Page 1 of Lucky Puck

Chapter One

BRODY

My mouth opens before my eyes because it’s uncommonly dry, and when I open my eyes, I’m very sorry I did. The glaring sunlight blinds me, and that’s when I notice the pain shooting through my head like someone’s taking a slapshot at my eyeballs from the inside.

Well, shit. I’m hung over.

Not the first time, but I’m surprised because I made sure to limit my drinking last night.

Last night… the details are fuzzy, but there was a woman. If I can calm the slamming in my head and clear the fog, maybe I’d be more sure.

Maybe she’s still here.

The idea of morning sex helps clear the fog and dulls the slamming puck in my head as I sit up and swing my feet to the floor. I’m stark naked with the morning wood ready to go, but looking around, I see no signs of a woman anywhere.

The bathroom door is open a crack, and I move that way with the promise of feminine wiles propelling me.

Unfortunately, I don’t remember the woman’s name—Star? Mostly I remember calling her baby, and she was fine with that. Some of the exciting bits from last night come to mind as I call out, “Baby, you in there? How about a hot shower together?”

Nothing but silence answers me, and when I push open the door, I find the spacious bathroom empty. No sign anyone has been here except me. My shaving kit sits untouched on the counter.

“Well, fuck.” I push a hand through my hair as I wander back into the bedroom of my suite, pushing aside my disappointment. Until my hand snags on something. I stop short.

Pulling my fingers gingerly from my disheveled mop of hair, my eyes nearly burst from my head when I see the problem on my left-hand ring finger.

There’s a ring there. A wedding band, to be exact, shiny and gold and so fucking out of place that I shut my eyes, blinking to clear my head in case I’ve lost my mind and I’m seeing things.

“Fuck. Where the hell did that come from?” I hold my hand away from me as if the ring is infected with the plague or made of kryptonite or some such shit, all as deadly as marriage.

The urge to get the damn ring off my finger has me yank at it full force. Fuck. I nearly break my knuckle when the ring slams against it hard. And then doesn’t budge any further past the now throbbing spot. But I don’t stop trying until I realize I can’t slip it past my swelling knuckle no matter how much I pull on it.

“Fuck. How the hell did I get this thing on my finger? More importantly, why the hell is this ring on my finger?” But even as I talk to no one in the empty room, I realize that she, the nameless woman I insisted on calling Star Baby, then spent the night with, is the one who forced the ring on my finger.

Stomping back into the bathroom, I grab one of those small bars of soap and liberate it from the wrapper with my teeth, lather it up, and soap up my ring finger.

I remember this trick from my sister Kara when she needed to rid herself of a certain diamond engagement ring she got stuck with, literally and figuratively. Luckily, she banished the cheating bastard who gave it to her, and she’s happily living her best life as a free woman playing for the Boston Fleet in the Women’s Professional Hockey Association—WPHA.

With my finger worked into a lather, I smile and pull more gingerly this time. I twist it, move it up and down below the first knuckle where it glides smoothly, then I tug harder. And harder.

Shit. That hurts like a bastard. And it’s swelling up. Great. Since the last thing I need to do is injure my hand or any of my fingers—key appendages when it comes to shooting the puck accurately—I finally stop.

I need to get ready for the game. I look at my wrist to check the time.

But my watch is gone. What the…

I stomp to the bed and check the bedside table. No watch. No phone. I rummage through the bedclothes and find my phone, thank fuck.

Shit. I don’t have a lot of time to get ready—not enough time to get to a jeweler and have the ring removed the hard way. As I hunt down my clothes, I guzzle down a bottle of fancy hotel water with some kind of pink flower on the label, and my headache subsides enough to think.

The question of what the wedding band on my ring finger could signify pops to the top of my mind—then I ruthlessly shove it back down with the hammer blow of resounding refusal to deal with the possible answer to that question right now.

Surveying the room, I realize my bag isn’t on the stand where I left it. And my suit isn’t hanging in the closet where I put it.

Shit. Am I in the right room? Did we go back to star baby what’s her name’s room? Taking care not to expose my bare body, I check the outside of the suite’s door.

Shit, it’s the right room. What the hell?

As I flop into a chair, my gut sinks and I realize she’s taken everything except my shaving kit and my phone. And I have a vague recollection of two wedding bands and her crying. Concentrating hard, which only brings back my headache with double the thrill, I get flashes of her slipping the ring on my finger—and her wearing a matching ring. Shit.