The Pilot and the Puck-Up: A Hockey / One Night Stand / Virgin Romantic Comedy

by Pippa Grant

  There’s a reason she usually does our networking. And don’t let her name fool you. Or her appearance. She’s blonde, cute, brilliant, and Southern to the core, and she’ll skin your bones with her tongue faster than you can say bless your heart.

  “Gracie,” I say into the dusk. “Time to go.”

  A big dickhead steps between me and my sister near the sixteenth green and gives me one of those overbearing, intimidating glares that I can mimic in my sleep.

  “Identification,” he growls.

  “She’s harmless,” His Royal About-To-Be-Deadness says cheerfully to the bodyguard.

  “No, she’s not,” my sister replies.

  The light’s fading, so I can’t see the nuances of either of their expressions, but he’s definitely smiling and she’s definitely giving me the back off glare.

  “Join us, Ms. Fireball,” the prince says. “Care for a spot of mead?”

  “I’d care for taking my sister back to the hotel.”

  “All by your lonesome?”

  “No, I thought the club manager might join us. Such a winning personality.”

  The prince’s smile widens.

  Just like Zeus Berger. So freaking amused by the world, and probably just as likely to be a disappointment.

  “Gracie,” I say again. “Let’s go.”

  “She’s just getting her steps in,” the prince tells. So much fucking cheerfulness. And how the hell does he know about Gracie’s steps? Does he know about her competition with Peach too? What other secrets has he gotten out of her? And why is he speaking for her?

  I suck in a breath through my nose, because even I realize I’m not getting my sister out of here by being a dick.

  Unless Prince Butthead has hypnotized her, in which case I fully intend to beat the shit out of both him and his royal bodyguards.

  “I have M&Ms back in the room,” I tell her.

  She steps around the thick-necked royal guard and now that I’m thinking about necks, I’m thinking about Zeus Berger and his useless mountains of muscles and hair-trigger dick again.

  I might’ve just growled.

  Being horny and disappointed and worked up over the sixteen different ways today could’ve gone better tends to do that to a person.

  Gracie looks me up and down and sighs. “It was just a walk. He didn’t compromise my non-existent purity or infect me with any horrific diseases or trick me into buying into some royal pyramid scheme with the promise that I, too, can be a princess if I just get six of my friends to sign up as duchesses and countesses below me. He’s polite enough to throw down with Miss Manners herself. You brought me here to have some fun. Please let me have some fun.”

  I brought her here because Peach didn’t give me a chance to object after dropping the bombshell that she had to skedaddle to take care of her meemaw after some accident with a zoo hippo. Gracie, go with Joey and make sure she doesn’t burn the golf course down if one of them rich boys tries to touch her rack.

  Gracie’s been my responsibility since our mama left when I was eight. Our daddy did what he could to do right by both of us, but he didn’t know any more about raising girls than I did. Always figured Gracie would’ve been in therapy by now.

  But even though she’s never been to a city bigger than Huntsville, never met a celebrity more famous than that local kid who made it to the semi-finals on America’s Got Talent with his burping puppet routine, and even though it goes against every hard-ass, over-protective instinct I possess, I hold up my hands in surrender.

  Because Gracie’s all the family I have left in this world, and I don’t want to lose her over a stupid argument about a stupid guy.

  Can love a person all you want, Joey-girl, but you can’t make them love you back. I might’ve been eight, but Daddy’s wisdom stuck. He kept doling it out until we lost him two years ago. People leave, baby girl. All you ever really have is yourself.

  I don’t want Gracie to leave.

  I don’t want to give her any more reason to leave.

  Plus, I know she still knows how to use her elbows, knees, and right hook, and we had a refresher birds, bees, and baby diapers discussion just before we left the hotel for this reception tonight.

  I expected her to charm her way into Levi Wilson’s company. I know Levi. I trust he has a healthy enough fear of me to not try anything with my sister.

  This prince guy?

  Not so much.

