Page 11 of Puck Me Twice

But as he looks between us again, I don’t think that’s true—not anymore.

Coach’s whistle blows on the ice. Shit, I’m late. He’ll probably force me to do suicides until I puke.

“Gotta go, babe.” The word feels foreign on my lips, and at the same time, so perfectly right. I dip down and kiss her cheek. “See you later.”

five

. . .

Vanessa: Nine years ago

The guy next to me is cute, and as his teammates have pointed out multiple times, he’s single. Bex, sitting beside me, was quick to offer up my own relationship status, too.

I went out on a date with the hockey player from my biology class. ONE date. That’s all it was. So what if he kissed me after?

It’s been six weeks and he hasn’t called me, and I haven’t called him, so we’re just… nothing.

This guy, though… he could get it.

The man beside me is tall and broad, which makes sense if he’s a hockey player. I guess I really do have a type, after all. His strong jaw and sharp cheekbones hint to Viking ancestry, and his long blond hair is loose to his shoulders, though it was tied back when we sat down an hour ago. His green eyes are sharp and clear. He had a glass of champagne at the toast and has been nursing a singular glass of red wine since.

Fuck. Is he even old enough to drink?

Technically, I’m not either, though it hasn’t exactly stopped me tonight. The girls have been bringing me and Bex drinks all night, and if the bartender hasn’t cottoned on, I’m not about to tattle.

Kate is a gorgeous bride, and Alex is clearly smitten. They’re the first of my friends to get married. She was the lacrosse team captain last year and really took me under her wing; she was my Big Sister, mentoring me in far more than strategy.

Alex joined the NHL last spring after Michigan won the championship, and now he’s playing hockey in the big leagues. He invited the entire team to the wedding.

Which I guess is how this guy is here. I don’t know his name. He said it earlier, but I didn’t catch it. I was too busy catching my melting panties.

His accent. Fuck, is it hot.

The DJ has played five upbeat pop songs in a row. When a new song mixes in, I set my hand on the guy’s arm, and his strong forearm flexes.

Slowly, he swivels his head in my direction.

“Would you like to dance?” I ask.

He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and I have the weirdest urge to lick it. Lick him.

Lick him everywhere.

Pressing my knees together, I squeeze my thighs to redirect my attention away from the pulsing between my legs. It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten laid. Too long.

“Dance?” he asks in that panty-incinerating accent.

“Yeah. Do you want to dance?”

“With you?” His eyes go wide.

Why does he sound so surprised?

I can’t deny that stings. With a huff, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at him.

“Yeah, with me.”

He swallows again, and I realize the entire table has fallen silent, watching us.