Page 32 of Double Pucked

“We should start the coffee,” Ryker barks.

“There’s time,” Chase says calmly.

“Hardly. It loses its flavor after you grind it,” Ryker warns, and they’re interacting like it’s normal to argue about how to make coffee the morning after they double pleasure a woman.

But maybe itisnormal? Maybe they do this often. I didn’t ask. I didn’t want to know in the heat of the moment. Maybe I’m one of many women they perform this service for.

Need an O? Call The Hockey Guys! For whenever you need a double team to take care of your peach problems!

Come to think of it, that’s a hell of a service. Maybe if I were more ambitious, I could start it. Become a madame and run the Hockey Double Team. On the other hand, I could just mention it to my book club, and someone would post a vid demandingsomeone write this now.

But in the real world, no one wants a hookup overstaying their welcome.

Which means, I need to fly so they don’t think for a second that the recently jilted girl who stole her cheating ex’s tickets is going to latch onto them like a barnacle.

Anti-barnacle mode activated, I enter the open-concept living room. But my breath catches annoyingly when I see them. They’re both shirtless. Chase is wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, his V-cut in full view and even more drool-worthy in the morning light. Ryker’s wearing his dark blue slacks from last night, but that’s all. His tattoos snake along his massive right arm and across his huge pecs, and I can’t catch a break with my hormones. They’re doing a little jig at the sight of the two men.

Plus, to make matters hotter, they’re making pancakes.

That’s just unfairly sexy.

“Allow me to remind you,” Chase says as he grabs a skillet from a gorgeous wall-mounted pot rack that makes my mouth water, “the three commandments of pancakes are—one, don’t overmix. Two, let the batter rest. And three, always use butter.”

Ryker scoffs, and without seeing his face, I know he’s rolling his eyes. “You forgot the fourth amendment. It was added to the covenant of breakfast last year and it’s this—use real syrup.”

“Thou shalt drown thy pancakes,” I call out from several feet away, light and breezy, like I’m not totally wanting another night with them.

But what if it sounds like I’m angling for breakfast?

The guys turn their gazes to me. Ryker’s unreadable, but Chase’s lips tip up in a grin. “Hey, sweetness,” he says, using the nickname he gave me last night all while looking and sounding like sunshine. Stubble lines his jaw. It’s coming in golden brown, and I want to run my thumb across it.

Except I should go. They want me to go.

“Did you sleep okay?” Chase asks, all thoughtful and caring.

“I did. It was great,” I say, then shift my gaze quickly to Ryker. Is he going to ask how I’m doing too?

For a second, his blue eyes look almost soulful. Vulnerable, like they’re searching mine. Trying to read me.

But that’s ridiculous. He’s been arguing about how to make coffee and pancakes, not about me. I will not be clingy, so before he can even say a word, I add, “Anyway, last night was super fun. Thanks so much. I have to go. So, have fun with your breakfast,” I say, breezily, making it crystal clear I’mnottrying to crash their morning plans. They’re probably going to make pancakes and then bench press small cars or something.

That soulful look in Ryker’s eyes vanishes so fast I’m sure I imagined it, especially when he grumbles, “Your alarm is awful.”

I flinch. Well. The grump has officially returned. Gone is the flirty side he broke out last night, but it’s weirdly reassuring, Ryker’s return to form. It’ll make it even easier for me to go. “Yes, it is. But I don’t wake up easily without it, and it worked and woke me up, and I shouldclearlytake off.”

Chase tilts his head, seeming confused. “What?”

“Leave. That thing where people say goodbye and go,” I say, trying to make light of my pending exit. “I just need to find the rest of my clothes.”

Ryker points. Like, aggressively points. “Living room.”

I bristle. Well, that’s clear. He wants me gone, and he doesn’t even live here. He’s one of those guys who’s a beast in the bedroom, and a beast in life too.

No thanks.

Chase smacks Ryker’s arm. “Asshole.”

“She said she wanted to go. I’m fucking helping,” Ryker says defensively, then clears his throat and turns to me. “Your jeans are on the coffee table.” Then he looks back to Chase. “That better?”

---