  But even I know I can’t stop her. Sometimes, an alternate approach is necessary. I don’t like alternate, bullshit, prance-around-the-problem approaches. But I’m not bullheaded enough to ignore them.

  Mostly.

  “Okay. You’re right.” I hand her the keys to my rental car. “Don’t stay out past midnight. Don’t let him drive you. And don’t sign anything without consulting an attorney.”

  “It’s a walk on the golf course, not a business arrangement.”

  “He’s a fucking prince. Everything’s a business arrangement.”

  “Not the crown prince,” Manning says with all the jovial cheer of Santa Claus. “I’m expendable. And not nearly smart enough for business decisions.”

  Before I can growl out a response, Gracie’s hugging me tight. “Go back to the hotel. Take a hot shower. Wash off the rich golfer cooties before you have to do it all over again tomorrow. Eat a steak or two. I’ll be back before you know it.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “And I’ll convince him he needs to book himself and all his brothers on a flight with you to see who pukes first. Imagine the photo opportunities.”

  Yes, yes, fine. She knows me well, and she probably can handle herself.

  Doesn’t mean I have to like it.

  7

  Zeus

  If I don’t hit something—literally, metaphysically, statistically, whateverly—I’m gonna blow in a totally different way.

  Ares, who could’ve been a fucking Boy Scout with all this prepared-for-anything shit, keeps a bag of spare clothes in his truck. He got me cut out of my dress and set up with clean jeans and one of the crazy-ass shirts that he’s started wearing recently. This one’s green with the outline of a cell phone and “I lick birds” written on it, and he’s pulling that straight-faced shit that means he thinks it’s fucking hilarious that I’m wearing it.

  Instead of finding a gym or a batting cage or a strip joint—fuck, I’d take a liquor store and the frozen dough section of the grocery store—Chase and Ares are pushing me into a fucking karaoke-slash-game bar in the uppity district of Copper Valley where this golf shit’s happening tomorrow.

  Haven’t been to Copper Valley much other than an away game or two every year, but I like this city. Smaller than New York, bigger than Nashville, with professional hockey, baseball, and football teams. Lots of smarty-pants dudes in big industries that are trying to save the planet with environmental whoop-dee-doo shit that’s probably pretty cool if you’re into science and math. I’m a fucking environmental disaster just for breathing.

  If you count Ares, there’s two of me. So probably good that there are people trying to reverse the effects of us walking on this earth.

  Ten years ago, if you’d told me the three of us would’ve been ushered to a private booth, given a magic pass to jump to the front of the karaoke line, and comped all of our arcade games in this hoity-toity, grown-up Aladdin’s Castle, I couldn’t tell you which one of us would’ve peed ourselves first for laughing our asses off.

  But with Chase and his billions and me and Ares and our hockey fame, fuckers bend over backwards to give us shit so we’ll tell our friends and come back for more.

  One thing I’m not telling my friends?

  The woman who bested my control is twenty feet away, cradling my favorite arcade balls in her hands and racking up a Skee-Ball score on par with my best games.

  Fuck.

  When instinct kicks in, it’s fight over flight every time.

  Until today.

  Fireball isn’t facing us but probably still knows we’re here. Sh
e’s just got this aura.

  It’s saying I know you’re there, Zeus Berger, and you can fuck off unless you want a piece of this.

  Yeah, I fucking want a piece of that.

  Not because I’m an I want a piece of that kind of guy. But because I can do better. I will do better. It was the damn girdle. Or maybe my own coconuts had me too turned on.

  What? I’m a dude. I like big boobs. Had my own to play with for a while there. Think the stick in my pants cares if they’re real or not?

  I clench a fist around the napkin-wrapped silverware on our table and breathe. I’m not fucking running. Zeus Berger isn’t a chicken. And I don’t leave women unsatisfied, and I don’t blow my load early.

  That was a fluke. Maybe I’m sick.

  Yeah.

  My dick caught pre-jaculitis. Needs some pampering. Or a good beating.

  After it’s out of the penalty box.

  Fireball turns her head and locks gazes with me.

