FULL NOVELXO Pucking Sweet: Chapter 23
I’m a ball of nerves as I heft my bag onto my shoulder and climb the stairs of the team bus. Novy is already on. I spot him immediately, five rows down, shades on, hat pulled low, hood up. He’s leaning against the window like he’s sleeping, but I know better.
Most hockey players live to nap. During the season, if I’m not playing, working out, or eating, you can assume I’m napping. But Novy doesn’t nap. Ever. The asshole is like a hockey anomaly. He says he doesn’t like the way naps make him feel. It’s fucking weird.
I drop down in the seat next to him, jostling him with my bag. “Hey.”
“Jeez, fucker.” He elbows me hard, shifting his hold on his free hotel coffee. “Mind moving your damn bag outta my spleen?”
I drop my bag between my feet. “So, what happened last night?”
He grunts, taking a noisy slurp from his travel cup. “How ’bout a ‘Good morning, Novy’ or a ‘You’re looking exceptionally spry’—”
“How ’bout go fuck yourself, Novy. Tell me what happened.”
He slowly turns to glare at me. “Nothing.”
“Was Poppy okay? Did you get her back to the hotel?”
He sighs. “Look, I was a perfect fucking gentleman, alright? I saved her from the groping hands of Kyle, the wannabe golf pro, loudly proclaiming how tall you are the whole time. Then I took her over to the bar to get her purse. I met her friend—I told her how tall you are too. Then I personally paid for the Uber that took us back to the hotel? Okay? Now, get off my case about it. And go find a different seat. That one’s taken.”
“No one ever sits here.”
“My ego does. You’re squashing it with your stupid, giant body. Now, move.”
I lean back against the seat. “So, she’s okay?”
He takes another sip of his coffee, not looking at me. “You’ll have to ask her.”
Oh, believe me, I will.
I get settled on the plane, pulling my headphones and e-reader out of my backpack. I wrap the headphones around my neck and tuck the e-reader into my seat pocket. Novy is sitting in his own row across the aisle from me, scrolling on his phone. Langley leans back from a row ahead of him. “Hey, either of you wanna play Mario Kart?”
“No thanks,” I say as Novy mutters, “Fuck off, Langers.”
“They’re out,” he calls up the plane as the others settle in to start a game.
I put on my headphones and crank my music, nearly missing my mouth with my bottle of water as Poppy enters the plane. I drop my bottle down, screwing on the cap. Like Novy, she’s wearing a ball cap, this one a crisp white. Her blonde hair hangs in a ponytail through the hole in the back. She’s also wearing dark sunglasses, double fisting her phone and a travel coffee. She’s saying something over her shoulder to our social media lead, Claribel.
I pause my music and peer through the seats, taking in her stylish leisure wear look. Fuck, she’s so pretty. And so effortlessly cool. I’m about to be a total simp and wave at her, but that’s the exact moment she trips. Stumbling forward with a shriek, her phone goes flying from her hand. She flings her arm around Langley’s seat—his head with it—catching herself before she faceplants.
“Poppy!” I unbuckle in a flash and slide over to the aisle seat.
“Ow, ow, ow,” she cries, sucking up the hot coffee now dripping off her wrist, staining the cuff of her white designer hoodie.
“Oh gosh, Pop. I’m so sorry,” says Sully from two rows up, rising out of his seat. “My foot was in the aisle—”
“It’s okay,” she assures him on a breath, taking off her sunglasses and tucking them into the top of her hoodie. “Nothing bent or broken.” She looks down at Langley. “Sorry, Ryan. Didn’t mean to strangle you there, honey.”
“I’m fine—”
“Who the fuck is Anderson Montgomery?” Novy calls from across the aisle.
Poppy jolts, nearly spilling her coffee again. Her eyes narrow as she glares at him. That’s all the sign I need to know something definitely happened between them last night. My chest feels like it’s caving in. But then she gasps, lunging forward. “Ohmygod, give me that!”
Novy leans away, arm in the air, holding up her dropped phone. “Not until you tell me why you’re social media stalking some preppy douche named Anderson Montgomery. Is he your new Hinge match or something?”
“He’s nobody, and my phone is private.”
“Seriously. What kind of name is Anderson Montgomery?”
“Lukas,” she shrieks, all but climbing in his lap to get her phone.
“Langers, catch,” he says on a muffled grunt, tossing her phone between the seats.
Langley catches the phone one-handed. “Let’s get a look at this guy,” he teases. “See if he’s good enough for our Poppy.”
“Oh my—Ryan, you give me that phone right now!”
He and Walsh both scroll the pictures on Poppy’s feed, while Langley holds her back with his arm. “Hmm, I say nope.” He hands the phone over to Walsh.
“Ryan!”
“He wears North Face zip-ups and khakis unironically, Pop. Do you really wanna pass that on to your children?”
