Don’t Puck Up (San Diego Seals Hockey #3)

Chapter 1

one

Kamirah

Itossed my jacket over the chair in the dining room and kicked off my shoes. The light above the stovetop was on, but the house was still. It was late, but not late enough that Chris would have gone to bed.

The board meeting I’d attended went longer than expected.

But I wasn’t complaining. Sonny, a Navy Seal who suffered debilitating PTSD, had returned to speak to us about his life now that he had Pepper, his rescue dog turned therapy dog.

His story was inspiring, exactly the kind we needed for people to understand just how much good the charity did.

Pepper was a white pit bull with one floppy ear and one that stood straight up.

The adorable pup had changed his life thanks to being matched with him after she’d finished our training program.

She was so friendly and attuned to Sonny’s moods that they genuinely worked as one unit.

Sonny had agreed that he and Pepper would become the faces of our new fundraising campaign.

I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and couldn’t help my smile.

Chris, my big, burly tattooed hunk of a hockey player husband, emerged.

He was wrapped in a white towel that highlighted the sexy V between his hips and made those tattoos, muscles, and his long dark hair pop.

Did I mention he was tattooed and muscly?

Drool. He was also my high school sweetheart and the other half of my heart.

“Hey, baby,” he greeted warmly, wrapping his strong arms around me and meeting my lips for a kiss that made my knees weak. “You just missed Hux.”

I slid my hands over his shower-warmed skin and rubbed my face against his smooth chest, then dropped a lingering kiss there.

I toyed with the towel, teasing him before I slid my hand down and cupped his bulge through the soft material.

He lengthened in my palm, his cock tenting the terry toweling.

He slid his hands down over my thick hips and thighs, then lifted me effortlessly into his arms. Pressed this close to him, I inhaled his shower-fresh scent.

When his lips met mine again, I opened, granting him entry, and sucked on his tongue, tasting the whiskey he’d drunk, probably in the shower.

We made out, his thick fingers following the seam of my pants and teasing me through the fabric until I was wet and that beautiful cock of his was as hard as an iron rod.

I loved watching my husband with another man. The thought of him doing it without me, simply because he needed or wanted it, was hot as hell. Now I was desperate for him to relive it with me right here in the kitchen.

We’d been hooking up with Alec Huxley, his teammate, in secret for over a year.

The way they’d tag team me until I was so wrung out that I was a shaking mass of limp-noodle limbs with ecstasy still pulsing through my veins was a fantasy come to life.

I’d never had as many orgasms than when I was with two men.

Then I’d watch Chris manhandle Hux, positioning him wherever I got the best view.

He’d fuck him until both men were shouting out their releases.

It was such a turn-on and gave Chris the chance to keep exploring his bisexuality.

He was a sensual person who loved exploring another’s body until they came apart.

I did, too, so having a third—no matter how they identified—suited both of us.

I hummed at the thought of what they’d been up to. “Shame. But I’m glad you had fun.”

“Mmm, we did. Have you eaten? I can order in.”

My stomach chose that moment to growl. I laughed and groaned, exhaustion creeping over me. “I want an orgasm, pizza, ice cream, and a movie I can fall asleep in front of, in that order.”

“Consider it done.”

I sighed happily. I really did have the best husband.

***

Our street was normally quiet, but as I blinked open my eyes at the morning sunshine coming in between the crack in the curtains, I could hear a ruckus outside.

Neighbors shouting and car horns blaring weren’t normal in our upscale street.

Chris rolled out of bed and peeled open the heavy drapes a little until he could see outside.

“What the hell?” he asked, confusion lacing his tone. “Baby, we’ve got news vans outside.”

The haze of sleep left me in an instant. I was wide awake, on my feet, and peering outside from under his arm in barely a second. Reporters were right there, recording segments while our neighbors were trying to get them to move vehicles off their lawns and away from driveways.

But why were they even here?

“Have you been traded?” I asked, my gut sinking. It was a possibility. The life of a sports star—any sports star—was subject to the whims of management. If they wanted Chris gone or another player in his place, he’d be moved on.

