Pucking Bad Boys (Bad Boys Of Hockey #1)

Fake ID

TALIA

pair of piercing blue eyes makes me forget what I was about to say.

“What…” the words should roll off my tongue easily. Asking a customer what they want to drink should be second nature, and yet, my teeth scrape over my bottom lip as my mind comes up totally blank.

The fact that the piercing blue eyes are looking at me from a stunning face doesn’t help my situation.

High cheekbones, a straight, proportionate nose, soft-looking lips, and a perfect jaw with the faintest hint of blond stubble make the man who just sat at the bar stand out from the throng of tourists and locals crowding Joe’s tonight.

I’ve always rolled my eyes when I read sentences like, “The rest of the world faded into the background when he looked at me…”

As if a hot guy could make a woman forget where she’s at and what she’s doing. As if the way his lips curl at the corners in just a hint of a smile could make me feel like we’re the only people in the crowded bar.

All the romance novels my best friend has insisted I read since we were in high school could never have prepared me for the way my skin tingles under his gaze.

I’ve always teased Sam for believing that bullshit, and now here I am, tongue tied and with a swarm of butterflies flapping their wings in my stomach.

He breaks the ice. “Hi.”

If there were any justice in this world, his voice would be nasal or surprisingly high pitched. But of course it isn’t.

Deep, low, with a hint of gravel and a faint twang that I can’t quite identify.

I release my bottom lip and swallow, willing my heart to stop beating so fast. If I don’t say anything in the next ten seconds, I’m gonna look like a complete idiot.

“Hi.” Ok, good start. Now let’s get to it. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve asked someone what they would like to drink in the two summers I worked at Joe’s, I wouldn’t need this job to help me pay my way through my senior year of college.

It shouldn’t be that hard to ask someone what they want to drink, and yet, it takes me a huge amount of effort.

I blame it on those intense blue eyes that look kind of familiar, even though I’ve never seen this man before. If I had, there would be no way I could have forgotten him.

“What can I get you?”

Yay. Finally.

Relief brings a smile to my face, and I have to fight the urge to jump up and down to celebrate finally asking the hot guy for his drink order.

After spending most of the summer at a cheerleading training camp, cheering had become second nature. I was cut right before they announced the final team roster I remind myself.

“We have certain standards when it comes to the physical appearance of our dancers. And you don’t meet those standards.”

Every time I think about the reason why I was cut, I want to go and hide in a dark corner.

I’m too short for their standards, and they realized that when they saw me dancing in a line with girls who had longer legs.

My self-confidence has taken a real hit, and I forget the butterflies in my stomach.

Why would a hot guy like the one I should have been serving five minutes ago even take a second look at me? I’m sure he can have any woman he sets his stunning blue eyes on. Women with slender bodies and long legs, like my former teammates.

So there’s no point in getting flustered and tong-tied over someone who wouldn’t even notice me if I weren’t standing behind the bar.

“Can I get a double shot of Don Julio Anejo on the rocks?”

I turn to look at the top shelf where our more expensive bottles are before I ask the next question. “Can I see your ID, please?”

His eyes widen for a split second, as if he’s surprised to get carded.

“Sorry, strict instructions from the boss to card everyone who doesn’t obviously look past their twenties. Nothing personal.”

“No problem.” He leans slightly forward on the bar stool to get his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans.

The movement allows me to get a better look at his tall, athletic frame.

Honestly, this guy is unreal. If a gorgeous face wasn’t enough, he has broad shoulders, a wide, muscular chest, a trim waist and flat stomach—I would bet this week’s paycheck on a six-pack—and strong, thick thighs encased in slightly faded blue jeans.

But it doesn’t end there. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled to expose strong, tanned forearms. When he places his wallet on the bar top, my eyes go to his hand. Big, strong, long fingers. A slightly raised vein on the back when he flexes his fingers to open his wallet.

I imagine his hand wrapped around my throat while he whispers what he wants to do to me when he gets me alone causes a jolt of sharp heat to settle between my legs.

Dammit. I need to quit reading smutty books. I blame it on Sam’s taste in literature for the way my mind can’t get out of the gutter right now.

And it’s not like I think about sex all the time. I actually don’t think about it and I definitely don’t do it.

