Mother Pucker

1. Payton

It is a truth universally acknowledged:every action has an equal and opposite reaction. And that reaction will, without fail, be followed by an overreaction somewhere on social media.

Your aunt Doris’ trip to the plant nursery. Those tortured song lyrics dedicated to long-forgotten exes. That one unflattering high school science fair picture. It’s all still out there, waiting to be rediscovered.

What happens on social media stays on the Internet.

Forever.

“Not this again,” I skim the email on my phone with a sigh as I walk into the gym’s changing room. “Just once, I’d like to make it to seven AM before someone gets caught acting like a fool on camera.”

I slip my makeup bag into my locker— right next to the Kate Spade pumps that stole my heart and half of my first paycheck. I drop the padded hanger with my suit onto the rack and close the door. The clink of metal on metal rings out through the empty shower room around me. A small bronze plaque above the locker stares back as if daring me to believe it’s real:

Payton Lawson.

Social Media Director, Houston Snowhawks.

I love my job. Working in the publicity department for a professional hockey team comes with plenty of perks. More than enough to make up for those early-morning phone calls and meetings that should have been emails. It’s hard to imagine a better community to live and work in.

One of the best benefits of my job is being a part of The Nest.

No expense was spared when it came to Houston’s new professional hockey team. The Nest is a training center, housing complex, and all-season stadium rolled into one. There’s a state-of-the-art medical center on-site— as well as a physical therapy clinic, yoga studio, and meditation garden. There are also year-round parks, biking trails, and skating rinks scattered around the campus, all open to the public. And everything is within walking distance of my loft apartment overlooking Snow Summit Stadium.

Working at The Nest also gives me access to a world-class fitness complex and sauna 24 hours a day. It’s not unusual to find me alone in the weight room or cardio center before the sun is even up. I love being the only one in the gym.

No. Not all alone. He’s here, too.

My early-morning workouts are the best part of my day. It’s the perfect way to get my head in the game before tackling the hundred-and-one things that are bound to go wrong this week.

Sometimes it feels like I get more work accomplished during my seventy-five minutes in the gym than I do in the eight hours sitting behind my desk.

I plug one earbud in and climb onto the elliptical machine. My mind buzzes as my body warms up. I do my best thinking while working up a sweat.

“Please remind Kai Mita that he is still legally bound by the morality clause in his contract,” I dictate a reply to this morning’s email into my phone without breaking my stride. “This is his third shirtless bar fight of the season.”

I think for a moment before adding—

“CC: Dakota O’Connor. Thank you.”

Dakota is the team’s assistant manager— and Kai’s fiancé. She’s also the only one who can keep the Hawks’ bad-boy defenseman in line. I’m not above fighting dirty to keep the team’s image clean.

Snitching Kai out to his handler/girlfriend may not be the most orthodox approach to the situation. But I will use everything in my arsenal to keep these Snowhawks on the ice and out of trouble.

Some days, running the Hawks’ social media department feels like herding cats—or minding naughty schoolboys.

Except that these “boys”” are all fully grown men. Men with hot tempers, bodies carved from pure muscle, and an unbreakable stubborn streak.

They have to be.

Hockey is a bloodthirsty sport. It takes a lot of testosterone and a little bit of madness to strap razor blades to your feet and speed across the ice. Especially in an arena full of screaming fans all waiting to watch you bleed. It’s a fast and vicious competition. Gladiatorial.

I should know— I was raised on the ice.

My father turned his minor league hockey experience into a career as the sports correspondent for our local news channel. Mom is a high school PE teacher who coaches girls’ field and ice hockey. And while my brother and I left home for college, our relationship with hockey turned out to be a lifelong commitment.

Sawyer and I both played sports throughout school— Football, rugby, lacrosse, wrestling. If we could fit a contact sport into our class schedule, you could bet there’d be a Lawson on the field.

But ice hockey has always been my big brother’s one true love. It was no surprise to anyone, least of all me, when the pros came calling right after college. Sawyer has never settled for a minor-league anything in his life.

He wasn’t just courted by the NHL, he was downright seduced.

Hockey will always own a piece of my heart, too. But unlike my team captain older brother, moving away from home opened my eyes to a world of passion and possibilities off the ice, too.

I learned to appreciate philosophy and underground music from my first boyfriend— a nihilistic English major who drove a Vespa with a sidecar. A French foreign exchange student with an accent thicker than paté introduced me to modern art and how to handle a wine hangover. Then there was the theater professor with a five o’clock shadow no matter what time of day it was—

My crushes never last long. They burn out quickly, leaving me achy and empty inside. Like a puzzle that’s missing the middle piece.

But my passion for visual media never died. Instead, I found my calling in the seductive, ever-growing power of communications. Much to my father’s dismay— and my mother’s relief— one of their children decided not to pursue a professional sports career.

