Pucking Sweet: An MMF Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 3)

Something’s wrong with Poppy. She appeared during warmups and stood behind the glass in our VIP section, chatting with some industry reps, but her hand motions were too animated, and her smile didn’t meet her eyes. I even made an ass of myself and did a few groin stretches on the ice right in front of her. Nothing. No eye-rolling. No pursed lips. She had no reaction to my assholery.

Yeah, something’s definitely wrong.

But this isn’t my business, right? We’re not friends. At best, I’d say were hostile coworkers. I don’t have to care about this. And I definitely don’t have to investigate further. It’s done. Out of sight, out of mind.

I rattle my gear down piece by piece in the dressing room, handing off the stuff that goes to the laundry to a waiting equipment manager. I strip off all my upper layers and drop my hockey pants, sitting on the bench with a tired sigh. Once my skates are off, I pop a couple pain relievers and lean back against my stall, eyes closed as I just take a second to catch my breath.

I mean, a friend would probably investigate, right? Even a teammate might show casual interest. But Poppy’s not my teammate. She’s my PR rep. She’s a corporate suit—

God, why did I have to think about her in a suit? That high-waisted skirt and white blouse combo she’s rocking tonight feels very “the headmistress will see you now.”

No, I can’t care about her suits or her moods. She’s not my problem. I’m pushing her from my mind, starting now—

“Right, so I’ve made a reservation at Club 7 for 11 p.m.!”

Fucking hell.

My eyes flash open to see Poppy standing in the doorway. Balancing in those sky-high heels, she keeps a hand over her eyes, blocking her view of our various stages of undress. Her gloomy shadow, Wednesday, stands at her shoulder, eyes on her phone.

“The VIP area is all set up,” Poppy goes on.

A couple of the guys groan.

“You only need to stay for an hour,” she assures them. “First round of drinks is on the house. And don’t forget to snap those pics!”

“You got it, Poppy,” Langley calls after her retreating form.

Stupid fucking Boy Scout. I hate him.

I turn to Compton. “Hey, you’re going tonight, right?”

“Hmm? Waszzit?” He only vaguely registers that I’m speaking. He’s got his eyes locked on Doc Price standing over in the corner.

I wave a hand in front of his face. “Hello? Earth to Compton.”

He blinks and leans away, slapping my hand down. “Don’t be a dick.”

“Don’t be so obvious then.”

“I’m not being obvious…am I?”

“Bud, the only person in this whole building who doesn’t know you have the hots for Doc Price is the night janitor, but even she suspects something.”

“Keep your fuckin’ voice down,” he says, elbowing me in the ribs.

“Jake, it’s not a big deal,” says Morrow from my other side.

Compton turns on me like I just slapped his dick. “Oh great. So he knows too?”

“We all know,” says Morrow.

“Yeah, and in case you haven’t noticed, she’s totally into you too,” I add with a grin.

He glances back her way with a dopey smile on his face. “Oh god, do you think so?”

Morrow and I both laugh. This asshole is too damn earnest.

“Just don’t go fooling around until you clear it with HR,” Morrow warns. “She’s not a bunny, Jake. She’s part of the team. You gotta respect that for all our sakes. We need her.”

I go still, my smiling falling. She is part of the team. The medical staff are as essential to what we do here as the coaches and the equipment managers. We can’t play without Doc Price there to catch us when we fall.

Poppy is part of the team too. She may move behind the scenes, but she’s the one putting butts in seats so we can keep playing the game we all love so much.

Jake heads off toward the showers and I turn to Morrow. “Hey, have you talked to Poppy today?”

He glances to the open doorway where she just disappeared. “Nah, she showed up after I was already out on the ice for warmups.”

“What’s going on there?” I dare to ask. “Is this another Compton situation? Do I need to alert the night janitor?”

He ducks down and suddenly becomes very concerned with fiddling with his skate laces.

I lower my voice. “You can tell me, you know. If there’s something between you—”

“There’s nothing.” He sits up, glancing around the room before he turns to me. “Poppy is cool. She’s smart, and beautiful, and kind, and…we’re friends, alright?”

A heavy weight sinks in my chest, even as I force a smile. “Yeah, and I’m Bruce Banner.”

“We are, Nov. We…” He heaves a tired sigh. “She doesn’t date hockey players, okay?”

My eyes narrow. “So, you asked.”

“Let’s just say she volunteered the information.”

Sneaky fucker. What is he hiding? “She turned you down flat, eh?”

“She’s focusing on her career, and I can respect that.”

“Yeah, she turned you down flat,” I tease, feeling a little lighter.

He punches my arm and stands. “I’m hitting the showers. You going to the club tonight?”

As he talks, I hear the click of heels out in the hall. Poppy walks past the open doorway, phone up to her ear, still working for us even though the game is done.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m going.”

Oh, I’m going straight to hell is where I’m going. That’s where they send men who have depraved thoughts about their coworkers, right? Poppy St. James just stepped off the hotel elevator wearing a curve-hugging, electric-blue mini dress. Her blonde hair tumbles down her back in a mess of curls. She did something different with her makeup too. It’s darker, edgier.

