Page 33 of The Pucking Wrong Rookie

Lincoln: …

My email showed a message from him, and I grinned when I clicked on the program he’d attached and it immediately started loading.

Lincoln Daniels was a fucking king.

* * *

After some trial and error, because I sucked at technology…it came up.

Sloane Calloway.

A pretty name for the fucking most gorgeous girl on the planet.

But that was it.

Unlike with the other faces around her, the software program didn’t have any extra details on Sloane. No address, no occupation…nothing I could use to find out more about her. I could find out all I wanted about the woman who’d been sitting two seats down from her—seventy-five-year-old Dorothy, who’d previously worked as a bank teller if you were wondering—but nothing on Sloane.

Groaning in disappointment, I stared at her face on the screen, resisting the urge to grab my dick because I was so hard I was a little worried it was going to explode.

I would just have to move to the next stage of the plan…using Lincoln’s PI. Surely he’d be able to find out some information on her.

If not, I’d just have to ask her. Something that, ironically, was not the easiest part of the plan.

CHAPTER8

LOGAN

Iwas sitting in the locker room, staring at my phone. It was almost time to go out on the ice, but I’d texted Lincoln’s PI an hour ago, and I was feeling fucking impatient. My phone buzzed, but the text I’d just received wasn’t from who I wanted.

Asher: Why do hockey players have such bad fashion?

I grinned, thinking of what I’d worn today for my arena entrance. Usually the front office made us wear suits, but they’d relaxed the rules for the playoffs, thinking it would bring more publicity to the team if we showed our personalities more.

My outfits happened to be fan favorites…because I was a fucking baller like that.

Me: Take that back.

Asher: I’m just saying, I felt like you were trying to audition for a boy band.

That could have been a fair characterization of what I’d worn today…but I was pretty sure “boy band” was back in style. Or at least that was what my stylist had told me when she’d brought me the outfit.

Me: That jean vest I wore today was iconic.

Asher: I believe the lady on TV called it “tragic.”

Me: I thought you had better taste than this.

Asher: Socks, you looked like the lost member of NSYNC. All you needed was frosted tips.

Me: I’ll have you know that frosted tips are making a comeback. I’ll also have you know that I didn’t hear any complaints from the fans lining the hallway, cheering me on. So there’s that.

Asher: They were probably blinded by the amount of denim you were wearing. Denim vest, denim jeans…no shirt. It was a lot of…denim.

Me: It’s called high fashion. Look it up.

Asher: Did you mean highly questionable? I wouldn’t usually question you on typos, but…

Me: Says the man who wore cargo shorts to a wedding.

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