Page 96 of Pucking Around

“What’s wrong with you?” I say, giving Jake another nudge.

“I’m learning my lesson,” Jake replies. While the crowd is distracted, he turns to me, dropping his hand down to rest on my thigh. “Seattle, let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”

“What?” I cry. “We can’t just leave—”

“I will give you ten thousand dollars to leave with me right now,” he presses.

I roll my eyes at him. “Can he even play the guitar?” I say, distracted as I watch Caleb climb the stage and shake the guitarist’s hand before taking his guitar.

“Caleb Sanford, everybody!” the guitarist calls into the mic to more cheers.

Caleb tunes the guitar for a minute, his back turned to the crowd as he talks to the band. His dark coppery hair is messy and windblown from the Jeep. He’s wearing a black t-shirt, ripped jeans, his bare feet dusted with sand. I can’t help the little flutter in my stomach as I watch him step up to the mic. Oh yeah, this is working for Rachel.

He lowers his mouth to the mic, his voice deep as he says, “On behalf of the Jacksonville Rays, who are in the house tonight havin’ a great time…”

Our guys all hoot and clap.

“I’d like to dedicate this next song…to the hottest doc in the NHL.” Caleb looks right at me, and the Rays go wild.

“Yeah! Doc Price!”

“Hot Doc!”

“Don’t hurt ‘em, Doc!”

“Rachel Price,” Caleb calls over the noise. “This one is for you.”

My heart does a flip, and the Rays lose their minds as Caleb takes a deep breath and starts singing with no backup, both hands gently cradling the mic.

“Put your lovin’ hand out, baby…Cause I’m beggin’…”

The crowd screams as the band comes in. Caleb strums the guitar, the drummer pounds away, and they launch into an epically good cover of Måneskin.

“I’m beggin’, beggin’ you…So, put your lovin’ hand out, baby—”

My mouth opens in shock, and I swear my pussy bursts into flames. His voice is so hot—gravelly and low, sinful even. And the boy can play. He works the guitar, moving his shoulders as he strums. He looks right at me, extending his hand as he sings.

Holy fuck. I teased him about this the other night, and it turns out my moody Sagittarius is a musician. We’ve been dancing around each other for days, trying to find a way past our volcanic physical connection towards something deeper. I want toknowhim. I want to see inside his walls, see behind his hurt. He’s so much more than his trauma. He knows it too; he just doesn’t know how to let me in.

Well, now he’s on that stage using the lyrics to bare his soul.

Put your loving hand out.

He wants me to stay. He wants me to keep trying to find him. I smile as he plays, using whatever mind power I possess to send him a clear message.

I’m not going anywhere.

My pulse hums as his fingers strum the guitar. He’s so talented, standing up there looking like my perfect, broody, rocker boy fantasy. I know I laid down the law when it comes to PDA, but I swear to god, if this man drags me into the bar bathroom later, all laws will be broken.

45

“Oh my good gravy,” Poppy gasps. “Rachel, you look stunning, girl!”

I smile, smoothing my hands down the front of my Chanel gown. It’s a piece I’ve had for years and worn easily a dozen times. Champagne colored silk comes to two points, at my collarbones, with thin straps trailing over my shoulders and down the fully open back. The silk flows loose around my ankles, giving the dress beautiful movement. It’s easily one of my favorite things I own.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile. “You look gorgeous too.”

And she really does. She’s wearing a show-stopping red gown with a thigh slit that could stop traffic. Her makeup is darker tonight, edgier, and her hair is in a slicked back high pony. She looks sinful, all 5’2” of her.

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