I’ve never even had a serious boyfriend after high school. But lately, sex has been on my mind more than I care to admit. I blame it on my crush on a guy who doesn’t even know I exist beyond seeing me as his teammate’s little sister.

But I shouldn’t think about my unrequited crush when I’m at work. Or ever, really, since I’ve spent the entire summer watching the object of every filthy thought that’s crossed my mind in the past two years hook up with most of my former teammates.

When the blond hottie slides his ID toward me on the counter, his fingers brush against mine.

It feels intentional as he keeps his fingers on the card a little longer than necessary.

If I thought I felt attracted to him before, the second our fingers touch things heat up by a million degrees.

My nipples tighten and my clit throbs, and I have to squeeze my thighs together to seek some relief.

Maybe Sam was right that a mindless hookup would take the edge off my hopeless crush.

But it’s not like I didn’t try. It was the first thing I did the night after I was cut from training camp.

I met a sexy tourist at a beach party and we made out.

But the second he even tried to take things farther than second base, I froze.

The truth is that despite the guy being handsome, I felt absolutely nothing for him.

I wasn’t interested in his conversation, and there was no spark.

I just wanted to hook up with him to take my mind off the mess my life is and to take care of my most embarrassing problem.

I mean, who is still carrying their V-card at almost twenty-two?

As the hot stranger releases his hold on his ID, my eyes go from his face to the photo on the plastic rectangle in front of me.

Of course, the hottest guy in town is also photogenic, while I’m embarrassed every time someone asks for my ID.

The good part about having to card him is that I can get his name without having to ask.

“Beavis Rawbottom?” I snort and he blushes. “Sorry, but if you had to get a fake, you should have paid extra for a credible name.”

He runs his hand through his short, blond hair; it has the slightest hint of a wave on top.

I bet that if he let it grow longer, it would begin to curl.

“Or I should have gone to buy it myself rather than trusting one of my idiot frat brothers.” He sounds frustrated.

“He said I looked like Beavis from Beavis and Butthead so when he was asked if he had a name preference, he went with it.”

I take a step back, giving him a once over and tapping my bottom lip with the tip of my index finger. “I mean, aside from the blond hair, I can’t really see it. Even if you had on a Metallica t-shirt, Beavis would have had to grow a foot and put on a hundred pounds of muscle to come even close.”

His barely there smile widens into a full-blown grin. “Thanks. That must be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

With that face and that body? I doubt it. But I don’t say that to him. “Look, Beavis, do you mind choosing an alcohol free drink? I could make you a mean Shirley Temple or a virgin mojito that will knock your socks off.”

I half-expect him to become annoyed and to try to use his charm to get his way, but he doesn’t.

“Virgin mojito it is, then.”

It’s my turn to blush. The way he looks at me when he says “virgin” makes me think thoughts that are the exact opposite of virginal.

My situation worsens when his fingers brush against mine again.

“Tab or check?” I ask.

He doesn’t hesitate. “Tab, please. And do you mind if I have that back?” He points to the ID I’m still holding in my hands.

“Totally. You can have my V-card.” My eyes widen as another inappropriate wave of heat washes over me.

Did I just say that out loud? Someone kill me now. “Not my card, your ID card,” I rush out before he can respond to my initial offer.

It wasn’t a real offer, I swear.

He takes his fake ID, and I turn around, busying myself with making his mojito. The virgin one. I muddle the mint leaves with sugar like they personally offended me, and I swear I can feel his gaze burning holes in my back.

I’ve always blamed Tucker for my difficulties in finding a boyfriend in town.

I know he loves me and wants to protect me, but like everything Tucker does, he goes way overboard.

Everyone knows my older brother in Star Cove and anyone who sets foot on campus—but the issue dates back to middle school—knows that if they even look at me for too long, they’ll have to deal with my six foot five, two hundred and twenty-five pound hockey player brother.

So not only his teammates wouldn’t even look at me for more than five seconds.

The entire athletic department knew I was off-limits.

And not satisfied with that, Tucker made sure every male at school knew that if they even thought about me in a remotely sexual way, they would be in for a world of pain.

My only hope not to die a virgin is either to find a sexy tourist for a hot summer fling or to leave the county. Maybe even the state and go where no one knows that I’m Tucker Prescott’s little sister.