I’m just gonna say it inside my head: She looks positively fuckable. I’ve never said that about a PR director before. It’s an odd sensation, but not wholly unpleasant.

She strides across the lobby like she owns it, walking in a matching pair of strappy blue heels. Doc Price walks at her side, looking just as gorgeous in a black jumpsuit with a plunging neckline. Behind me, a couple of the guys let off wolf whistles.

Compton is already on his feet, moving straight to Doc’s side. I don’t even realize that I’m standing too. I follow Compton, letting him step around me with Doc on his arm.

Poppy is looking at her phone, tapping away with both thumbs. “Okay,” she calls to the lobby. “Ubers are a minute out!” With her head still down, she nearly walks right into me. “Oh! Sorry, honey, didn’t see you.” She finally registers that it’s me and her lips part in surprise. She looks me up and down, those sky-blue eyes wide. “Whoa. Lukas, you look…good.”

Is this a trick? Why am I suddenly second-guessing everything about this outfit? It’s just a white V-neck shirt and a pair of navy dress pants, but the shirt is tight, and I’m built like a house. I mean, I know I look good, but I still brush a self-conscious hand over my chest. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

She huffs. “Nothing. That’s why I used a superlative.”

“Kind of a lukewarm one,” I mutter. Her eyes flash with annoyance, and I breathe a little sigh of relief. Maybe she’s fine.

“What do you want me to say? I usually only see you in a hockey uniform or workout wear. Forgive me, but tube socks and sandals don’t really scream ‘fashion icon.’ Now, take the compliment, and take a hike. I’m not in the mood to spar with you tonight.”

“Yo, Poppy,” Sully calls. “Ubers are here!”

I offer my arm, mirroring Compton’s smooth move. To my surprise, she only hesitates for a second before she places her hand on my arm and lets me lead her toward the doors.

“Okay,” she calls out again. “Everyone pick a car. And remember, the press will be waiting when we arrive.”

Three sleek SUVs idle by the valet attendant. I follow Compton and Doc to the first Uber, helping Poppy get in. Langers edges his way past Morrow to snag the front seat. Morrow drops back, giving me a nod before piling into the next Uber with Sanford and the forwards. Does he know something’s up with Poppy too?

I step around to the other side and get in. Poppy and Doc are already mid-conversation, and Compton is just leaning back, eyeing Doc like he’s gonna eat her. From the front seat, Langers calls out for any music requests. The car rolls forward, and I settle in, pretending I’m on my phone. Really, I’m watching Poppy.

Let’s walk this back. I saw her at the hotel’s buffet breakfast this morning and she seemed fine. Granted, it was from the other side of the room, but she was her normal, bubbly self. I don’t think she drinks coffee in the morning. I only ever see her go for the water or juice. She likes grapefruit with cottage cheese and yogurt parfait, I know that too.

So, sometime between breakfast and our game, her day took a serious turn. She’s from DC, right? Shit, maybe it’s a family thing. Maybe I shouldn’t pry. Family shit is definitely none of my business.

I don’t have long to ponder because we pull up at the club in minutes. A scrum of press is waiting. The sidewalk to either side of the entrance is packed with people trying to get in.

“Okay, here we go,” says Poppy. “Smiles everyone.” I don’t even get a word in before she’s out the door. The music hits me, along with the flashing of the camera lenses, and I’m momentarily stunned.

Langley is already out too, one hand on Poppy’s lower back as he waves and smiles. Oh, fuck that. I launch into action, exiting the car and stepping around to join them. I move through the crowd, catching up with Langers and Poppy. I step right in at his back and say in his ear, “Sully wants you for a forward line pic.”

Gullible Langers just nods and drops back, leaving me with Poppy. I replace his hand with mine, steering her into the packed club. As we get our wristbands, I look around. This is a big club. There are some burlesque cage dancers, and a small stage up at the front for the DJ. I feel the beat kicking in my chest. Something about the vibrations soothes my tense mood, and I relax. Next to me, Poppy does the same. Her hips sway to the beat as she stays by my side, unbothered that my hand is still on her back.

I lean down, all but pressing my lips to her ear. “Do you want a drink?”

She turns her face, her lips brushing my jaw as she says, “The bartender should be ready for us. First round is comped. Let’s go!” Then, surprising the shit out of me, she weaves her fingers in with mine, leading me over to the bar.

I follow close behind her, my eyes taking in her sway as she walks. That dress is doing sinful things to her ass. She’s petite, so I just assumed she didn’t have much happening in that department. Either way, her little blazers always tend to cover it. Now I can see everything and it’s fucking perfect. There’s definitely enough there to take a bite.

Okay, fuck me, what is happening?

I slip my hand from hers. Flirting is one thing. Flirting is harmless fun. But have I just spent the last fifteen minutes genuinely lusting after Poppy St. James? I mean, she’s gorgeous, but she’s a fucking pill. She’s a PR princess. A ball-busting, no-fun Nancy, who lives to ruin my good time. She’s got me terrified to even hook up with random strangers anymore because I don’t want to have to fill out a form after. Lukas Novikov doesn’t keep receipts. You can’t be hurt by someone if you don’t even remember that they happened.

