be with her through her treatment.

Our coach yelled at him one day in the locker room, accusing him of not being committed enough to the team, so I got in his face and defended Travis.

He was dealing with enough. His dad has ditched him and his mom, the worthless asshole, leaving Travis to take care of her while he balanced school and hockey.

He didn’t need to eat shit from our coach too.

I got benched from playing for a week for mouthing off, but I didn’t care. Travis was my best friend, and I’d stand up for him no matter what, just like he’d done for me.

Travis holds up his phone to me, an unamused expression on his face. “Get dressed. Now. We’re leaving for practice in three minutes.”

I gently pat his cheek. “Aww, are you my personal chauffeur now?”

He shoves my hand away. “Fuck, no. I just don’t want Coach Sawyer to chew our asses out again like the last time you were late. I’m not in the mood to run suicides either.”

I run to my bedroom, which is next to the living room, and throw on a T-shirt while standing in the open doorway.

Travis grimaces at my shirt. “That’s what you’re gonna wear?”

I glance down and grin at the T-shirt I bought at a random souvenir shop on the Vegas strip. It’s gray with the words, Don’t bully me, I’ll cum in white letters.

“It’s my favorite shirt.” I jog to the hallway bathroom so I can brush my teeth and take a piss, then I run to the kitchen and grab my water bottle and two protein bars.

“And come on. That extra drill when I was late wasn’t that bad,” I say.

“It was absolutely that bad,” Travis says when I walk back over to him. “Do you see how much stuff I have to wear? You try skating sprints decked out in goalie gear.”

I grab my bag and slide on my sneakers, devour half of one protein bar, then head for the front door. “Good point. Let’s go then. You’re gonna make us late,” I tease as I jog out the door and to his car, which is parked in the driveway.

“You’re the worst,” he mutters as he hops in the driver’s seat and starts the car.

“Aww, you still love me, Travvie.” I blow him a kiss as I finish the protein bar and guzzle water.

He flips me off even though I see the corner of his mouth quirk up.

He hauls ass to the practice rink on the other side of campus and parks. We make it to the locker room, and I quickly throw on my gear and hit the ice.

By the end of practice, I’m drenched. Those passing and shooting drills Coach put us through kicked my ass, and I’m sweating out all the vodka I drank last night.

Coach Sawyer blows the whistle, and I use the break to rehydrate.

Blake Morrissey, one of my other roommates, skates up to me. His face is red, and he’s breathing hard.

“How the hell are you not vomiting right now?” he says. “I drank half as much as you last night, and I had to leave practice twice so far to throw up.”

I flash what I’m certain is a smug grin. “Guess I’m just naturally better at holding my liquor than you.”

He groans as he drains his water bottle. He pushes up his helmet and wipes the sweat from his brow, his shoulders rising and falling with the breaths he takes.

“We’re throwing out the couch after the way you and your lady friends defiled it last night, by the way,” he says before skating off.

“I’ll get it cleaned up. Promise,” I holler.

Coach blows the whistle, and we pick back up. When practice ends, we all head to the locker room.

“St. George. Hang back a sec,” Coach says.

I linger on the ice as the rest of my teammates head for the locker room. When it’s just me and Coach, he turns to me, an icy glare on his face.

My nerves kick up. This isn’t good. Whenever Coach asks to speak to us one-on-one, it’s hardly ever good news.

“I just heard from your academic advisor this morning. You’re failing one class, and you’ve got Ds in two others.”

All the muscles in my neck and shoulders tense. I clear my throat. “Yeah, um, about that. I’m working on getting those up.”

The disappointed look on his face doesn’t budge.

“We’re one month into the school year, and already you’re dropping the ball.

This isn’t a good sign for you, St. George.

You know the rules. Hollis University doesn’t tolerate bad grades from its athletes.

Even a star athlete like you, who’s captain of the team. ”

Dread drags through my stomach. I should have seen this coming. I’ve known since I first enrolled at Hollis that student athletes have to maintain a C average or higher to keep their spots on the team and play.

I’ve never been a very good student—far from it. I’ve never cared about studying or performing well in school. All I’ve ever cared about is hockey and partying.

But I managed to keep a C average freshman and sophomore year because I took mostly general studies and intro courses. But now that I’m a junior, I had to declare a major at the beginning of the semester. So I picked Communications because I thought it would be easy…but I’ve been slacking. A lot.

I’ve missed a ton of classes, and I’ve been half-assing my assignments. And now it’s finally catching up to me.

Just the thought of me losing my spot on the team—losing the most important thing in my life—sends a wave of panic through me.

I care about hockey more than anything. When I’m on the ice playing, I feel alive. It’s the one thing I’m good at. And if I lose that, I have nothing.

I swallow back the sick feeling crawling up my chest and throat. “I’m really sorry, Coach. I’ll do better…”

Coach Sawyer aims a hard stare at me. “That’s not good enough.”

He crosses his arms over his chest. “Look, I’m gonna be straight with you, St. George.

As much as I’d hate to cut you from the team, that’s exactly what will happen if you don’t get your grades up this semester.

And if you’re off the team because you’re on academic probation, you can kiss any chance of being drafted into the NHL goodbye. ”

That dread feeling curdles in my stomach. My dream is to play hockey professionally, to follow in the footsteps of my big brother, Ryker St. George, who’s had a long and impressive career in the pros.

And now, I’m about to lose out on that dream because I’m a dumbass who was too busy partying to pay attention in school.

A fresh wave of determination zooms through. “I’ll get my grades up, Coach. I swear.”

His hard expression doesn’t budge. I can tell he doesn’t believe me. I can’t blame him. I’ve never gotten higher than a C in any class I’ve ever taken at Hollis.

“I really hope you do. Because if you don’t, no more hockey for you,” he says. “So do whatever it takes. Spend all your free time studying. Beg your professors for extra credit. Hire a tutor. I don’t care what, just do it.”

He dismisses me, and I head to the locker room. As I get cleaned up, I rack my brain for all the ways I can get my grades back on track.

And then it hits me. I know someone who would make the perfect tutor. She’s a genius who’s gotten straight A’s her entire life. She’s a student here too, and the same year as me. If anyone can help me, it’s her.

One problem: she hates me.

I push that thought aside. I leave practice, that determined feeling inside of me intensifying as I head across campus to find her. Because despite how she feels about me, she’s my only hope.

I just have to come up with a way to convince her to help me.