“Yeah, and Anderson Montgomery is a total frat boy douche name,” Walsh echoes, passing the phone up a row. “I bet he buys all his socks at the Izod outlet.”
The other guys laugh, and just like that, now it’s a game. Poppy shrieks as they play hot potato with her phone. Jake and Sanford take a look next. “Jesus,” Sanford mutters. “This guy looks like he tells all his dates his favorite book is Catcher in the Rye.”
“I bet you a thousand bucks he says his favorite movies are Apocalypse Now and A Clockwork Orange,” Jake adds.
“Yeah, more like A Clockwork Orgy,” Novy calls, and they all roar with more laughter.
“I bet he has a saffron allergy,” Sully teases. He fakes a pretentious voice. “Yes, excuse me, waiter? Are these mussels steamed in saffron butter? Because I’m allergic.”
“He looks like he wears boat shoes without the boat!”
“I bet he tells people his dick is seven inches—”
“Hey, seven inches is perfectly respectable!”
“Try seven centimeters!”
The guys are howling as the phone gets tossed over Doc and Mars, landing on the seat next to me. I grab it and look down, too curious not to. I take in the first few images on this guy’s social media feed. Fuck me, he does look like a douche. He’s got the confident swagger of a rich, entitled white boy who’s never had to work for a thing in his life.
I open my mouth to make a joke as Novy lunges across the aisle, snatching the phone from my hand. “I’m sorry, but guys named ‘Colton John Morrow III’ don’t get to play this game.”
I glare at him, but no one is glaring harder than Poppy. Her cheeks are pink, and she looks an inch from feral as she sticks out her hand. “Lukas Novikov, give me that phone right now, or I will push you out the emergency exit.”
With one more smirk, he hands it over. The guys all cheer, the game finished.
“We love you, Pop,” Sully calls.
“Yeah, we tease ’cause we care,” Walsh assures her.
“And swipe left on that guy, seriously!”
She casts Novy one more loathing look before she takes off down the aisle, Claribel hot on her heels. I’m still glaring across the aisle at him as they pass.
He catches my eye and raises a brow. “What?”
“So, nothing happened last night? Is that still your story?”
He turns away, eyes locked on his phone.
Fuck.
The other guys all settle back to their music and games as we get our safety briefing and take off. As soon as I can get a stable Wi-Fi connection, I’m on my phone. I look up Anderson Montgomery. It doesn’t take me long to get a good picture of this guy—bachelor millionaire architect, well-educated and well-connected with clear political aspirations. He’s the goddamn golden ticket.
I pause in my scrolling when I pass a news article that looks like it only just posted this morning. It’s a wedding announcement. It includes a picture of Anderson with a gorgeous young blonde—a blonde who looks shockingly like Poppy. The headline reads: “M&H Construction heir, Anderson Montgomery, to wed Violet St. James, daughter of prominent political lobbyist Hank St. James.”
Wait, does this explain why Poppy was acting so odd yesterday? Does she have a problem with her sister’s fiancé?
“Holy fucking fuck,” Novy growls from across the aisle.
I turn to see he’s finally taken his stupid sunglasses off. His eyes are wide as he stares down at his phone. “What?”
He holds up his phone, flashing me the screen. “She was engaged to that fucking guy.”
My heart drops. “What?”
He unbuckles and hops across the aisle mid-takeoff. Dropping into the empty seat next to me, he shows me his phone. The article’s a few years old, but there they are in a photo together: Poppy St. James on the arm of the dashing Anderson Montgomery. Christ, they look like young Kennedys. She’s even wearing the pearls and the cocktail dress.
“Poppy was gonna marry this guy?” The words slip out, and I hear how defeated I sound. Is this the kind of guy she wants, rich and polished and pretty enough to impress her family? Of course he is. Why would Poppy St. James waste her time on rowdy, sweaty hockey players?
She doesn’t, comes the voice in my head. She said so herself. She said it to my goddamn face. She doesn’t date hockey players. She’s not interested in us. She’s looking for a kind of life none of us could ever give her.
But she didn’t marry him. So, what happened?
Novy glances over his shoulder, peering down the aisle of the plane. “Over-under, how long d’you think she’ll stay pissed at me for teasing her about this?”
I hand him back his phone. “I think it might be way worse than you think, bud.”
“Why?”
I show him the article I have pulled up on my phone. “Because I think maybe he dumped her for her sister.”
“What?” He snatches my phone from me, staring down at the article headline. Slowly, he looks up, his face haunted. Resigned, he hands me back the phone. “Coley, be a pal and push me out the emergency exit, yeah?”
“Nov—”
“Seriously, just kill me. She can hate my sexy corpse.”
I sigh, stuffing my phone in my pocket. “Okay, what the fuck happened between you two last night?”