Puck I Did It Again (Playing the Puck #9)

1. Wynn

one

Wynn

Y ou got this. You are a strong, independent woman who is more than capable of coaching a male pro hockey team. You've coached in the minor leagues; this is no different.

I repeat the affirmations a couple more times before I let the acting head coach lead me through the locker room to meet my new team, the Iowa Poseidon. It's true I've coached in the minor leagues. Four years ago, at twenty-five, I was the first female to coach in the men's minor league. Now ,I'll be the second female to coach in the men's major league.

It's an exciting time for women in pro sports, with Teagan Hayes playing for the formally all-male pro hockey team, the Minnesota Norse. Opening up the door for more women to compete on the highest skill level and ,of course, for women to coach men's teams.

The locker room is full of half-naked men eyeing me suspiciously. Being introduced to my new team right after practice wasn't my idea, but Don, the acting coach, felt the element of surprise would be the best for the team since the shock of having a woman coach might make them retreat to the locker room unless I make it known the locker room isn't off limits to me because I'm a female.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to introduce you to your new head coach, Wynn Flannery."

"Hello, everyone," I say in my most authoritative voice, the one that has been known to stop grown men cold in their tracks. It's not that I want them to fear me, but I can't have them trying to walk all over me, either. I'm their head coach—they need to respect the position, if not the person.

A smattering of "hi" and "hello" fills the air as each player eyes me with either a look of disdain at being female or curiosity for the same reason. I need to get a handle on this before it gets out of control.

"I look forward to meeting with each of you individually to assess your skills and commitment to the team. I also have an open-door policy, meaning I'm available to talk in person or on the phone. But I am not your babysitter. You should all have agents or managers that take care of that part of your professional and personal life. I'm very active in all areas of coaching. Like your last coaches, I will be in the locker room. "The grumbling begins, so I say the first thing I can think of to squash the brewing storm, "So, gentlemen, I suggest you cover up what you don't want seen, and I'll see everyone bright and early tomorrow morning."

A few of the players laugh. A few grumble louder before going back to their after-practice routines. But one does the unexpected and drops his towel from his waist, leaving him completely and utterly naked—his skin still glistening from the shower. A drop of water falls from his hair, making a trail down his chest and across his abs before falling onto a long ,thick cock. What I wouldn't give to lick that drop away.

"Eyes up here, Princess."

I snap my gaze from his now hardening length and stare into the deepest brown eyes I've ever seen—so rich and dark I could get lost in them for days.

That's when I realized I was standing before Maximus Martin, the three-time NHL Player of the Year. He's a hockey legend. Instead of fangirling, I school my features and run through his stats in my head.

He's had a rough year, but I think I can get him and this team back on track with the right offense. The team was doing great until two months ago when the former head coach and his two assistant coaches, all brothers, switched teams to coach for the Minnesota Norse to be closer to their aging parents.

Don, the acting head coach, doesn't know what he's doing, but I'm here to change that. First, I need to show them who's in charge.

"Impressive," I say, slowly lowering my gaze down his body, watching as his cock twitches to life before meeting his eyes. "Now, if only your stats were as impressive."

The smirk falls from his face, replaced by a look of disbelief.

If he thinks I'm going to roll over and let him or his teammates walk all over me, he's sadly mistaken. His entire attitude is rubbing me wrong.

Hmm, but I bet he could rub me right. How long has it been since I've had anyone rub me? A year? Two?

A memory of a night on the beach, then later in my hotel room in Barbados from two years ago, pops into my head, reminding me it's been two years since I felt a lover's touch on my body instead of my own.

Maximus certainly looks like he could do some damage with that monster between his legs. Unconsciously, I lick my lips, imagining the feeling of that heft in my mouth.

Would he press my head tight against his balls, cutting off my oxygen until I gave in and tapped on his thigh? Or would he take his time entering deeply down my throat, then retreating, teasing me with his length?

A deep chuckle pulls me out of my lustful thoughts as realize my eyes have dropped back down his body to his cock again. Luckily, I'msaved from any further embarrassment as he reaches down, picks up his misplaced towel, straightens up, and places the corner of the towel to my lips. "You have a little bit of drool right there." He swipes the towel across mylips before leaving me to stare after him in the middle of the locker room, his muscular ass tempting me with every step he takes away from me.

I shift my gaze away from his retreating, naked, and extremely sexy backside, suddenly noticing the color of the lockers and the locker room walls. "Pink?"

Why would anyone paint everything in a men's locker room pink?

"That was Coach Hayden Ford's idea back in the day." I blink at the handsome, smiling face that popped up in front of me ,taking me off guard. "He took some psychology class in college that said pink is a relaxing color—very calm and soothing."

"If it's so relaxing, why would he paint his team's locker room a color that could sabotage their mood, ultimately causing them to lose?" I've heard rumors about Coach Ford—he was a cutthroat coach who didn't believe in taking it easy on his opponent. When he had them by the balls, he never let up. "I'm Kingston Cane, by the way." He holds out this hand. "But my friends call me King." I clap his hand with a firm shake, only to feel an odd sense of nervous energy at his touch.

The pink room is obviously not working on me.

Needing to regain my coach-player dynamic, I reply, "Nice to meet you, Kingston."

At his smirk, I wonder if I've done the opposite as his eyes twinkle in mischief. "Maybe after you get to know me better, you'll scream King instead of Kingston." I jerk my hand out of his, opening my mouth to give him a piece of my mind about respecting his coach, but he adds, "On the ice—when you need to get my attention on the ice—King will be easier to say than Kingston."