As I’m thinking all of this, she leans over the bar, bracing herself on her elbows and popping that sweet little peach in the air. She says something to the bartender, an edgy chick with dyed pink hair and lots of face piercings. I can hear Poppy’s high, pealing laugh from here. Palms flat on the bar, she glances over her shoulder, looking around. Spotting me, she smiles and waves me over.

I cross to her side, and she hands me a cocktail. She’s got a matching one in her hand. “What’s this?”

She takes a sip of hers with extra cherries floating in the ice. “It’s called a Jax Ray. Tina made it.” She flashes another smile at the bartender. “It’s basically just a Jack & Coke. But fruitier. Try it!”

I take a sip of the cocktail and nearly gag on the sweetness. “Is that grenadine?”

“Mhmm. And a splash of bitters.”

“So basically, it’s an old fashioned ruined with Coke.” I take another sip. “Jeezus, Pop. This thing is strong.”

“And it’s gooood,” she hums.

“You better pace yourself. A girl your size could get drunk off the fumes.”

“Don’t patronize me, Lukas.” She takes another sip. “Okay, so I promised you a good time tonight. Wingwoman Poppy is officially on duty.” She gives me a cheeky little salute.

“Not necessary, Pop. But thanks for the offer.”

“What, no,” she cries, her eyes getting all wide and sad like a hurt squirrel. “Come on, I’m a great wingwoman. I don’t want you thinking I’m some kind of HR stiff who can’t appreciate the value of carnal connections.”

“Carnal connections?” I repeat.

“Lustful liaisons? A passionate pounding?”

I snort into my cocktail. Fuck, why am I still drinking this?

“Sex, Lukas,” she says louder. “I’m talking about you getting some good old-fashioned bodies pressing, hearts beating, physical intercourse.”

“Jeezus.”

“I wouldn’t dare call it lovemaking,” she adds with a wink. “I know that would send you running for the hills faster than me shouting ‘who’s available for a TikTok challenge’?”

Okay, and now I’m laughing. “I think I’ll just keep passionately pounding drinks tonight. But not this,” I add, taking a half-step away to set my cocktail down on a nearby table.

“Come on,” she says again. “It’s been what, two weeks since Little Lukas last saw any action? That can’t be good for your health. It’s certainly bad for the reputation.”

I round on her. “Okay, first, he’s not so little. Reach your hand down there and check if you don’t believe me.”

“Hard pass.” She makes a show of stirring her cherries into her ice instead.

“And second, let’s just turn this spotlight around, eh? How long has it been for you? Since you know so much about me, let’s hear more about you, wingwoman.”

She drains the rest of her cocktail and looks me dead in the eye. “Three years.” Stepping around me, she discards her empty glass and takes mine.

Three years? Poppy hasn’t had sex in three fucking years? Please god, tell me that doesn’t include masturbation. I don’t think I ever go longer than three days without jerking one out. And don’t tell me a woman as hot as her hasn’t had plenty of opportunities. She could have anyone in this club—guy or girl—with a curl of her finger. What the hell is she waiting for?

I’m about to ask just that, but we’re interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the team. Things get crazy for a few minutes as all the Rays descend on the bar. We laugh it up about how disgusting our signature cocktail is before most of us switch to craft beers.

Poppy is standing between Morrow and Langers when she calls out, “Our VIP section is upstairs. Just flash them your wristbands. Have a great time!”

A few of the younger guys peel away, already eyeing dance partners. The rest of them make their way toward the stairs. Morrow leans down and says something in Poppy’s ear that has her smiling and shaking her head. She points over her shoulder at the bartender as she talks, taking a seat on a vacant stool. He invited her upstairs and she said no. She wants to stay down here to chat with the bartender. They must know each other. Poppy did live here not that long ago…

Fuck, so did Morrow. Has he been here before? Have they been here together? Oh god. Now my mind is filling with images of them out on that dance floor, fucking with their clothes on, his hands in her hair. He leads her down the dark hallway to the bathroom. She pulls him into an empty stall, and he’s inside her within a minute, pounding her into the wall—

Oh, goddamn it.

Now I’m getting hard—and pissed. I’m standing here alone like a total fucking asshole, beer in hand, picturing my PR manager fucking my teammate over a toilet.

No, she just said she hasn’t had sex in three years. She also told Coley she doesn’t date the players. Poppy St. James is a proper lady. She’s not hooking up with hockey players in dirty bar bathrooms. I bet she only does missionary, and only if the sheets are Egyptian cotton. I bet she doesn’t even take her bra off, too embarrassed to be seen fully naked. Who was the stiff who last got a taste? Probably a pastor’s son…or an investment banker with a limp dick.

Now, I’m smiling again.

Morrow crosses over to me. “You comin’ up?”

“She staying down here?”

He nods.

“Should someone stay with her?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Nah, Tina will keep an eye on her.”

I take a sip of my beer. “They’re friends?”

He looks at me, the obvious question in his eyes. “Are you?”