Pucked Page 58

Finally, the refs get their shit together and break it up. His opposition is bleeding all over the ice. I shouldn’t find this level of violence hot.

“What are they doing?” I ask as refs escort a raging Alex off the ice.

Sidney gives me a dubious look. “He’s being ejected from the game, Violet. He just kicked the shit out of someone.”

Of course he has, but what happens now? Alex is fury incarnate as he stomps awkwardly down the hallway in his skates, disappearing from view. Someone needs to calm Alex down. I’m hoping it will be me.

“I need to pee, I’ll be right back.”

I make my way through the stands toward the locker room, aware I may not get past security. I must have a horseshoe stuck where the sun don’t shine because security is too busy chatting up a couple of puck bunnies to notice as I slip inside the locker room.

I can hear a low thud followed by Alex swearing. I peek around the corner.

Alex’s uniform is strewn across the floor, along with his padding and most of his gear. All he has on is a jockstrap, highlighting his package, which appears larger than usual. It could be a figment of my imagination caused by two weeks of his absence.

His muscles are tense, his jaw flexing, and his nostrils flare with his wrath. He hurtles his skate across the room. It slams into the wall, leaving a hole in the drywall.

I’m nervous and my panties are damp. My thought is singular: angry, hot, locker-room sex.


His eyes are vibrant with ire. His back expands and contracts with every heavy exhalation of breath. He rolls his shoulders, his gaze moving over me in a hungry, feral sweep.

Oh. My. God. He’s terrifyingly hot. Like The Hulk, but sexy, not green.

I’m so going to get laid in a locker room.

Go me.


Toronto’s center must have hit me harder than I thought because I’m pretty sure I’m hallucinating.

“Alex, baby, are you okay?” My hallucination takes a tentative step toward me and touches my chest. Her hand warms my already overheated skin.

You can’t feel hallucinations. At least I don’t think you can, which means Violet is really here. I’m almost naked and extremely pissed. I hope she hasn’t witnessed too much of my temper tantrum.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

She bites her bottom lip. I reach out to skim the plush curve. Fuck, I’ve missed her mouth. I’ve missed her everything.

“I wanted to surprise you. Maybe it wasn’t the best idea.” Her fingers slide from my sweaty shoulder to my neck. “You beat the hell out of that guy. He was bleeding, and you hardly have a mark on you.”

“He pissed me off.” As if it wasn’t obvious from the ass-kicking I served. That’s what happens when an asshole makes derogatory comments about "tag-teaming my newest puck bunny." I didn’t handle it well. Especially since I was under the impression I wasn’t going to see Violet for several more days. Cockburn and I have had a long-standing dislike for each other ever since I was traded to the Hawks instead of him. I’m a better player, and he knows it.

“I could tell. What happened out there?”

“Cockburn was being a dick. I told him how I felt about it with my fists.”

“Cockburn? His last name is almost as unfortunate as Butterson. He must have done something pretty awful to make you so upset.”

“He was running his mouth. It’s what he does best.”

“I’m sorry they kicked you out of the game.” She rests her palm against my chest, right over my heart. “Watching you . . . it made me—” Her head drops, and she peeks up at me through her lashes. “You were so angry. I really shouldn’t find that sexy, should I?”

The rage that’s been rocking my ability to make rational decisions ebbs in the wake of her question, only to be replaced with a different, acute need.

“I missed you,” Violet says softly as she pushes up on her tiptoes, and I bend to meet her.

I have no restraint. At all.

Two weeks with only the uncomfortable chafing of my own hand is a poor replacement for Violet. The way she tastes, the way she feels against my body and in my arms, combined with the frustration over being ejected from the game and the fight, is like an emotional, hormonal, adrenaline bomb.

“Fuck, I missed you.”

I grab her ass and pull her in tight. Her lips part and I seek out her tongue with my own. There’s no softness in this kiss; I’m pent up and on overload. Wrapping my arm around her waist, I lift her off the ground. Her feet dangle a few inches above the floor as I cross the room, away from the entrance and the security detail—who clearly aren’t doing their job since Violet is in here.

I set her down in front of the lockers and she shoves her hips into mine. “Ow!”


She feels around between us. “Of course, good idea. Protect your snuffie.”

“My what?”

“Your snuffie. Your cock.”


“You know. Like Suffleupagus.”

She nibbles my lip, probably as a distraction from the comparison of my most prized body part to a children’s show character.

“My cock in no way resembles a fuzzy, make-believe elephant.” I take care of my shit.

“It’s uncut, so it’s a snuffie, and it’s like a mythological creature, being so monstrous and all.”

“You’re not nicknaming my dick Snuffie, just so we’re—” I yank her shirt over her head.

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