"Is everything a joke to this team?" I huff, pushing my way past another asshole on the team.

"Sorry, Coach." He places his hand on my shoulder before I get too far away. "I couldn't help myself." He turns me to look at him. "I'm known as the jokester of the team. If I didn't tease you, the rest of the players would make it hard on you." His eyes gleam with interest.

My traitorous eyes fall from his face to his bare chest ,finally landing on the gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and the impressive bulge outline behind the fabric.

What has gotten into me? First, I'm lusting after Maximus, now King. I wonder who will be next.

I snap my gaze back to his face, but instead of the smirk Maximus had when he caught me staring at his junk, King has a look of longing, which he immediately hides with a shake of his head, replacing it with a friendly smile.

That's it. I need to get laid, and not by any of the team's players. The last thing I need is to lose my credibility by becoming the team puck bunny.

"It's okay. I appreciate the gesture. As the newbie to the team, I'm going to need all the support I can get."

His eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes. "Um, sure. Now, back to the history of the pink locker room." He clears his throat, but I can't get that look out of my mind—like he wanted to kiss me."This is the visitor's locker room. We're only using it until our locker room is updated with a fresh coat of paint in our team colors."

"Oh, I didn't realize that. Don never said." I shrug, willing myself not to drop my gaze to his plush lips or I'll be imagining those perfect lips wrapped around my hard nipple as his giant hand plays with my other breast. A tiny moan escapes my lips, and I cough to cover it up.

"Are you okay? Do you need some water?" His concern is sweet, but I shake my head, declining his offer.

"No, I'm good. Now, about the pink visitor's locker." I coax, needing a distraction from my obvious attraction to half my players.

Okay, maybe I'm being a little overly dramatic; it's only two of my players.

You haven't met all of your players yet.

That little voice in the back of my head reminds me. The same little voice that convinced me to dance on the bars in my early twenties, like I was a bartender at Coyote Ugly. Or swim naked in the ocean at midnight with a complete stranger for one of the best nights of my life. Only to find him gone the next morning, left with only a first name and a memory of pleasure that still haunts me even two years later—the last time I had sex.

Once I get home and do a little self-care with my battery-operated boyfriend, I'll be good as new for tomorrow's first official day on the job.

"The other teams hate the pink locker room. Some even send their athletic trainers a few hours ahead of time to cover the room with posters or sheets to hide all the pink."

"I could see how it would be distracting," I say as my eyes scan from the pink walls to the pink lockers to the pink benches .Even the floor is pink. "It looks more like Barbie's Dream Locker Room than a pro hockey locker room."

"That's exactly what Monk said when he saw it for the first time."

"Monk?"

"Yeah, he's around here somewhere. Monk is just a nickname."

I want to ask more about why a professional hockey player would have a nickname like Monk since it seems a little out of place from the wild lifestyle pro hockey players are known for, but three other players approach King, distracting him from our conversation.

"Hey, King, are you going to goat yoga tonight at Maggie's?"

"And miss the entertainment? Hell, yes, I'm going."

"Coach." Each of the three newcomers nods at me as they pass us on our way to the exit.

"Goat yoga?" I can't help but ask.

"Oh, sorry, I should have introduced you to them. That was Kyson, River, and Bowen. Their girlfriend is a goat farmer, and she brings her goats into town a couple nights a week into Maggie's studio for yoga."

"You mean girlfriends, not girlfriend, right?" I question. Sure, I've heard all about the Minnesota Norse and their unconventional relationships with guys sharing the same woman. But is that a thing here in Iowa?

"No, you heard me correctly. River, Kyson, and Bowen all share Aubree, or goat momma, as they call her."

Aw, goat momma—that's cute. But back to the matter at hand. "If they all share Aubree, then who's Maggie?"

"Maggie's ours." A group of three more players breeze by on their way out of the locker room, claiming Maggie as their own.

"You wish!" King yells after them, only to be met with a one-finger salute as the door slams shut behind them.

"Oh, okay."

"Don't mind them. They're just butt-hurt about Maggie. They've staked their claim on her, but as far as I can tell, she wants nothing to do with them. She's even taught some of Aubree's goats to headbutt them in the junk during goat yoga. That's why I never miss goat yoga night. Do you want to join me tonight? I can introduce you to Aubree and Maggie—and any of the other guys that show up."

Having a couple of female friends sounds amazing right about now. Besides, yoga is relaxing; maybe I can refocus all my horny energy into something more constructive. "Sure. Why not?"

"Great!" A roguish smile lights up his face, causing my pussy to clench. "Maggie's studio is on Main Street. Give me your phone, and I'll text you the address."

I reach into my pocket, pull out my cellphone, and hand it to King, but his eyes shift over my shoulder.

"Hey, there's Monk now." He waves at Monk to join us. "Coach Wynn, this is Monk—Monk, this is our new coach, Wynn." I turn around only to find myself staring into a startled pair of aquamarine eyes, the same color as the ocean we swam naked in together two years ago. "We call him Monk because in the two years he's been with the team, we've never seen him with a girlfriend, boyfriend, or even a puck bunny." King shifts his gaze back to my phone, entering his contact information, oblivious to the conversation around him.

"Two years, huh?" I find myself saying, desperately needing to know if he even remembers me.

"Yup. I was waiting to see if fate would reunite me with a certain mermaid I so foolishly let slip through my fingers two years ago in Barbados."

Well, shit, this just got interesting.