In the end, Sawyer and I were both drafted by the Houston Snowhawks. My brother shines on the ice as captain. And I’m finally leading a team of my own. Not in a jersey, but from a hard-earned corner office.

The best part? I didn’t even have to hang up my skates.

Working with the Hawks is the best of both worlds. Between team photos, interviews, game nights, and fan events, I’m still on the ice most days.

It’s not unusual for Dakota to have me circle practice for a fresh perspective. A couple nights a week, Sawyer and I hit the rink to blow off steam after work. And I spend every other Saturday volunteering with the Frosty Pucks. The Pucks are a junior hockey league for underprivileged kids run by Emerson Stone—the Snowhawks’ former star forward and the team’s newest assistant coach.

It’s a dream come true— a dream I’ve worked damn hard to make a reality.

“Morning, Payton.” A familiar voice rings out through the empty gym and jolts me free from meandering thoughts. “Sorry! Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Skylar Morgan gives me a small wave as she walks over. It’s no easy feat. She’s balancing a teetering stack of freshly folded towels in both arms. Only Skylar’s crisp blue scrubs are visible as she bustles toward the sports massage and physical therapy wing of the workout center.

“Hey, Sky.” I step off the elliptical and grab a towel off of her pile as she comes close, revealing the top of her head. “Are we still on for girls” night next weekend?”

She peeks up at me, only a mischievous pair of eyes and the hexagonal shape of her glasses visible over the laundry.

“Fuck. Yes.” Skylar does a happy little dance, sending the towel tower swaying in time to her invisible beat. “Sofie is bringing guac and a bottle of tequila. Yas is making her sugar-free brownies. They’re awful.”

I don’t need to see her face to know Skylar is grinning from ear to ear.

Being a woman in a male-dominated industry can be hard. Working with pro athletes all day long? They should give out Nobel prizes for this shit.

Which is why I am forever grateful to be surrounded by amazing women. Good coworkers are nice and all, but there’s no replacement for a group of female friends who just get it. I haven’t been working at The Nest for long, but I already feel like part of a sisterhood here.

“Wait,” I cock an eyebrow at Skylar. “Why is she bringing the brownies if they’re awful?”

Sky runs the Snowhawks’ physical therapy department alongside Yasmín Rashidi, the team doctor— and her best friend. Skylar and Yas have been friends since they were basically embryos.

“Because,” Skylar says as if it should be obvious. “As long as I put an avocado brownie on my plate, she won’t bug me too much about eating nothing but junk food for the rest of the weekend. Which reminds me— I have a very important question to ask.”

I shake my head at her devious plan. Despite having the proportions of a miniature Barbie doll, Skylar is somehow capable of subsisting on nothing but salt, preservatives, and double-stuffed cream filling. I’ve never met a vegetarian who eats fewer vegetables than Sky.

“Yes, I’ll pick up pizza on the way.” I laugh as Sky does another dance. “Pineapple and jalape?o, right?”

Skylar nods. At least, I think she does. The ponytail peeking out behind her laundry stack bobs up and down, at any rate.

“See you later, alligator,” Sky says with a whistle before marching off with her towels.

Across the gym, the double doors that lead to the men’s locker room swing open. I don’t turn to see who’s here.

I don’t have to— I can feel him in here with me.

It takes every ounce of restraint in my body not to spin around and run in the other direction without a word. Instead, I manage to unravel my tongue long enough to call out a casual goodbye to Skylar. Then I turn on my heel, my face a careful mask of indifference.

I make my way past the elliptical and exercise bikes with the towel draped carelessly across my shoulder. My steps are measured and unhurried. Then I cross the gym into the weight room.

Despite all my efforts, I can’t help but feel like my thundering heartbeat is echoing off of every wall in the gym.

Erik Nordstrom, the Snowhawks goalie, is stretched across the leather bench of the leg press machine. His eyes meet mine as I cross the threshold.

“Good morning, Payton.”

Click.

It feels like a puzzle piece falling into place.

Erik Nordstrom isthe biggest man I’ve ever met. Not just tall— though at six and a half feet he does tower over everyone around him.

No, Erik is capital B Big.

His shoulders are broad and powerful, his chest dotted with long-healed scars. Biceps, triceps, quads, obliques— every one of Erik’s muscles is defined and prominent. He looks like a page out of a physiology textbook.

Or a novel about Viking kings.

His shoulder-length hair is pulled back in a severe bun, and a few pale strands escape as he adds weight to the machine. Not just blonde, his hair is the color of autumn sunshine. His eyes are liquid gold— a warm honey brown that glows and crackles like firelight. Erik is clean-shaven, with cheekbones chiseled out of the side of a mountain and a jaw that belongs on the cover of a comic book.

He’s so beautiful it hurts to look at him for too long.

“Morning, Erik.” I give him a small nod before stepping onto the mat at the base of the squat rack. “Late start today?”

Along the gym’s east-facing windows, the first lavender rays of sunrise are just starting to crest the horizon.

