Page 26 of Forbidden Puck
I put a foot or two of space between us. I couldn't help but notice that Lance made the smallest of approving smiles.
If Ella felt rejected, she didn't show it. She hopped right back to her spot on the couch. “Well, anyway, Lance and I are going out tonight and we were wondering if you wanted to come with us?”
“Nope. I've got plans. Thanks though.”
“Aw, c'mon,” she said with a frown.
Lance butted in. “You heard the man,” he said, and now he wasreallysmiling. “He's got plans.”
“What kind of plans?” Ella wanted to know.
“It's none of your business, Ella! Leave Radar alone! Can't you see the poor guy is still dripping wet from his shower?”
On cue, her eyes swept down my bare upper-torso.
“The last thing the team needs is this guy coming down with a cold! We've got agametomorrow!”
Lance was carving out my escape path for me, and I'd be a fool not to take it. With that, I excused myself and retreated for my room.
Ella whined to her brother. “If you two have a game tomorrow, then why are you going out tonight atall? We should stay in and play cards or something, just the three of us. … you know, that could be fun …”
I shut the bedroom door behind me, and their bickering stopped. Or at least I couldn't hear it anymore.
I dropped my towel and rolled my eyes at myself—sure as hell, I'd grown half-hard out there. I hoped they hadn't noticed. What was she thinking, touching me like that?
***
Having escaped those two, I could breathe a little easier, and was eager to take my mind off Ella.I got dressed, jumped into bed and fired up my tablet. I loaded theMeatMarketapp and opened the first few messages I'd gotten in the past couple hours:
“Hi Radar! Plans tonight?”
“Ryyyyyyyyyyyyan. Ur so hot.”
On myMeatMarketprofile, I don't openly advertise who I am. Some guys do, some don't. I'm more of the private type of guy. No revealing bio information whatsoever. There's only two pictures of me: the first is me, shirtless at the beach, posing with two good friends of mine from back home. But the camera is far enough away that even the casual fan Brawlers wouldn't know it was me if they happened to see it.
The other photo was taken in a dimly lit bar, and I'm wearing a ball-cap. Again, most hockey fans wouldn't know the man in the photo was me if they saw it. The most revealing thing about me in that photo is the Brawlers logo on the cap—along with my signature smile.
It doesn't matter that the casual hockey fan wouldn't spot me in my profile pictures, because my profile isn't for them. It's for a specific group of girls.
They're called puck bunnies, and they're hockey's version of jersey-chasers. They know my smile by heart—and that smile, along with the hat, all but confirms my identity. And they know that the sparsity of information in my profile is another big clue.
The puck bunnies have internet communities and forums dedicated to trading information about us players. What our favorite bars and clubs are, and when we're likely to be there; the links to our private social media accounts; whether we have girlfriends or not. When a puck bunny finds a player, she posts the link to his profile so all the other bunnies can find him too. They'll discuss things like what we're like outside of the rink. They'll share their intimate knowledge of us, too. Our likes, dislikes. Turn-ons, turn-offs.
What do they know about me? That I'm discreet. That I never text the same girl twice. That, just like on the ice, I've got a motor that won't quit.
And oh yeah. There's one other thing—one secret about me that the puck bunnieswon'tshare so openly, but only give to other girls they trust.
I thumbed over to the next message, fromBrawlersbabe90,and opened it. Her name was Kara. She'd sent a selfie. She was posing in front of a mirror. She'd unzipped her jeans and tugged them down just enough to give a scandalous glimpse at her lacy pink panties, with a little bow over the crotch.
I rumbled with a hungry growl.
“How do you like my panties, Radar?” her message read.
“Very nice,” I texted back.
I went back to studying her selfie. Brawlersbabe90 was a babe alright, a petite blonde with a hard body. She was wearing a shirt with my name and number 90. A nice detail. One that appealed to my most base, possessive desires. Made me feel like she belonged to me before I'd even met her.
Kara texted me back. “Think they'd look good in your collection?”
