So Pucking Good (Denver Bashers #7)

Chapter 1

Camden

When the doorbell rings, I can’t help the shit-eating grin that spreads across my face.

My teammates look up from the poker game they’re playing at my kitchen table and turn to me.

“Who’s that?” Ryker St. George asks. He’s the oldest player on the Denver Bashers, the professional hockey team I play for. He’s gonna be so fucking pissed about this.

I swallow back a laugh. “You’ll see,” I say as I stand up from the table.

“What’s that look for?” Xander Williams asks me. He’s the star center of the team.

“What look?” I don’t bother to hide my smirk when I walk off.

Just then, Del Richards kicks a chair in front of me. I almost trip trying to dodge it.

“Dude, what the fuck?” I say to him.

The grumpy-as-hell two-way center frowns at me. “I don’t like that look on your face.”

I stare at him. “So you thought injuring me was the way to deal with it?”

“You’re fine,” he mutters.

“Dude, I could have tripped and broken my leg.”

“But you didn’t.”

“But I could have.”

“But you didn’t,” he repeats in his trademark hard, annoyed tone. “Besides, we’re in the off-season. You’d have time to recover.”

I roll my eyes and pick up the tipped-over chair. “You’re fucking obnoxious.”

“And you’re a shit-stirrer,” he says. “You planned some sneaky-ass surprise for us, didn’t you?”

The annoyance inside of me fades, and my smug smile is back. “Maybe.”

Del’s frown morphs into a glare. “You didn’t.”

Braden Blomdahl, the goalie, looks between us. “Did what?”

Del’s jaw works as he glowers at me.“This motherfucker got us a stripper.”

Xander shakes his head and tosses his cards onto the table. “Are you fucking serious? We told you not to.”

Sam McKesson, my defense partner, huffs out a breath. He aims an unimpressed look at me. “Really, Connors?”

Still grinning, I shrug. “I had to, guys. Someone had to do something to make sure that this wasn’t the lamest group bachelor party in history.”

Blomdahl frowns at me. “Just because we wanted a low-key night doesn’t make us lame.”

“Yeah, it does. This is supposed to be your last hurrah before you get married. You’re supposed to go fucking wild. And look at you.”

I gesture to the five of them sitting around my dining room table.

“You guys are playing poker while sipping whiskey and bourbon,” I say. “You’re acting like a bunch of eighty-year-olds in a nursing home.”

Ryker flicks a card at me. “Fuck off,” he mutters.

“I’m not interested in watching a stranger get naked in front of me,” Sam says.

Del shakes his head. “Hell, no.”

“Nope,” Xander says. Blomdahl shakes his head in solidarity.

I let out an annoyed groan-laugh. And this is why I’m never, ever, ever getting married. Or getting into a serious relationship.

Because it makes you boring as fuck.

Don’t get me wrong, I respect the shit out of my teammates.

They’re all older than me—in their late twenties and thirties.

They’re all incredible hockey players. I’ve learned so much playing alongside them for the past two seasons.

They motivate me to play harder than I ever have, and together we’ve brought home two Stanley Cups in a row.

When it comes to hockey, they’re who I look up to. They’re who I go to for advice on training and playing and how to handle the ups and downs of life as a professional hockey player.

But when it comes to relationships, it’s a different story.

They’re all engaged, and over the next two months, they’re all getting married. And I’ll attend each of their weddings and celebrate with them because they’re my friends and teammates, and I’m genuinely happy for them. I know all of their fiancées, and they’re all cool as hell.

But just the thought of spending the rest of my life with only one person makes me want to run for the hills. No fucking way.

Because I’ve seen what being married leads to.

I think of my parents, and my stomach churns.

It’s why I’ve never had a relationship. Why I only ever have hookups and fuck buddies.

I’m only interested in the fun stuff—sex and hanging out, nothing more. Nothing that would lead to me catching feelings and getting my heart broken.

Because I know exactly how bad things get when that happens.

The doorbell rings again, and I push aside that ugly feeling.

No more thinking about that. Not when I’ve got a lame-ass bachelor party to liven up.

I’m walking to my front door when my phone buzzes with a text, then another, and another.

I stop and do a quick skim of the messages, grinning at the names lighting up my screen.

Tiffany: Hey, stud. Free tomorrow night? My roommate’s out of town, so I have the whole place to myself. We can be as loud as we want.

Brittany: You broke my bed frame the last time you came over. You owe me ;)

Nadia: I bought some new see-through lingerie. Wanna help me try it on?

My dick twitches in my pants, and I make a mental note to text them all later after the bachelor party.

