Home > Pucked Over (Pucked #3)

Pucked Over (Pucked #3)
Author: Helena Hunting

Prologue

Damn You, Memories

LILY

“I have a brown belt in karate.”

“And I have a black belt in kick your fucking ass.”

These are the words that keep repeating in my head, over and over. Along with Randy’s promises: “I can take your mind off your problems if you want.” And “I bet a few orgasms’ll make you forget all about that dickface ex of yours. Wanna find out if I’m right?”

I drag my palm over my face and check the clock. It’s four in the morning. I’ve been trying to sleep for the past five hours. Between two and three I managed not to stare at the ceiling or my clock, but I woke up with my hand in my damn underpants. Again.

I cram my head under the pillow, as if it’ll act as a barrier between my brain and the memories. I’m unsurprised by my lack of success. So I give in. If I stop fighting the fantasies, maybe I’ll be able to manage seeing him tonight. I roll over onto my back, close my eyes, and let the images come. I’m instantly transported back in time.

Okay, that’s not even remotely true, but I recall, with startling clarity, my introduction to NHL superstar Randy “Balls” Ballistic, the newest addition to Chicago’s team.

I’d been camping in the northern Canadian wilderness with Benji, my jerkwad boyfriend; Sunny, my best friend; and Kale, Benji’s best friend and Sunny’s ex. The experience had not been all that pleasant. After seven days with no running water, I’d been desperate to disappear the forest on my legs and bask in the wonders of a hot shower at Sunny’s brother’s cottage in Muskoka. I also needed to tackle the mess that was my fur burger.

Before the trip I’d canceled my appointment with my waxer. She was expensive, and I needed the money to buy groceries for the trip. I was also angry with Benji, so I let my bush grow in to spite him. He had grown a horrible, patchy, ugly beard, so I’d done the same between my legs to see how much he liked it when I rubbed it all over his damn face. Not that he gave me the opportunity to do so very often.

Anyway, as I was about to tackle the hairy muppet living on my cooch, the door to the bathroom flew open.

I fully expected Sunny, or maybe dickhead Benji, to be the one busting in on me. It was neither.

Instead I stared at a man—a broad, well-built, superhot man—with his hand in his shorts. His dark hair was pulled back in one of those stubby little man-bun things, and his eyes were the color of honey. He sported a somewhat ungroomed beard, but it was lush, and it worked for him. The hand down his pants was attached to an arm with a full tattooed sleeve.

I screamed, as seemed appropriate, considering the superhot guy I’d never seen before in my life—apart from on TV during hockey games, but this was out of context so I didn’t recognize him—who was standing in the bathroom doorway. His massive, muscular frame blocked my only way out. Also, I was completely naked, covered in shaving lotion from ankle to thigh, and my crotch was extra furry.

His eyes dipped and widened, taking me in. “You should probably lock the door.”

“Who the fuck are you? Get out! What are you doing here?” I nabbed my towel to cover all my bits.

He took a step back, hands raised as if in apology, but his smirky smirk said he wasn’t all that sorry. “Settle down, honey. I was just looking for a bathroom.” He moved away from the door, chuckling.

I was furious. Embarrassed and not completely rational, I covered myself with the towel and searched the bathroom for a weapon. The toilet paper holder had a blunt end if I needed to club the sexy intruder. For some reason, instead of staying in the safety of the bathroom, I’d chased after him, wielding my makeshift weapon, and managed to flash him my overgrown vagina yet again. His amusement was infuriating.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, less than an hour later I found myself trapped in the kitchen with him. Alone. Sunny and her current boyfriend, Miller “Buck” Butterson, had disappeared into the woods to “work things out.” Randy was Miller’s friend and NHL teammate. So there I was, forced into close proximity with a hot, insanely cut hockey boy. Despite the earlier embarrassment, being trapped with Randy was preferable to ending up alone with Benji, who had gone from being my boyfriend to my ex over the course of the past week and still hadn’t taken the hint and left.

He and I had been fighting nonstop while we’d been camping—a trip that was supposed to be relaxing. The situation had been escalating for a long while, but it had finally reached unmanageable. I was done in so many ways. After seven years, Benji’s persistent needling and negativity had become an anchor, weighing me down, keeping me tethered to a history that no longer felt good.

While I wallowed in the aftermath of my poor life choices, Randy had sat at the table, eating bowl after bowl of Corn Pops and reading the sports section of the newspaper. Benji had followed me around the house, pushing every single one of my buttons. Heedless of our audience, he wouldn’t give up. I’d told him in no uncertain terms that we were done, but sometimes he was thickheaded. Or he thought it was a game. We had broken up before. Several times.

And then he called me a bitch.

It felt like a verbal backhand. And it was humiliating in front of a bystander.

Randy had dropped his spoon in his bowl. Milk splattered the table and his shirt. “The fuck you say to her?” he’d asked as he pushed back his chair. It toppled over, clattering to the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand.

And then he’d stalked over to Benji and threatened to kick his ass—even though I’d come after him with a toilet paper holder earlier.

   
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