Love Pucktually (Melting Ice #1)

CHAPTER 1

DEVON

THE ESPRESSO MACHINE has a fucking agenda against me, and I'm not being dramatic.

Okay, I'm always dramatic, but this time it's justified. Foam is erupting from this demonic contraption like a caffeinated Vesuvius, coating my face, my hair, and somehow traveling down my shirt to places foam has no business being.

"Okay, so maybe don't press that button," Kayla says, and I can hear the laugh she's trying to suppress. She's been training me for exactly forty-seven minutes and she's already done with me.

"Which button?" I gesture wildly at the control panel. "There are seven thousand buttons on this thing. Who needs seven thousand buttons to make coffee? It's literally hot bean water."

Hunter, the other bartender who's supposed to be helping train me but is instead losing his shit by the liquor shelf, wipes his eyes. "Kayla, I think we broke him already."

"I'm not broken." I swipe foam off my face with as much dignity as I can muster, which is zero. "This is fine. I've always wanted to look like I lost a fight with a rabid dog."

Kayla takes pity on me, bless her, and actually shows me the correct way to steam milk. She's patient about it too, demonstrating slowly while I watch like I'm studying for the SATs.

I pull out my phone and start taking notes.

Hunter notices. "You know you can just ask us if you forget, right?"

"Bold of you to assume I'll remember there's someone to ask."

I'm trying so damn hard. But bartending, as it turns out, is not as easy as it looks in movies where hot people casually flip bottles while having deep conversations about life.

"Okay," Kayla says, patting the espresso machine like it's a feral cat that might attack again. "Let's try something simpler. Can you stock the beer fridge?"

"I can absolutely stock the beer fridge." Finally, a task I can't fuck up. It's just putting bottles in a cold box. Even I can manage that.

Spoiler alert: I cannot.

Twenty minutes later, I've organized the beer fridge by color because apparently I'm a toddler with crayons, and both Kayla and Hunter are staring at me like I've performed dark magic.

"Why," Hunter says slowly, "are all the light beers together?"

"Because they're the same color?"

"We usually organize by brewery," Kayla explains, very gently, like she's talking to someone who's recently suffered a head injury. "The distributors need them organized by—you know what, never mind. This is fine. This is...creative."

"I am an artist," I say, because committing to the bit is all I have left.

By 6 PM, I've only broken two glasses, which Kayla assures me is actually pretty good for a first day. I've also made approximately fifteen drinks, twelve of which were probably wrong, but no one's died yet, so I'm calling it a win.

A man walks up—older guy, kind face, looks like he tips well—and orders a Cosmo.

I make something that looks vaguely radioactive.

He takes a sip. Blinks. Takes another sip, slower this time, like he's trying to identify what fresh hell he's just put in his mouth. "What the fuck is in this?"

"Honestly? I don't remember. I blacked out somewhere between the vodka and the regret."

He considers this. Takes another sip. "It's terrible."

"I know."

"I'll have another."

I'm starting to feel confident. Maybe I can do this. Maybe bartending isn't rocket science. Maybe I'm a natural and just needed to find my rhythm.

Then Kayla goes completely still, staring at the door.

Hunter follows. They exchange a look that can only be described as ‘fuuuuck’.

I follow their gaze to the entrance and—

Oof.

Some two dozen massive men in suits file through the door like a colony of oversized penguins. Except penguins are cutesy and these guys look like they could bench press a car. Then eat the car. Then bench press another car just to prove a point.

The suits fit them like a second skin. I'm talking shoulders that could block out the sun, thighs that are testing the limits of modern tailoring, and an overall vibe of ‘we're very large and we know it.’

"Did I accidentally sign up to work at a GQ convention?" I half-whisper. "Are suits supposed to fit like that? Is it legal for that many huge men to be in one place? Are there zoning laws about this?"

"That's the Wolves," Kayla says.

"The what now?"

Hunter grins. "Hockey team. They just won against Detroit."

The team floods the bar, taking up every available space like they're staging a very well-dressed invasion.

And they're loud. Slapping each other on backs.

One guy picks up another and spins him around like they're in a murder mystery rom-com.

Someone's yelling about a goal. Another person is yelling about someone else's goal.

Everyone's yelling. It's beautiful chaos and they haven't even ordered yet.

"There's literally a sports bar two blocks from the arena," I point out.

Kayla and Hunter exchange another look.

"What?"

Hunter's trying not to laugh. "They're banned."

I blink. "From the sports bar? A sports team is banned from the sports bar?"

"Yep."

"Why?"

"Don't ask," they both say in unison.

I watch the team spread out like a very attractive plague. Some at the bar. Some at tables. All of them creating enough noise to violate several city ordinances.

One guy is already doing push-ups in the corner. Why? Who fucking knows.

Another is taking a selfie with our lopsided Christmas tree.

Two guys in the back are arm-wrestling. It's been thirty seconds and we've already reached arm-wrestling. This is going to be a long fucking night.

But I'm not complaining. The view is spectacular.

The team starts ordering and I quickly realize these are not normal drink orders.

A blond guy leans across the bar. "I want something that tastes like bad decisions and questionable life choices."

"So...everything I've made today?"

He cracks up, slapping the bar. "I like this guy! Kayla, can we keep him?"

"He's not a puppy, Becker."

So that's The Comedian. Filing that away.

A guy with sharp features and a thick accent appears next to The Comedian. "Make mine strong. Very strong. Make me forget I am Russian."

Someone down the bar yells, "That's not how vodka works, Petrov!"

The Russian—Petrov, apparently—shrugs. "I know this. Make anyway."

A giant of a man—and I do mean giant; he makes the other massive guys look like regular-sized humans—orders water.

