Page 4 of Pucking Fake

"She threw beer on me!" Suit protests into the silence of the bar. Literal dead silence. Everyone is watching this scene unfold.

Crap. This is bad.

"And you're lucky that's your biggest problem right now, motherfucker," Logan says, stepping toward him when he tries to push himself back to his feet. "Get up, and you'll be leaving here with a broken jaw."

"I didn't do anything."

"Bullshit," Jordan Silvestri says, stepping up on my other side, his arms crossed. "We all heard her tell you to keep your fucking hands to yourself. We saw you preparing to hit her."

A chorus of agreement echoes from his teammates, who are all standing behind me now…and none of them sound happy.

"Get the fuck out before I toss you out my goddamn self," Logan snarls.

Jordan motions for someone, but I can't see who. I might as well be standing next to literal giants because they tower over me, blocking out the rest of the bar. But not even fifteen seconds later, the security guard who let us in an hour ago appears. There are muscles, and then there's this man. He's definitely been eating his Wheaties. He probably throws iron bars and cars for fun.

"Toss his ass out of here, Jett," Logan murmurs to the man. "And don't let him back in. He tried to grab her and wouldn't take no for an answer."

"On it," Jett mutters, plucking the man from the floor like he's a bug.

There's something oddly satisfying about watching a grown man being manhandled by a much bigger grown man. Suit's feet actually dangle from the floor as Jett marches him across the bar, completely ignoring the way he blusters and curses and demands to speak to a manager.

As soon as they're out of earshot, Logan spins, his gorgeous eyes locking on my face.

"Cornflower," I mutter.

"What?"

"Your eyes are cornflower blue," I say…and then squeeze my eyes closed when his lips quirk into a grin. "Never mind. Pretend I didn't just say that."

"Nah, you said it."

"Did not."

"I heard it," one of his teammates mutters behind me, laughter in his voice.

"Shut the fuck up and sit back down, Diego."

Diego laughs and then there's a whole lot of shuffling behind me. I don't open my eyes. I do not want to know what's happening. Maybe if I don't look, the floor will open up and swallow me. A girl can hope, right?

It doesn't work.

"I'll get us more beer," Jordan mutters a moment later.

I reluctantly peel my eyes open to find everyone else back at the table. Except Logan. He's still standing in front of me, all broad shoulders and corded muscle…staring. He looks like sin. Probably tastes like it too.

Maybe I should close my eyes again.

"You okay, angel?" he murmurs, practically looming over me. He's so close I feel the heat of his body searing into mine. "You look like you're trying to decide if you want to pass out or throw up. For the record, I'd go with throwing up. It's far less complicated."

"Uh, do you pass out often?"

"It's been known to happen. A puck to the head hurts like a son of a bitch." He actually has dimples when he smiles. They soften him a little, turn him from wild devil to mischievous man. I think Serena was right, though. Logan Moreno is definitely trouble. It's written all over him.

"Maybe don't get hit in the head anymore?" I suggest.

"I'll take that under advisement." His chuckle rolls over me, all rich and warm. As sinful as the rest of him. "Maybe I'll start hiding behind the goal instead of standing in front of it. Think that'll win games?"

"How should I know?" I gape up at him. "I know nothing about hockey."

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