Page 2 of Puck I Did It Again

At his smirk, I wonder if I've done the opposite as his eyes twinkle in mischief. "Maybe after you get to know me better, you'll scream King instead of Kingston." I jerk my hand out of his, opening my mouth to give him a piece of my mind about respecting his coach, but he adds, "On the ice—when you need to get my attention on the ice—King will be easier to say than Kingston."

"Is everything a joke to this team?" I huff, pushing my way past another asshole on the team.

"Sorry, Coach." He places his hand on my shoulder before I get too far away. "I couldn't help myself." He turns me to look at him. "I'm known as the jokester of the team. If I didn't tease you, the rest of the players would make it hard on you." His eyes gleam with interest.

My traitorous eyes fall from his face to his bare chest ,finally landing on the gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips and the impressive bulge outline behind the fabric.

What has gotten into me? First, I'm lusting after Maximus, now King. I wonder who will be next.

I snap my gaze back to his face, but instead of the smirk Maximus had when he caught me staring at his junk, King has a look of longing, which he immediately hides with a shake of his head, replacing it with a friendly smile.

That's it. I need to get laid, and not by any of the team's players. The last thing I need is to lose my credibility by becoming the team puck bunny.

"It's okay. I appreciate the gesture. As the newbie to the team, I'm going to need all the support I can get."

His eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes. "Um, sure. Now, back to the history of the pink locker room." He clears his throat, but I can't get that look out of my mind—like he wanted to kiss me."This is the visitor's locker room. We're only using it until our locker room is updated with a fresh coat of paint in our team colors."

"Oh, I didn't realize that. Don never said." I shrug, willing myself not to drop my gaze to his plush lips or I'll be imagining those perfect lips wrapped around my hard nipple as his giant hand plays with my other breast. A tiny moan escapes my lips, and I cough to cover it up.

"Are you okay? Do you need some water?" His concern is sweet, but I shake my head, declining his offer.

"No, I'm good. Now, about the pink visitor's locker." I coax, needing a distraction from my obvious attraction to half my players.

Okay, maybe I'm being a little overly dramatic; it's only two of my players.

You haven't met all of your players yet.

That little voice in the back of my head reminds me. The same little voice that convinced me to dance on the bars in my early twenties, like I was a bartender at Coyote Ugly. Or swim naked in the ocean at midnight with a complete stranger for one of the best nights of my life. Only to find him gone the next morning, left with only a first name and a memory of pleasure that still haunts me even two years later—the last time I had sex.

Once I get home and do a little self-care with my battery-operated boyfriend, I'll be good as new for tomorrow's first official day on the job.

"The other teams hate the pink locker room. Some even send their athletic trainers a few hours ahead of time to cover the room with posters or sheets to hide all the pink."

"I could see how it would be distracting," I say as my eyes scan from the pink walls to the pink lockers to the pink benches .Even the floor is pink. "It looks more like Barbie's Dream Locker Room than a pro hockey locker room."

"That's exactly what Monk said when he saw it for the first time."

"Monk?"

"Yeah, he's around here somewhere. Monk is just a nickname."

I want to ask more about why a professional hockey player would have a nickname like Monk since it seems a little out of place from the wild lifestyle pro hockey players are known for, but three other players approach King, distracting him from our conversation.

"Hey, King, are you going to goat yoga tonight at Maggie's?"

"And miss the entertainment? Hell, yes, I'm going."

"Coach." Each of the three newcomers nods at me as they pass us on our way to the exit.

"Goat yoga?" I can't help but ask.

"Oh, sorry, I should have introduced you to them. That was Kyson, River, and Bowen. Their girlfriend is a goat farmer, and she brings her goats into town a couple nights a week into Maggie's studio for yoga."

"You mean girlfriends, not girlfriend, right?" I question. Sure, I've heard all about the Minnesota Norse and their unconventional relationships with guys sharing the same woman. But is that a thing here in Iowa?

"No, you heard me correctly. River, Kyson, and Bowen all share Aubree, or goat momma, as they call her."

Aw, goat momma—that's cute. But back to the matter at hand. "If they all share Aubree, then who's Maggie?"

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