“No idea.” Naked, he hurried over to the nightstand and powered on his cell phone. Social media tags, text messages, and missed call notifications came through like an avalanche, hitting his cell phone in rapid succession until it was one long vibration.

“I don’t want to leave San Diego,” he murmured. His lips were turned down and his brows furrowed in a disappointed frown. “I love the Seals.”

“Check your emails. Maybe it’s something else,” I encouraged.

He tapped his screen a few times and scrolled, then shook his head. “Nothing on email from management.”

Chris tapped away again, and the color drained from his face.

“Oh, fuck,” he murmured. He lowered himself onto the bed like his legs couldn’t hold him up anymore. His shoulders bowed as if he were carrying the weight of the world, and he exhaled heavily.

He closed his eyes for a moment before he turned on the television mounted to the wall and clicked straight to TMZ.

I watched in horror as footage taken of our dimly lit house from the alley behind us came into view with Hux’s EV parked next to the gate.

I wanted to take a shower. These people had been watching us.

They’d invaded our privacy and filmed us. It made my skin crawl.

But why were they filming us? What in the world would make them do that? There was literally nothing interesting about us… except for our relationship with Hux.

My gut sank and nausea washed over me. I swallowed back the bile and eased myself down next to Chris. My hand shook as I reached for him, but he pulled away. My heart lodged in my throat and threatened to shatter.

Chris speared his fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots before rubbing his hands down his face.

“This exclusive footage obtained by TMZ last night is of the house of Chris Minns, starting defenseman for the San Diego Seals.”

Chris was on his feet, his entire body rigid as he primed for a fight. He looked like he wanted to put his fist through the television. “Those fuckers,” he growled through his clenched jaw.

“Watch. Just watch this,” another announcer said with a sick sense of glee.

I pressed my hand low on my belly trying to stop my empty stomach from revolting.

Our back door opened, light illuminating the yard for a moment before it closed quietly. Nothing could be seen over the eight-foot fence, but I knew what was coming.

Hands curled over the timber, and it shook as a shadowed figure in jeans, a hoodie, and a ball cap threw his leg over and eased himself down. I knew who it was without having to see his face. The way Hux moved was so familiar.

An inset appeared, the video showing headlights appearing from around the corner. They slowly eased into our driveway. It was me coming home. Chris hadn’t been kidding when he said I’d just missed Hux. I’d arrived less than a minute after he left.

“The footage has been synced so you can see exactly what’s happening from different angles. Right as that hooded figure leaves from the rear door, a Mercedes pulls into the front,” the speaker helpfully narrated.

The footage in the inset cut to another camera angle, and I watched as the garage door opened, I eased the car in, then it closed. Our windows were blacked out with the darkest tint on the market, so seeing inside the car was impossible.

“You can see exactly who was leaving the Minns’s house last night.”

I watched with an anvil sitting heavy in my belly, hoping against hope that the announcer was wrong.

My pleas were dashed.

Hux opened the driver’s side door, the interior lights illuminating his face from under the ball cap and his hoodie.

He slid inside, and the lights on the screen of his EV lit up brightly for a split second before dimming to night mode.

TMZ had captured the exact moment and zoomed in.

There was no question about it being Hux. His face was clearly identifiable.

Even I could see it looked suspicious. Friends didn’t leave from the back door in the dark of night.

If they did, they didn’t scale a fence when there was a perfectly good gate right next to where they parked.

Hux never used the gate—he always left late and tried not to draw attention to himself—and the way it squealed every time it moved was a dead giveaway. So he jumped the fence.

Damn Chris for being so paranoid.

If Hux parked in the driveway like I’d suggested a million times over, this whole thing could be put down to him visiting. But this? This had PR disaster written all over it.

“It’s not a good look for Minns’s teammate, Alec Huxley, to be scaling a fence in the dead of night right when Minns is arriving home.”

“Coincidence? I think not,” the other announcer supplied.

“It’s obvious what’s happening here,” the original speaker asserted. “And we’re breaking news of their affair first.”

The second speaker had a gleam in his eye as he said smugly, “Scandal rocks the San Diego Seals, the NHL’s newest team, with an illicit affair between Alec Huxley and Kamirah Minns, wife of Huxley’s teammate Chris Minns.”