7. Weston

In the old days, they called them gold-diggers. Now, we call them puck bunnies. But they’re one and the same when it comes down to it: just shameless girls trying to hitch their wagon to my rocket ship.

I do have to give this one some credit: the move into my building was top-shelf. Stellar, really. Especially figuring out how to squat in that actress chick’s apartment. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t impressed.

But now, somehow, she has managed to get a job at the arena, for the team that employs me. That is next-level stuff. She’s the Wayne Gretzky of puck bunnies. They ought to hang her panties in the rafters, right next to all the retired jerseys and championship banners.

Speaking of panties, I’m still carrying hers around like some kind of good luck charm. I’ve told myself I’m gonna throw them away any day now, or return them, or fly them from the damn flagpole just to prove a point (although what point that is, I’m not exactly sure).

But no—they’re still here, burning a hole in my pocket.

The look on her face when I tell her, “This is gonna be fun,” is priceless. Cheeks red with equal parts shame and fury. Her jaw clenched so tight it’s a miracle her teeth don’t explode like Pop Rocks. Those fists, balled up and shaking at her sides.

I like pushing her buttons.

But I force myself to turn and skate away, because truth be told, Princess Polyester pushes my buttons, too. My dick is so hard for the rest of practice that it’s a miracle I don’t explode like a Pop Rock.

Thankfully, Coach doesn’t keep us much longer, because the blood that’s supposed to be circulating in my legs is stuck in a certain southern region of my body instead.

When he blows the last whistle, the boys troop off the ice and head for the locker room. I’m the last one off. I’m shuffling down the hallway when I see the social media gals clustered up in a side hall.

Before I can second-guess myself, I veer off-course. “I want to talk to you for a minute.”

Princess Polyester looks up at me with that mixture of emotions on her eyes. Fear and fury blended together, a cocktail I could drink all night long.

“Weston…” Michelle starts. But she sinks into silence when I shoot her a vicious look.

“It wasn’t a question.”

“We can talk here,” Renee says icily.

“No,” I retort. “As a matter of fact, we cannot.”

I take her by the arm and drag her away from Michelle and Danni. I’m not hurting her, but I’m definitely forceful enough to let her know that I’m not fucking around.

I speed-walk us down the hallway to an empty office, then shove her through the door and close it behind me.

“What is the matter with you?” she snarls. She’s dropped halfway into a fighting stance and those tight fists are still trembling like leaves in a hurricane. “What do you want?”

She glares at me with eyes so brown they’re almost black, but there isn’t a trace of fear in the dark angry depths. Anger on her is fucking hot. I have to tamp down on the urge to yank her body next to mine and see what kind of fruit is printed on the panties she’s wearing today.

“I want you to—” I inhale a lungful of her and my brain fogs. “Are you wearing perfume?”

The question slips out unexpectedly. Of course she is. This whole damn place smells like jock armpit ninety-nine percent of the time, but right now, I have the distinct pleasure of smelling jasmine, rose, citrus. It’s screwing with my head.

“What?”

Her surprise isn’t hers alone. I’m just as baffled by the words that came out of my mouth as she is. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that you can never back off. Even if you picked a direction by accident or stupidity or sheer dumb luck, it’s double-down or die.

“Are you wearing perfume?” I shake my head. “It’s a simple question. Are you wearing perfume?”

“Yeah. What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Her tone sets off all kinds of warning bells. She shakes her head like an angry bull, but all that does is send another dose of the scent wafting toward me.

It makes me want to bury my face in her neck and breathe her in.

When she sees I’m not making any more aggressive moves toward her, Renee rises out of her ninja crouch and folds her arms over her chest. I don’t miss how the posture presses her breasts up high over the edge of her blouse. “Well?”

She’s standing in front of me, tapping her foot, waiting for me to answer.

I shake my head again, disgust twisting my face into a scowl. “Nothing. It has shit to do with anything.” Now, back to my original intended question. “Are you going to quit this job or not?”

“Not.”

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t give a shit about you or about hockey, but I need this job. So no, I’m not quitting.”

“Are you trying to extort me? Get me to give you money to go away?”

Her mouth drops open and I stare, half-tempted to poke a finger in, but it’s my slapshot hand and I need all the fingers and the devil knows this chick won’t hesitate to clamp on down.

“‘Extort you’? So am I a stalker or a criminal mastermind? You have to decide which side of the line you want to stand on.” She shakes her head disgustedly. “Or maybe you’re just an arrogant asshole who thinks the whole world wants in your pants.” Her eyes flash. “Newsflash, Tiny Tim: I’m not interested.”

“Tiny Tim?” I echo stupidly.

“Puny Pete? Wee Willy Winkie? I forgot your name. And it doesn’t matter anyway—I know exactly what you are and I don’t need to know your name to make you a social media darling. Which is my job. A.K.A., the only thing I care about.”

“Oh, you’re something, aren’t you?” I saunter closer to her. “You say you know what I am. But I don’t think you do. I don’t think you’ve really processed it yet.”

Renee shrugs nonchalantly. “Maybe, maybe not. But like I just finished telling you, I don’t give a shit. I’m here to do my job.”

“Stop saying that. You don’t have a job here. Not for much longer, at least.”

By the time I get to the front office and read our general manager the riot act, she’ll be as good as gone. Hell, I’ll go there right now, still in my skates and everything.

I have a hand on the door when her voice stops me. “Why do you care where I work? It’s not like I’m going to ask to carpool with you. You have your job and I have mine. I don’t plan on interacting with you any more than is absolutely necessary.”

I turn back to face her. She’s a pretty little thing, especially for a nutcase stalker. Auburn hair that falls a little bit past her shoulders in this silky-smooth way that catches the light. Smooth, tanned skin I want to lick like an ice cream cone. I love her mouth the most, I decide. Love the way it sounds, the way it moves, the things I can imagine it doing.

But in between her words, I see an easier way out than demanding her head on a spike myself. All I have to do is wait for her to sink her own ship. I don’t have to do it for her; if I give her enough rope, she’ll hang herself.

There’s no way in hell that the Princess of Polyester is going to be able to hack it in the trenches with me. More to the point, I can’t afford to let that happen. After what I’ve done… what’s been done to me… the last thing I want is another psycho female coming to fuck up my life.

“You know what? You’re right. I don’t care.”

As I fling the door open and walk out, I’ve never been more certain: as pretty as she may be, this little princess won’t even last the season.