Page 50 of Dirty Pucker

“Looks like you’re gonna have to see me naked again, friend.”

I burst out laughing, feeling giddy, nervous, and in disbelief.

Watching Del as he models naked during a photoshoot won’t complicate things between us even more.

Nope. Not at all.

Chapter 17

Del

Istand in the middle of a studio space, clad in just a robe and my sneakers.

I’d laugh if I weren’t so nervous. I probably look like a complete dumbass wearing nothing but a robe and shoes.

But I have no idea what you’re supposed to wear to a nude photoshoot. I’ve never done one before.

I watch as the photographer sets up his camera while giving instructions to his assistant, who’s sitting behind a computer setup. There’s a young college-aged guy messing with what looks like lighting equipment. And that’s it.

When I first arrived at the photoshoot, I met the photographer Luc Jean, who assured me this was a closed set due to the nudity involved. Only essential personnel would be allowed on set while he photographed me.

I was relieved to hear that. The fewer people gawking at my naked junk, the better.

“Hey, Richards.”

I turn around and see Sam McKesson walking over to me. He’s wearing a robe and sneakers too, and it instantly makes me feel like less of a weirdo.

He chuckles as he looks at my robe and shoes. “Nice outfit.”

“Fuck if I know what you’re supposed to wear to a nude photoshoot.”

“Same. But great minds think alike, clearly.”

“When we were playing our asses off in college, hoping to get drafted in the pros, did you ever think we’d end up doing naked photoshoots?”

Sam grins. “Nope. But hey, a paycheck is a paycheck, right?”

When my agent told me what I’d be paid for this photoshoot, I didn’t believe him at first. It was a ridiculous amount of money.

“You gonna blow today’s earnings at the slots?” I joke.

Sam chuckles. He runs a hand through his wavy blond hair, but then the hairstylist runs over and scolds him.

The tiny dark-haired woman with a blunt haircut frowns as she restyles his thick hair, muttering in what sounds like French. In English, she warns him not to touch it again.

Sam grimaces. “Sorry,” he says as she walks off. When she’s out of sight, he laughs. “Could you imagine doing this for a living? People yelling at you for messing with your hair or touching your face?”

“I’d rather take a puck to my balls.”

He nods in agreement. “So. Are you and Theo besties yet?” he jokes.

“Not even close. He hasn’t kicked my ass yet though, so I’ll count that as a win.”

Sam and I met playing on the same team in college and have been good friends ever since. It’s kind of wild honestly, given how different we are on the ice. I’m a shit-stirrer, throwing down over the smallest stuff, willing to say the meanest shit to get under my opponent’s skin, and willing to fight anyone over anything.

Sam’s the opposite. He’s a fierce defenseman, but he hardly ever fights. When we played together, I heard guys say some cruel shit to him, and I can count on both hands the number oftimes he took the bait and fought them. He doesn’t yell at the refs or linesmen when they make a bad call. He’s so cool and calm for a hockey player, it’s almost funny.

“I noticed you’ve been on your best behavior ever since you started playing for Denver,” Sam says. “Dirty Del isn’t fighting so dirty anymore.”

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