Page 12 of Puck Me Twice

“Come on, man,” says one of the guys. “Just do it.”

“It’ll be good for you,” chimes in another hockey player. “Put some hair on your chest.”

“Fuck off,” he mutters, scowling at his teammate. “Fine. Yes. Let’s dance.”

Pushing back my chair, I rise to my feet and let the crepe fabric of my skirt fall to the floor. It’s a gorgeous dress; a dark plum purple halter, an exposed back, and a soft, delicate skirt that makes me feel like a ballerina. My long blonde hair is tied up into a French twist, a few strands of curls hanging free to give the style a tousled look. I look fucking hot and I know it.

I’m tall, and with my heels, I’m even taller. This guy, though? He stands about six foot three, and his dark blue three-piece suit is fucking stellar, and when he comes to stand beside me, I get the faintest whiff of crisp, clean cologne and a hint of musk that sends all my senses into overdrive.

His warm palm lands on the small of my back, and I flinch. He pulls his hand away.

The dance floor is crowded with people bopping along to the 90s jams the DJ has been blasting. I see a few people giving us curious looks as I lead him to an empty patch of the dance floor.

Shaking and shimmying to the music, I let my body loosen to the last verse of the song as he stands stiffly beside me.

He looks uncomfortable, like he’d rather be anywhere else on the fucking planet than here with me.

And normally, I’d let that bother me.

But this is just a dance, this is just one night out of my life, and if I never see him again, it’s not a big deal. He’s hot, sure, but it’s not like I’m gonna marry the guy or anything.

The song transitions to a slower melody. Before I can think too much about it, I place my hand on his shoulder and he sets a hand on my waist.

“I’ve never done this before,” he murmurs, pulling me close.

“Done what? Slow danced?”

His soft exhale draws me in.

“I’ve never held a beautiful woman in my arms and wished she could be mine.”

With a scoff, I pull back. “You⁠—”

He moves his hands to my hips, putting a polite distance between us. “You are beautiful,” he says in perfect English with the crispest tinge to his words. “I know you can’t be mine.”

“Why not?” I look up at him.

There’s a freckle on the end of his nose. I want to kiss it.

I’ve forgotten why this can’t work.

“Because I’ve never been lucky enough to have my dreams come true,” he says, his eyes meeting mine.

He’s serious.

What the hell?

“You play in the National Hockey League. You’re—you’re living the dream!”

He shrugs. “Hockey was a goal. Something I could work hard to attain. Something measurable. You would be a dream, and I'd never be able to work hard enough to get you... much less keep you.”

I blink at him a few times, wondering where in the actual hell this guy came from. “Again… you’re in the fucking NHL. I bet you wouldn’t have to work a single day for the girls throwing their panties at you.” Fuck knows I’d be first in line to throw my own.

“I don’t want girls,” he says, with a slight sneer.

“Guys? Hey, I’m cool with that.”

His fingers slide inward, meeting in the small of my back as he turns me.