  She’s got these eyes shaped like nuts—almonds, not peanuts or walnuts or those weird-ass pistachios—and that poker face that belies the fact that she’s a sex shark. She turns back to the Skee-Ball lane, slings her ball, and fuck. She hits a corner pocket. Lights spin, a bell rings, and High Score! flashes on the marquee above her lane.

  Maybe it was Fireball. Maybe she’s got some secret magic pussy power and it put a hex on me.

  Whatever it was, I’m not leaving here without my ego put back intact.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” our server chirps over someone slaughtering some country song on the karaoke stage. “What can I get you?”

  Chase orders something for all of us, because I’m fixated on Fireball and Ares is watching me like he knows how my brain works.

  Which he does.

  Ain’t any of us man enough to handle her, bro, he silently warns me. Even together. She’s badass. Don’t do it.

  Too late.

  I’m already sliding out of that booth and sauntering to the Skee-Ball lanes.

  I don’t even know this chick’s real name, but I need her to know Zeus Berger doesn’t fail at anything. Even if it takes me a few tries to get it right.

  I scan my arcade pass to start a game on the lane next to her. “Nice score.”

  She slides me another of those unreadable looks, then scans her pass to start another game as well.

  “You left your bet money.” I roll a ball down the lane, and it easily drops into the 400-point hole.

  She nails the top hole, earning her 500 points. “You followed me here to tell me I left a couple hundred dollars behind.”

  “Lucky break. We’re just out looking for fun. Found you instead.”

  She takes aim with a second ball and scores another 500 points. My dick stirs.

  Fucker’s crazy if it thinks it gets any say in anything I do for the rest of the night.

  I toss my ball at the thousand-pointer in the corner, and end up with a hundred.

  “Pretty good at this,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t answer. Ares steps up on her other side, scans his pass, and meets my eyes over her head. Losing cause, dumbass. Move on.

  I roll my third ball.

  And I whiff while Fireball scores another 400. Big fat goose egg for me, more points for her.

  What the fuck?

  Who is this chick?

  Bells are ringing, people laughing, someone wailing on the karaoke machine. And this woman’s quietly beating the pants off me in Skee-Ball three throws in.

  Go sit down before you do something stupid, Ares telegraphs.

  Fireball rolls her next ball, and fuck a fucking cluck duck, she just hit another thousand-pointer.

  I drop my own ball and give up all pretenses that I’m interested in playing Skee-Ball. “Anything you can’t do?” I ask her.

  “No.”

  The woman has more bravado than I do. Shouldn’t be so damn attractive.

  Or intimidating.

  But the backstabbing demigod in my jockey shorts is surging and straining and asking to tap into the game again.

  “You fly in the military?” I ask her.

  “Yep.”

  “Fighters?”

  “Special ops.”

  Of fucking course she was special ops.

  “So you know,” I say, “I don’t usually…you know.”

  She turns her head toward me, and now my neck feels like those lights on the karaoke stage are glowing right on top of it.

  “You don’t,” she replies. Not a question. Exactly. Not belief either. Ares is wincing while he pretends he’s still trying to get a good score on his own Skee-Ball lane.

  “I believe in mutual satisfaction,” I tell her. “I’m not a selfish prick.”

  “You’re not.” Now she’s mocking me.

  “Not in bed.”

  “Mm.”

  Mm? What the fuck does Mm mean? I drop my voice, because even though Ares probably knows what I’m going to say, doesn’t mean either one of us needs him to hear it. “I’m just saying, if you’re around tonight, I’d go down on you. Let you sit on my face. Whatever. No strings. Don’t even have to take your shirt off. Not that I’d object.”

  That’s right. I’m propositioning a hot chick who could probably castrate me with her fingernails, and probably wants to after…you know. But what the fuck do I have to lose?

  One more ball up the lane, 500 more points on her score. “And what do I get out of that?”

  My cheek twitches. She’s serious. Like she’s never had a guy eat her out before. Like she doesn’t get off on…well, on getting off.

