Page 68 of Pucking Sweet

“I’d worry less about me and more about yourself,” I say, pulling on a pair of athletic shorts. “Any minute now, the doors out there will start to open, and then an entire NHL team plus support staff will be wandering the halls. Good luck getting out of here without half of them seeing how completely fucked you look right now.”

She goes still, her discarded heels and purse in hand. “Why are you being like this?”

I cross my arms. “I suppose I’ve realized I don’t particularly like being used by you.”

Her eyes go wide. I sense her confusion. “Lukas, I—”

Time to burn this down. “But that’s the life, right? You rich girls have staff for everything, don’t you? Personal chef, personal bartender, personal fuck toy—”

Her gaze hardens. “Now, stop right there—”

“Hey, don’t even worry about it,” I say with a dismissive wave of my hand. “You used me, and I used you. That it was utterly forgettable for both of us is proof it doesn’t need to happen again. Now, the night is over, and you really need to go.” I point to the door with finality.

She searches my face, tears rimming her makeup-smeared eyes. I see the hurt there, the squashed hope, the simmering frustration. In this moment, she’s actively hating me.Good.She can hate me all she wants. It doesn’t matter. It’s not like anyone can ever hate me as much as I hate myself.

“Well, I see it’s true what they say about morning-after regret.”

“Can I add that as a testimonial on my dating profile?”

“Oh, screw you, Lukas.” She turns away, searching for her phone.

“Again? I mean, it’ll be breaking all your precious rules, but I suppose, if you’re on top this time and you’re quick about it—”

“No thanks,” she snaps, hurrying over to the TV stand to unplug her phone. Never mind that I was the jerk who plugged it in for her. “I think I’d rather sleep with a possum,” she tosses over her shoulder as she heads for the door. “Don’t be late for the bus. And forget this ever happened!”

“Already did!” I call after her as she disappears, closing the door with a snap.

I stand there, hands shaking, staring at the closed door. A low growl rumbles in my chest. Well, this is just fucking perfect. Classic Novikov. Whenever there’s a good thing in my life, I have to go and ruin it. It’s like I’m fucking Thanos, always turning beautiful things to ash.

Desperate to lean into this burning feeling of destruction, I snatchmy pillow off the bed and throw it at the door. It hits with a pathetic thump. Cursing under my breath, I grab the other pillows, throwing them one after the other. I throw the remote. I throw my shoes, the TV guide, the complimentary slippers. I even throw my goddamn phone. That makes the loudest thud. As it clatters to the floor, it pings with a new message.

Hands still shaking, I cross the room and pick it up. I tap the screen to see a new text from Morrow. I read it, feeling like I’ve somehow reached a level below rock-fucking-bottom.

MORROW: Why did Sully and I just get Venmo requests from Karlsson saying we each owe him fifty bucks? You said you were paying our tabs. What the hell happened last night?

23

I’m a ball of nerves as I heft my bag onto my shoulder and climb the stairs of the team bus. Novy is already on. I spot him immediately, five rows down, shades on, hat pulled low, hood up. He’s leaning against the window like he’s sleeping, but I know better.

Most hockey players live to nap. During the season, if I’m not playing, working out, or eating, you can assume I’m napping. But Novy doesn’t nap.Ever.The asshole is like a hockey anomaly. He says he doesn’t like the way naps make him feel. It’s fucking weird.

I drop down in the seat next to him, jostling him with my bag. “Hey.”

“Jeez, fucker.” He elbows me hard, shifting his hold on his free hotel coffee. “Mind moving your damn bag outta my spleen?”

I drop my bag between my feet. “So, what happened last night?”

He grunts, taking a noisy slurp from his travel cup. “How ’bout a ‘Good morning, Novy’ or a ‘You’re looking exceptionally spry’—”

“How ’bout go fuck yourself, Novy. Tell me what happened.”

He slowly turns to glare at me. “Nothing.”

“Was Poppy okay? Did you get her back to the hotel?”

He sighs. “Look, I was a perfect fucking gentleman, alright? I saved her from the groping hands of Kyle, the wannabe golf pro, loudly proclaiming how tall you are the whole time. Then I took her over to the bar to get her purse. I met her friend—I toldherhow tall you are too. Then I personally paid for the Uber that took us back to the hotel? Okay? Now, get off my case about it. And go find a different seat. That one’s taken.”

“No one ever sits here.”

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