Page 7 of Double Pucked

We argue a little more about which hobby rules until a warm, feminine voice lands in my ears, saying, “Pretty sure I’ll like both.”

I turn to the pretty voice andshut the fuck upbecause…

She’s a vision.

A woman with waves of chestnut hair, full red lips, and a clever smile stands five feet away from us. She wears jeans that hug her hips and cute little ankle boots, along with a Chase Weston jersey and a Ryker Samuels jacket. There’s nothing sexier than a woman with my name on her back. Not a teddy. Not a pair of stockings. Nope. My jersey is the hottest thing a woman can wear. She looks damn good in our gear.

Gianna’s next to her and makes quick intros. Trina extends her left hand, then quickly switches, offering her right instead.

She’s a little awkward, maybe. Which only adds to the instant attraction. After we shake, I nod to her outfit. “You’re like a Weston/Samuels sandwich.”

She grins, fingering the side of the jacket then the neckline of the jersey. “What do you know? I guess I am. Not a bad look.”

“Not at all,” Ryker says, and whoa. That’s more than I expected to hear from him. He hardly says anything more thanthanksto fans these days.

But once Ryker says those three words, the beauty swings her gaze from him to me and back again. She has the most curious bright green eyes behind those red cat-eye glasses. I’m such a sucker for eyes.

Then, I blink. Oh, shit. Ryker’s staring at her like he can’t look away. He thinks she’s a smoke show too.

And the great fucking day I’d planned has just been iced.

3

SEX MEAT

Trina

Look, I’m not saying I suddenly like hockey or anything crazy like that. But I definitely don’t mind being smushed next to these two big hunks. I mean, fine. There’s a lot of gear on them. Shoulder pads and stuff.

But still.

They smell nice.

Is it normal to smell good before a game? No idea, but the bearded one smells like a forest, and the brown-eyed guy reminds me of an ocean breeze.

I inhale them surreptitiously as I smile for the camera, little me wedged between my ex’s idols here at the player’s bench.

The player’s bench.

I am so not going to mind posting this photo on my socials in, oh, say two minutes.

Take that, Jasper.

He’s been begging me for the last two weeks to return the VIP tickets. Pleading, crying, and prostrating himself in his pathetic effort to woo them back. But gee, my phone just seems to be broken. It refuses to answer his calls, texts, or emails.

Imagine that.

I’ll be sure to tag him in these pics shortly though.

Gianna snaps a few more photos on her phone, then I hand her my phone, too, and return to my spot between the rivals. They sling their arms around me again.

And again, I don’t mind one bit. Ryker’s arm is so big. Chase’s too. Strong arms are just extranice.

“Perfect,” Gianna declares when she’s done, then holds up a finger. “But let me just check and make sure they’ll work.”

As Gianna busies herself swiping the screen, the guy with the killer smile turns to me. “So, who’s your favorite player, Trina? I’m guessing since you’re wearing a Weston jersey that it’s me,” Chase says, all charm and great teeth. He’s friendlier than I’d expected him to be. I’d figured a couple of pampered athletes would just smile plastically for the camera, since they’re doing this out of obligation, then focus their attention on the game, no conversation allowed.

I return his smile with one of my own. “Is that a requirement? That I have a favorite?” I ask playfully.

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