That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella (Jacksonville Rays)

It’s all I can do to act natural, eating my fries and pretending to watch baseball, like I’m not sitting next to the world’s most beautiful woman. I had no idea what she looked like when I walked in. She had her back turned the whole time. I saw a woman clearly desperate to be left alone, and I didn’t think, I just acted, calling out my sister’s name.

When she spun around on that barstool, I swear to god, she stole all the air from my lungs like some slow-mo scene in a chick flick. Her dark brown hair flowed down her back in waves, the tips golden in the sunlight shining in from the bar’s wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.

She’s wearing this sexy black outfit, open down to her waist in the back. The front cuts in a low “V” between her breasts. And—fuck—she has tattoos. They’re all small, nothing larger than a playing card, but they dot up both arms, on her shoulder, a few on her fingers. I can see the hint of one on her ribs disappearing under her outfit. Cute, girlie stuff, like hearts and arrows and music notes.

And fuck me if she doesn’t have a sexy little geometric pattern low on her sternum, disappearing between her breasts. Now I’m the pig wanting to see how far down it goes. I want to lick it. And she smells so good. It’s floral and smooth, but with a hint of spice.

Shit. Fuck. Lock it down, Compton.

I stifle a groan, covering it by clearing my throat and reaching for my food.

Grab fry. Lift to mouth. Chew.

Oh, and did I mention the nose ring? Yeah, she’s got a fuckhot septum piercing marked by a little ring of twisted gold. Between that and her dark eyes painted black and her red lips, I think I’m in love.

And I don’t even know her name.

And I’m not going to learn it, because she doesn’t want to talk. She wants to be left alone. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be that guy who saves her from one douche only to become one myself. Nope, I’m keeping my eyes on my basket of fries, my dick in my pants, and my questions to myself.

But then I feel her shift next to me, clearing her throat.

“So…what brings you to Seattle?” she says in that soft voice.

“Umm, my sister,” I reply.

“Amy?”

I nod.

She smiles. “She’s not about to waltz in here and blow our story, is she?”

I sigh, letting myself give in to the pity party I’ve been desperate to throw since I got off the phone with her thirty minutes ago. I couldn’t just sit alone in my room, so I wandered up here to the bar.

Jake Compton, loser table for one.

“She’s not coming,” I reply. “We were supposed to meet here as a sort of halfway point. We were gonna spend the week hanging out and doing touristy shit. But her flight got cancelled.”

“That sucks,” she murmurs.

“Yeah,” I reply. It really sucks. With our crazy schedules, the time change, and the distance, I haven’t seen my sister in almost a year. I miss her like crazy.

Her brow furrows. “How is Seattle a halfway point? I’m just trying to think through that geography…”

“Amy lives in Japan, and I’m out on the east coast right now,” I reply. “So, it’s sorta halfway. I’m closer, and have no customs, so she made me pay for the hotel.”

“Whoa…that’s neat. What is she doing over there?”

I glance to my right, trying to play it cool. I just need to see her again. I need to know this is real, that I’m not making her up in my head. Yep, she’s still fucking gorgeous. And she’s looking right at me, waiting for me to reply. She’s initiating this, so I’m not the douche, right? I was totally minding my own business. She’s asking the questions.

“Umm…shit, I’m terrible with the details,” I say with a laugh. “Amy is the smart twin. Like, super smart. Two master’s degrees in engineering, and an awesome job doing something with a robotics company.”

She gasps, those pouty lips parting as her eyes flash with interest. “I’m a twin too.”

I grin. “No way. Fraternal?”

“Yeah, my brother Harrison. He’s eight minutes older,” she adds, taking a sip of her lemony tea.

“Hey, I knew there was something about you.” I grin back at her, raising my hand. “High five for fraternal twins!”

She laughs and rolls her eyes, playing along. She raises her right hand, the slim gold bracelets on her arm jingling as she gives me a high five.

We settle back on our stools, and I feel a little lighter. I want to know her name, but I’m terrified to ask. It just feels like if I do, she’ll disappear like a puff of smoke.

With Amy MIA, and my new flight home not scheduled until Tuesday morning, I’m all alone here in Seattle for the next two days. Maybe things are looking up…maybe this is fate. So what if I have to put off seeing Amy until Thanksgiving? I’ve got a beautiful girl keeping me company, and she doesn’t seem to totally hate talking to me.

“So…what are you doing in Seattle?” I ask.

“I’m also here on twin business,” she replies. “My brother’s wedding was this weekend.”

“Is that why you’re all dressed up?”

She nods, her smile falling. “Yeah, I had a post-wedding brunch today, but I wasn’t feeling very festive. I may have slipped out. I’ll text Harrison later and apologize,” she murmurs, checking her phone.

She may be gorgeous, but it’s also obvious that she’s depressed over something. I don’t want to push my luck, but I’m a social person…and I’m super nosy. I drive my teammates crazy by always shoving my way into their personal lives. What can I say? I like gossip, and I really like to help where I can. You can just call me Mr. Fix-It.

I really don’t want to scare her away though, so I settle with a neutral, “Do you wanna talk about it?”

She shakes her head. “Just some bad news. I’ll be fine. I’m making a plan.”

I nod. “Plans are good. Plans are…well, I’m terrible at making plans,” I admit. “But I’m really good at understanding the merits of a plan. And when plans are made for me, I stick to them like glue. You name it—travel plans, diet plans, workout plans. My whole life is basically one big book full of plans.”