  The woman rubbing herself all over me not two hours ago was looking to get off. Which means either she doesn’t believe I can do it, or she’s not into oral.

  “You give me ten minutes with my tongue between your legs, and I’ll blow your whole fucking world,” I tell her.

  Her gaze slides to my crotch, then back up to my face. Total resting unimpressed face. “Mm.”

  Yeah, she doesn’t believe I can do it. I start to smile. Forgot how much I like a challenge. I’m no slouch in the sack. Just need the opportunity to prove it to her.

  “Ah. Afraid to let go of control.”

  She fires another ball up the lane, and fuck if she doesn’t score another five hundred points. “Is your concern for me, or for yourself?”

  Now I’m starting to doubt myself. Not because she’s worried about my intentions—I intend to give her the orgasm to end all orgasms—but because if she’s this cool and controlled playing arcade games while discussing me licking her pussy, she might actually be a robot with boobs.

  Can robots have orgasms?

  And if so, do they enjoy getting off, or do their chips overheat, or are they programmed to just make dumb puckheads like me think we’re doing a good job?

  And will she taste like a woman or like joint grease?

  She rolls her eyes like she’s hearing my brain waves and tosses another ball. Another thousand points.

  And there goes the stick in my pants. He likes a woman who can score. Even if he’s still on the bench.

  “It would be an honor to pleasure your pussy,” I say.

  Ares sighs. Probably because even when I’m whispering, my voice is as big as I am, which means even with that dude on the karaoke stage trying to stab our eardrums with the rusty end of a pitchfork, about half the restaurant heard me.

  “My pussy remains unconvinced.” Fireball nails another five hundred points and my dick bangs on the glass of its penalty box.

  “I’m a man with something to prove. Won’t let you down twice.”

  “Really.”

  “Master of mistakes. Master of corrections.”

  “You always overcompensate for your mistakes?”

  “Fuck, yeah.” My ego asks me why we’re standing here offering it as tribute to this chick when that cute bartender across the room has been eyeing my ass since I walked into this joint. I tell it to shut the fuck up, because two nights ago—fuck, two ho
urs ago—we would’ve picked the easy one.

  But I can’t walk away from this loud-mouth woman.

  Maybe because I don’t want any woman telling tales about Zeus Berger failing at being a god of sex.

  Or maybe because she reminds me of me. And I hate losing to me.

  Already did that during the play-offs. Not doing it again tonight.

  One more ball up the lane, and I wonder if I’m getting to her, because this one lands in the 400 hole. She turns to me. Her face is that mask of straight-laced, take-no-shit, give-‘em-hell that I want to rattle just for fun.

  “You think your tongue has what it takes,” she says.

  “Damn fucking right.” It can’t come, so unless she soaks her pussy in hot sauce and pepper flakes, there’s no way I won’t get her off.

  “You name it too?”

  “Yeah, baby. You can call it the King.”

  “Hm.”

  I cock a brow of yeah, you know I’ll be good at her, because I’m a cocky kind of guy, and even I know you have to shut up sometimes.

  With your mouth. My face can still do plenty of talking.

  “Lame,” she says. “Attila the Tongue would’ve been more intriguing.“

  There are exactly two women in my life who ever put me in my place. My mom and my sister. It’s surprising how much I’m enjoying this battle of wits.

  I give her the bedroom eyes. “Didn’t think you’d get it if I said he’s really Olickseus.” That’s right. I know all about Odysseus and more fucking Greek history than any big motherfucker like me should. Thanks, Mom.

  “Odickseus, I might’ve gotten,” she says dryly.

  I grin, because damn. She nailed it. I like her.

  Apparently I did something right, because the hard-ass softens. She gestures to my mouth. “Come on. Let’s see it.”

  My gaze drifts to her breasts, the stick in my pants threatens to ruin Ares’ jeans, and I forget for a minute what we were talking about.

  She snaps her fingers in my face. “Your tongue. Stick it out.”

  “Not so sure that’s a good idea. Don’t want you getting so hot and bothered you jump me right here.”