Everyone boos him.

He shrugs, unbothered, and I immediately love him.

That's The Giant. Obviously.

I'm scrambling now, making drinks as fast as I can while Kayla and Hunter help. But I'm the new guy, which means I'm getting all the weird orders.

Someone orders a "Flaming Lamborghini."

I stare at him. "A what now?"

Hunter's moving to intercept. "Don't."

The guy—redhead, intense energy, keeps touching his jacket pocket like he's checking for something—leans forward. "Come on! It'll be fun!"

"I barely know how to make a mojito without committing botanical murder, and you want me to set something on fire?"

"Yes!"

Kayla materializes between us like a bouncer at a club. "Absolutely not. You'll get a vodka cranberry and you'll like it."

The Redhead pouts but accepts the offer

I'm observing the team as I work, because multitasking is my superpower. They're like overgrown puppies. Energetic, loud, and constantly in motion. Someone's always touching someone else—a pat on the back, a shove, a headlock that looks affectionate but also possibly lethal.

The Redhead keeps touching his jacket pocket. Every thirty seconds. Like clockwork.

"Is he okay?" I ask Hunter.

"That's Jinx. Don't ask about the pocket."

"I wasn't going to."

"Good."

There's an older guy (okay, not old-old, but definitely older than the rest) trying to maintain order. He's got this composed, in-control energy that screams responsible adult. Which makes him a fucking unicorn in this group.

"Guys, come on," he says. "We're going to get kicked out again."

The Comedian grins. "We've only been kicked out of one bar!"

"That's one too many."

But no one's listening. The chaos continues unabated.

Honestly? I'm having the time of my life. This is entertaining as fuck, and I'm getting paid to watch it.

I'm making something that might be a martini—or might be a hate crime against gin—when movement at the end of the bar catches my eye.

A guy reaching for a napkin.

I glance over and—

Oh, hello there.

This one is stupidly hot. Dark hair that's slightly messed up in a way that probably cost effort to achieve.

Blue eyes that I can see from here, which should be impossible but apparently isn't. A geometric jaw.

Shoulders that make his suit jacket look like it's fighting for its life and losing.

Thick eyebrows. Light stubble. The kind of face that makes you believe in intelligent design because clearly someone put thought into this.

He's not just hot. He's offensively hot. Should-come-with-a-warning-label hot.

The Handsome catches me staring.

Fuck. Abort. Abort mission.

I immediately look away, face burning like I've been caught doing something way more inappropriate than just looking.

Kayla nudges me. "You good?"

"Yep. Fine. Great. Living the dream of making drinks for penguins."

I focus aggressively on pouring a beer. I will not look at The Handsome again. Absolutely not. I have dignity. I have self-control.

I look anyway.

The Handsome is talking to The Adult now, laughing at something. His whole face changes when he laughs. It's disgusting. I hate it. I want to study it like a science project.

Get it together, Devon. First day. Don't be a creep.

By 8 PM, the team is several drinks in and the energy has reached critical mass.

The Comedian and The Redhead start arm-wrestling. On the bar top.

Kayla moves fast. "Guys, not on the—"

Too late.

Everyone's gathering. Cheering. Someone's taking bets.

The Comedian's winning, muscles straining, cocky grin plastered on his face.

The Redhead is visibly pissed, face going as red as his hair.

He makes a desperate move, trying to reverse the momentum.

His elbow smashes into a full pint glass.

The glass doesn't just tip. It fucking launches like it's been shot from a catapult, sailing through the air in what feels like slow motion.

My brain has time to think a single thought: Huh. That's going to be bad.

The glass crashes into some random patron's shoulder before it shatters on the floor.

The patron staggers backward, arms windmilling like he's trying to achieve flight, and crashes directly into The Russian.

The Russian, apparently graceful on ice but not in bars, tries to catch the falling guy, but trips over his own massive feet and careens sideways into The Adult.

The Adult gets knocked into a table.

The table tips. Drinks go everywhere—a cascade of beer and cocktails.

One of those drinks splashes directly into The Giant's face.

The Giant, startled—and honestly, who can blame him—lurches backward and lands directly on the Christmas tree in the corner.

The tree doesn't just fall. It crashes into the bar's ancient sound system with a sound like the end of days.

Sparks fly.

Actual fucking sparks.

Someone yells, "FIRE!"

There's no actual fire, just sparks, but panic is contagious and logic has left the building.

Everyone starts moving at once.

The Comedian tries to grab the tree and knocks into someone else.

It's a full domino effect. People crashing into each other. Drinks flying. Glass shattering. Pure, beautiful chaos.

I rush out from behind the bar because apparently my survival instincts died in the foam incident.

Someone—The Russian? The Comedian? I can't be sure at this point—crashes into me.

The impact sends me flying backward.

I try to catch myself.

Fail.

Go down.

But I don't hit the floor. I crash directly into someone standing behind me.

And then, we both go down and I land on top of a very solid, very muscular body.

My hands are on someone's chest. His chest is impressive. This is not the time to notice this, but my brain isn't taking requests right now. Our faces are inches apart. My brain takes three full seconds to process what's happening. Then I realize.

It's The Handsome.

Of course it's The Handsome, because my life is a comedy written by a sadist with a vendetta.

The Handsome's hands are on my waist, steadying me. Or maybe he's just as shocked as I am.

Our eyes meet.

His are even bluer up close. Fuck my entire life.

I open my mouth to say something. Anything. An apology. A joke. A confession of my sins.

What comes out is, "Hi."

The Handsome's lips twitch. "Hi yourself."

And that's when I notice the Christmas tree is now actually burning.