She glances at me, her dark eyes narrowing. I can tell she wants to ask. Fuck, I wish she just would. She’s dying to ask. She’s got that look. The I-know-you’re-a-professional-athlete-but-tell-me-which-sport look. I’ve seen it a thousand times before.

Most women don’t even care. It’s like they’ve got a radar for the pros. They sniff us out and track us like we’ve got big glowing red beacons flashing on top of our heads. Mystery Girl is not that kind of girl. After almost ten years of this shit, I have a pretty good radar for sniffing out the puck bunnies.

“So…are you gonna ask me?” I say, flashing her a smile as I finish off my beer.

“Nope,” she replies, hiding her own smile by eating some of my fries.

I lean in, giving her a nudge with my elbow. “Come on…you know you want to.”

“I really don’t.”

“Why?”

She glances up at me, those dark eyes so open and honest. Fuck, she’s stripping me bare with that look. “Because I don’t want this to end yet.”

Oh shit, this is taking a turn. I can feel it—we both feel it. This isn’t puck bunny energy. In all those exchanges, I’m the one taking the lead. I pick the bunny; the bunny never picks me. This is totally different. This girl is different. It feels crazy to say it when I don’t even know her, but she’s way out of my league.

“And…what is this?” I say, stifling my goofy ass grin.

She holds my gaze. Her beauty is shredding me. “Okay, I’m just going to say something, and I need you to not freak out or bolt.”

I stiffen, smile falling, totally ready to do both. “Oookay…”

“I’m a zodiac girl.”

I groan. “Oh, fuck. Okay, umm…I’m a Taurus,” I say. “All I know is that apparently that’s ironic.”

She snorts, trying to cover the sound with her hand. Her eyes sparkle with mirth as she mutters, “Of course you are.”

“So, that means I lose, right? This is over before it begins? I should just pay my bill and leave, right?”

She holds my gaze again, her dark eyes rooting me to my barstool. My dick can’t help it, he doesn’t know we’re not taking this any further. I’m aching in my pants. Fuck, why did I have to wear my tight jeans? Too much spring training has all my jeans feeling tight these days. I need to go up a size.

Focus, asshole.

Right, focus.

But now she’s just sitting there, not making a move. Have we even been flirting? I know I haven’t. I’m just being…me. This is so different than my usual charm offensive. I feel like she’s the one with the puck, and I’m just waiting for her to do something with it.

Maybe I read this wrong. I’m lonely, and I’m sad about Amy, and this girl is really fucking gorgeous. I’m totally reading too much into this. She doesn’t want me. I sigh. “Let me get the check. I’ll see you to the elevator at least, make sure Chad McYachtclub doesn’t follow.”

As I reach for my wallet, she puts her hand on my arm. I go still. Like, I’m frozen solid. Just build me a marble plinth and ship me to a museum.

“I believe in signs,” she murmurs, her gaze lowering to focus on our shared point of connection.

Her touch is featherlight, but energy crackles between us with the heat of dry lightning. All I can focus on is the simple pattern of four stars on her thumb. What do they represent? And why is this touch more sensual than some of the sex I’ve had with the bunnies?

I can barely breathe. I swear, if this turns into a tease…if she winds me up just to laugh in my face and walk away…

“You believe in signs,” I repeat.

She nods. “Yeah, I do. And right now, all signs point to me taking you down to my room and fucking your brains out.”

Dead.

RIP Jake Compton, the best grinder the NHL ever had. He died doing what he loved most.

“I have a flight out first thing in the morning,” she goes on. “And I don’t want to be alone tonight.” She looks up at me through those dark lashes. “I think…maybe you don’t want to be alone either.”

“I don’t,” I choke out.

She smiles at me again. “Good. So maybe we should…”

“I’ll get the check,” I say, already pulling my wallet from my pocket.

She slips off her stool as I bend over the bar, waving my credit card at the bartender. I glance over my shoulder at her as soon as he walks off to cash us out.

Well, fuck me sideways.

Now that she’s standing, I want to drop to my knees. Her body is a fucking ten. No, she’s an eleven. A thirteen. She’s got curves in allll the right places, plus a little extra. She’s curvy in the hips, and I can tell she’s not wearing a bra in that outfit. Her perfect tits have some weight to them. They hang just a bit, heavy inside her strappy top. Her nipples are peaked with arousal.

My dick is twitching at the thought of flicking those straps loose and seeing her on full display. She’s got so much more than a mouthful to play with. I want to see her riding my dick. I want her straddling me, and I want those perfect tits bouncing as she cries out, her wet pussy strangling me. I want to fuck them. I want to slide my dick between them, and I want to blow on that little micro tattoo down her sternum.

Take a chill pill, you sex-crazed psychopath.

I let out a shaky breath, robotically signing the check as the bartender hands it to me.

She’s waiting for me as I turn, the energy like a live wire between us. Fuck, I can’t remember the last time I was this turned on. Maybe never. This girl is working some kind of magic on me.

She turns, ready to lead the way out.

I hardly know what I’m doing when I say, “Wait—”

She glances over her shoulder, the excitement dying in her eyes.

Oh shit, she thinks I’m pulling out!

I step forward, brushing my fingers down her arm. “I don’t even know your name.”

She looks at me for a moment, then shakes her head, her smile returning as she takes me by the hand and leads me towards the elevators. “No names. No jobs. No real life. Tonight, we’re just two people lost in a city not our own.” She glances over her shoulder, those brown eyes molten with need. “Come find me.”

I smile wide.

Mystery Girl, I intend to find you again…and again…and again.