Who needs relationships when you have this? Beautiful women who are down for a good time, who don’t care about labels or commitment, who are only interested in having the filthiest kind of fun.

Yeah, I know what that makes me sound like. A douchebag. And a manwhore.

I don’t care. I’d rather be both of those than someone who ends up broken and bitter after putting their heart on the line for a person who wasn’t worth it.

“When you answer the door, tell her we’re not interested,” Del says.

“Not gonna happen, dude,” I say.

“Maybe we can pay her to leave,” Sam says.

I spin around. “You better fucking not.”

Theo, the team’s left wing who plays on my line, walks out of the hallway bathroom and looks at all our teammates frowning at me.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“I got a stripper for the bachelors,” I say.

Theo groans and rolls his eyes. “Dude, they said they didn’t want one.”

I head to the front door of my house, ignoring my teammates’ protests.

When I open the door, there’s a woman around my age standing there wearing a huge, bright purple princess dress. Her blonde hair is so long, it touches the ground. Oh, wait. I think that’s a wig.

I’m instantly confused. When I requested a princess theme on the exotic dancer website, I figured she’d be wearing something a lot…skimpier.

“Hi, are you Aaron?” Her voice is so melodic, so sweet-sounding.

I gave a fake name on the booking website because I didn’t want anyone to recognize my name in case they were a hockey fan.

As a professional hockey player, I don’t mind at all when people come up to me and want autographs or photos.

I love it, honestly. The fans are the reason I get to play the sport I love for a living, and I’m happy to engage with them however they want.

But a couple of the guys are pretty private, especially when it comes to their downtime, and I knew they wouldn’t want people bothering them during their bachelor party.

“Yeah, I’m Aaron. And you are…”

“Rapunzel.” She beams.

I look at her floor-length wig again and try not to laugh. Maybe she’s just really into the role-playing part of this.

She pulls over a roller bag that looks like a small suitcase. I study her pretty face. She looks familiar. I feel like I’ve seen her before, but I can’t quite place her.

One thing’s for sure: she’s fucking gorgeous.

I take in her features. Delicate button nose. Full, pink lips. Creamy skin. Big, blue eyes the color of a robin’s egg. She really does look like a Disney princess come to life.

“I brought extra makeup and face paint, depending on what you feel like doing tonight,” she says.

“Oh…” Now I’m even more confused. I clear my throat. “Do you normally bring that stuff with you?”

She nods, that beautiful, bright smile still on her face. “Yeah. People love having so much variety. I can do almost any character. And I can sing songs too, if you want.”

My brow lifts. “What?”

“I can sing any song from the movie Tangled. If you want a song from a different movie, I know most of the ones from Frozen and The Little Mermaid.”

“Okay…” I tug a hand through my hair. Are singing strippers a thing now? I had no idea.

I clear my throat. “So do you, like, sing the song while you strip?”

Her smile fades, and her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just a little confused. The strippers I’ve seen before never sang.”

Her cheeks flush. “I’m not a stripper.”

“You’re not?”

She shakes her head. “Why did you think I was?”

“That’s what it said on the website when I booked the reservation.”

I pull my phone from my pocket and pull up the email confirmation from Enchanted, the company I hired. Then I swipe through my browser history. And that’s when I finally realize my mistake.

There are two Enchanted companies: one is a party princess company, the other is an exotic dancer company.

I mistakenly hired a party princess for my teammates’ bachelor party. I’m a fucking idiot.

I let out an embarrassed chuckle and look up at Rapunzel.

“I’m really sorry,” I say. “I made a mistake. I thought I was hiring an exotic dancer for my friends’ group bachelor party.” I look over my shoulder in the direction of the guys for a second. “I got your company’s name mixed up with that other company.”

Her blue eyes are big for a second as she processes what I’ve said. And then she bursts out laughing.

“Are you serious?” she says.

I laugh too. “Yup. I’m a moron.”

She shakes her head and laughs even harder. “No, that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

I stand there, chuckling as I watch her clutch her stomach the harder she laughs. And then she makes a cute snorting sound.

Something in my brain flickers. It triggers a memory. I know that sound. That adorable laugh-snort. I’ve heard it a million times before. It’s embedded into my memory.

This is Ellie Michaelson. The girl who lived next door to me when I was a kid. The girl who was my best friend. The girl I had the biggest crush on…who I almost kissed in my tree house when we were eleven. But then she moved away with her family, and I never saw her again.

Until now.

“Ellie?”

Her eyes go wide again as she looks at me. A moment later, her eyes flicker with recognition. Her mouth falls open, then she smiles.

“Camden?”

I nod. Before I can say anything else, she lunges forward and hugs me.