Most mornings, Erik is the only other person in the gym with me. Working out in silence beside him is the sweetest torture. It’s been months now, and my aching attraction to the goalie hasn’t died down. If anything, it’s erupted into a desperate longing that I can’t control.

This isn’t a crush— it’s an obsession.

His gaze sharpens on me now, a dozen responses dancing in those amber eyes. Erik is the definition of the strong and silent type. But when he looks at me, his eyes shift like leaves in sunlight.

That has to mean something right? I’ll cling to the riot of emotion behind his eyes for as long as I can.

“I went for a run this morning. There’s a new trail on the far side of campus, near the amphitheater.” There’s a distinct cadence to Erik’s words. Like lyrical waves crashing against my core. “It’s beautiful at sunrise.”

His Swedish accent sends shivers of thrilled delight along my spine.

“Besides,” he goes on, back against the leather bench as his tree trunk legs glide up and down. “I assumed you’d be happy to have the weight room to yourself for once.”

I wonder what Erik would say if he knew how many nights I’ve spent with my hand between my legs— picturing those honey-brown eyes and the slow drip of my name off his tongue.

“Sounds lovely. I’ll have to check it out.” I say instead, keeping my voice cool. “And don’t worry, I’ll be out of your hair soon.”

I swallow hard, hiding my own disappointment behind a neutral expression. Was he trying to avoid me?

I’ve tried my best to keep my feelings for Erik to myself. After all, I work for the Snowhawks Organization and my brother is his Team Captain. I want Erik Nordstrom more than I’ve ever wanted anything. But if something is going to happen between us, he’s going to have to make the first move.

As quiet and reserved as he is, I’m worried it might never happen.

“I like having you in my hair, Payton,” Erik says as if reading my thoughts. “My workout is better when you’re in the gym. Everything”s easier when I’m looking at you.”

Erik’s gaze heats up. He rakes those amber eyes across my body, lingering over every inch of me before dragging his gaze back up to my face. If my heart was beating fast before, it’s hammering a violent staccato rhythm against my chest now. There’s hunger in Erik’s voice and desire in his eyes— I’m sure of it now. There’s no denying the fire in his words.

I stand there, seconds stretching out into eternity as I wait for him to do something, to say anything.

“Payton—” Erik growls my name like it’s both a benediction and a curse.

Beneath a cotton sports bra, my nipples stiffen to hard points. My skin is hypersensitive, goosebumps breaking out across my bare arms in the cold blast of air pumping in through the gym’s AC vents. Between my thighs, slippery heat pulses in time to the erratic drum of my heart.

“Don’t go,” he says brusquely— and I can’t tell if he’s talking to me or himself.

Erik stands up from the leg press machine. He takes a step toward me, his long stride easily eating up the distance between us.

He’s shirtless, only a pair of dark blue athletic shorts hanging low on the jutting cliff of his hips. In the reflection of the mirrored wall behind him, Erik’s intricate tattoo is clearly visible.

It’s an abstract design that spans across his back. The braided trunk and spiraled limbs of an ethereal tree shatter into a small cluster of ravens in flight across his left shoulder. The design winds down his arm in a mesmerizing dance of dragon-scale ships, wolf heads, and forged hammers.

Erik looks like a Norse God— and I’m ready to let him take me to Valhalla.

But when I meet his gaze again, something is different. His face is a mask, impossible to read. But I’ve spent a lot of time looking at Erik, and I’ve learned his tells along the way. Something flickers behind those golden eyes. Something that looks a lot like pain.

“Erik?” I look him over, letting my own gaze linger appreciatively on the flex of his pecs for longer than strictly necessary. “What’s wrong?”

Along the razor edge of his jawline, a muscle ticks.

“Nothing.” Erik shakes his head but doesn’t meet my eyes again. “I should get to the ice. I have drills to run. I’m sorry, Payton.”

I blink hard, trying to clear my scrambled thoughts. A bucket of ice water couldn’t have shifted the mood faster than Erik’s short response and sudden retreat.

What the fuck just happened?

When I look up again, Erik’s tattooed back is shifting in and out of view.

He’s favoring his left leg.

It’s easy to miss— especially because he’s working hard to mask it and just threw me through a loop. But Erik is walking with a nearly imperceptible limp. Still— that doesn’t make sense, either. Why would he hide an injury?

“I think I’ll join you,” I call out before Erik leaves the gym. “I don’t have to be in the office for another hour. You don’t mind, do you?”

Erik stops with one hand on the door handle. He doesn’t turn around, but I can feel the static crack of electricity around him.

“As you wish, Payton.” He pushes the door open, letting the pink glow of dawn into the weight room.

Then Erik steps through the frame without looking back.

I don’t know what’s waiting for me on the other side of this door. But one thing is clear. If I follow Erik through that threshold, my life— and our relationship— will never be the same.

“Time to take a risk,” I whisper to myself.

And then I rush out into the morning before I have a chance to second guess myself.