Page 21 of The Pucking Proposal

“Fuck off,” I growl at him, kicking out beneath the water and connecting with his ankle.

Then, like I’m not sitting right here hearing every word, my three buddies discuss who this mystery lady might be and possible reasons I might not want to share who I was sending flowers to.

“Was it roses? Red ones mean I want to fuck you hard and rough. Pink ones mean I want to fuck you nice and slow. White, I fucked someone else and I’m sorry.” Randall’s opinion on the meaning of rose colors is as ridiculous as he is. Unless he’s right, but I wouldn’t know because I’ve never sent flowers to anyone.

Except I did. Today. To Joy.

But not roses because she specifically said no roses, which makes me wonder if maybe Randall’s on to something and Joy knows the rose rules too.

I sent her a bouquet of blazing stars, something a little wild, a bit unusual, and very pretty according to the flower shop’s website. Just like Joy. I had them add a card that simply saidthankson it, figuring she could take that however she wanted because I sure don’t know what to say after last night.

Sorry.

Let’s do it again.

Please don’t tell your brother because I really like living on this side of the dirt.

Not that I think if Shep and I ever came to blows I couldn’t handle myself. But I know Shep, and this would be one area he’d be willing to go all-in on—fighting to the death, fighting dirty, or not even fighting, but straight-upPulp Fictiongunning someone down.

I can’t explain any of that to the guys, so instead, I muster up some fake indignation and shove Max. Hard. “Fuck you, man. The flowers were for my mom. Not some chick.”

That last part is true at least. The flowers weren’t for “some chick.” But they also weren’t for my mom, and lying to them, especially Shep, feels shitty. I don’t have a choice, though, because the alternative to telling the truth is definitely worse.

And at this point, the team needs me to keep doing what I’m doing with Joy. It’s my ritual, and she’s my good luck charm, so I’d hate to screw everything up by telling them what’s brought on my newfound confidence and the team’s winning streak.

I just have no fucking clue what to do for the next roughly fifty games.

“That’s sweet. Tracy doing okay?” Shep asks.

Shepherd’s parents, Jim and Lorie, take care of us all like their own, but my mom is pretty amazing in her own right. She lives far enough away that she can’t be at every game, but she supports what I’m doing, and fuck knows she spent my entire youth, high school, and college years on a hard metal bench watching me protect whatever goal I was in front of that game.

“She’s great,” I answer, realizing that I owe her a phone call. “Wanted to thank her for all the time she spent freezing her ass off at my games.”

I make a mental note to actually send her flowers too. She’d be tickled as hell at that.

“Good to hear it.” Shepherd nods.

“Well, if Days isn’t going to get his dick sucked, I am,” Randall announces, standing up from his seat in the hot tub.

I don’t know if he means with a cheerleader or someone else. Hell, he could be lying his ass off too.

But we wave our goodbyes as he walks past the pool and disappears.

Cupping the bubbles in my hand, I realize that if Max leaves, I’ll be alone with Shepherd, and that’s a dangerous position to be in. I’mgonna have to figure that out—he’s my best friend, so avoiding him for the season is impossible—but I also don’t have to figure that out today.

So before Max can say anything, I rise too. “Think my bed’s calling my name,” I say, grabbing a towel and roughly running it over my head. “Don’t cook yourselves so long your balls turn into prunes, or you’ll never get them caressed again.”

They laugh at the advice, not moving, and I make my escape to safety.

I’ve got to be more careful. If Max had seen the delivery address or name, and not only the flowers, I’d be bobbing for apples in that hot tub right now with Shepherd’s hand holding me under.

Chapter 11

Joy

Using every ounce of polite manners my mom force-fed into me to be gracious and grateful, I tell Dalton, “Thank you for the blazing stars. They’re beautiful.” He’s sitting in a chair in his hotel room, wearing a Moose T-shirt and presumably sweats, though I can’t see them on the phone screen, and I’m on my couch, wearing a sweatshirt, sports bra, underwear, leggings, and socks, and covered to my chin with a fluffy blanket.

Both of us seemingly chose safer spots and attire for tonight’s pregame call. As if we both know there can’t be a repeat of the last one and wanted layers of protection from it. Or at least, that’s why I chose my outfit. Dalton might’ve packed only team gear for all I know. But at least his muscled chest and ripped abs are put away like the weapons of female destruction they are.

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