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

by Pippa Grant

We stop against the boards. She’s not fighting.

  No, somewhere she lost her stick, and her fingers are resting on my forearms, hot little ribbons against my skin.

  “So fucking sexy,” I whisper. I brush her cheek with my knuckle. The fog of our breaths hangs suspended between us. Swear on my skates, her nipples are trying to grab me.

  Or possibly cut me—hard to tell what this woman’s intentions might be.

  But it’s her palms that get the job done, gripping my ears and pulling my face down to hers and kissing me like I’m the fucking trophy for scoring three goals.

  Her lips are full and lush and talented, her tongue hot and quick, her hands—fuck, her hands are strong and determined and so fucking soft at the same time, I’m about to lose my shit all over again just from the stroke of her fingers down my face.

  Me and kissing? It doesn’t happen.

  Not like this.

  The chicks who hit on me usually want me for the world wonder in my pants and for what I can do under their skirts and for the glory of getting to say they banged Zeus Berger. They don’t want to kiss me. They want to fuck me. Good trade-off, because usually, I just want to fuck them too.

  I don’t want to fuck Joey.

  I mean, I want to fuck Joey. Jupiter’s raring to go, those subplanets hanging out under him are heavy and tight and throbbing enough to make me feel like I took a puck to the nuts. But fucking isn’t all I want to do with Joey. Not even close.

  Not when she’s scraping her fingers down my neck, nowhere near my dick or my ass, not fondling my biceps or pecs or abs. She’s not looking for a handful of a hockey god.

  She’s touching my fucking neck and eating my mouth like it’s a big juicy steak after months of nothing but bean sprouts. Moaning those little sounds that make my pulse rocket and my dick strain and my brain short-circuit.

  Kissing Joey is better than hockey, better than pranking the shit out of anyone, better than being weightless.

  Which is more terrifying than a roomful of fucking spiders, that’s for damn sure.

  I want to shove her against the boards, strip her out of that tank top, and suck on her frosty tits until she forgets her name. I want to eat her from the inside out. I want to taste that spicy pussy again. I want to make her scream my name so loud the whole fucking city knows they’re never going to have sex as good as Joey Fireball gets sex at my hands. And mouth. And hands. And fuck, I’ll toss in an elbow and some toes if she’s into that kind of thing.

  I’m gripping her hips so tight I’m probably cutting off circulation to her legs, but her fingers have found their way to my hair, and she’s pulling on it and igniting nerve endings in my scalp that are more likely to take a beating than ever see some lovin’.

  And I’m once again two seconds from blowing my load early.

  Fuck.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I break the kiss with more effort than I’ve ever had to put into benching anything, and I once benched a fucking cow. Her eyes are black as space, her lips swollen and rosy, her breath coming every bit as fast as mine.

  “That all you’ve got?” she asks.

  Fuck.

  I growl as I dive back into kissing her, teeth gnashing, tongues going at it like we need a fucking wrestling mat. Her mouth’s hot and juicy and if I give half a thought to her sucking my dick, I’m gonna blow so hard I’ll shoot her through the boards. Her hands grip my ass, Jupiter pops a hole in my jockey shorts, and my focus narrows to one single thought.

  I’m fucked.

  I’m going to prove to this woman—somehow—that I’m not just an air-headed, oversized puck-up.

  I’m a big, mean, scoring machine. I’m gonna blow her mind. I’m gonna blow her mouth—with a fucking awesome dinner, pervert—and then I’m gonna blow her pussy until she’s begging for mercy.

  Because I’m fucking Zeus Berger.

  And I can.

  So long as my dick doesn’t pull another pre-game quick shot.

  I lift her up against the boards, my skates anchored, cradling her ass with one arm while my other hand snakes between us. I thumb the smooth fabric over her center, she moans and thrusts into my touch, and fuck, I need to get in her pants.

  Jupiter’s wailing out some “I’ll make love to you”—I like boy band shit, suck my dick—but he’s not tapping into this game.

  This one’s for Joey.

  And if anyone interrupts us this time, I’ll fucking tear his limbs off and feed them to my manager’s pet hamster.

  Joey’s skates are cutting into my back where she has her ankles hooked, but fuck if I care. I slip my hand under her waistband, under her soft cotton panties, and go sliding through smooth skin and rough hair until I find that magic button.

  She gasps in my mouth, grips my ears again, and melts in my fucking hand.

  I stroke her pussy.

  She jerks against my fingers, her tongue gliding over mine, skates digging in. Might be taking out a kidney.

  I thumb her nubbin and thrust two fingers into her slick, tight heat, and even though that hole in my underwear is choking the life out of my dick’s head, I’m still about to come.

  Not because I’m petting pussy.

  Fuck, I know pussy as well as I know boobs.

  But because Joey Fireball’s losing control.

  For me.

  That’s right. I’m king of the fucking sex gods. With the sexiest fucking woman on the planet riding my fingers and feasting on my mouth and clamping her legs so tight around me I can barely move my hand to tease her clit and jerk my fingers in and out of her tight little pussy.

  Fuck, the superhero in my pants wouldn’t last three seconds inside Joey Fireball. She’s tight as balls, hot as the fucking sun, and slick as black ice.

  She jerks her tongue out of my mouth, bangs her head back against the plexiglass, and moans while she clenches and spasms around my fingers. I put my thumb to her magic pearl, and she gasps and moans louder, hips bucking uncontrollably while she comes all over my hand. Her skates slice my back. Her legs grip me so tight she’s bruising my lower ribs.

  And she’s still coming.

  Still squeezing my fingers.

  Still riding me like I’m the best fucking bull she’s ever had between her legs and she’s gonna keep coming until we both die of sexposure.

  Yeah. Oversexposure.

  It’s a fucking miracle I’m not shooting cannonballs out my dick right now.

  Or maybe that’s the lack of circulation in my head.

  It’s also a miracle I’m not blowing my load through my fingers right now. Can fingers orgasm? Because my fingers are in fucking heaven. They’re shooting joy sparks all up in her pussy, getting off on getting her off.

  Joey goes limp in my arms. “Oh my fucking dog,” she pants.

  Like I’m every bit the sex god I think I am. “Good?” I should be smirking, because I know it was good. I’m always good.

  But this is Joey Fireball.

  And I’m terrified she’s had better fingers. Because of course she’s a big O expert.

  She smoothes her hair back—not that any of it’s out of place—and meets my eyes, and fuck me.

  That’s not bravado. Not badass. Not balls.

  My hot pilot chick has gone soft. “Why would you do that for me?” she whispers.

  Like no one ever has before.

  But that’s impossible, because…because…because she’s Joey fucking Fireball.

  Except… “Who wouldn’t do that for you? I’ll kick his fucking ass.”

  Those eyes. Fuck, can a man drown in space?

  “I intimidate men.”

  “You’d intimidate a T-Rex.” I grin, because it’s the truth. “That’s fucking hot.”

  She doesn’t blink.

  Of course she doesn’t.

  But that intense, no-bullshit, you-just-rocked-my-world gaze has a bonus quality to it that’s making my ribs tight.

  “Can you do that with your dick?” she asks.

  Ge
t.

  Back.

  In.

  Her.

  Pants.

  Now.

  “Fuck, yeah,” I tell her.

  “Before you blow your load,” she amends.

  “I only do that when I’m playing a chick.”

  “You mean a hooker troll?”

  “The hottest fucking hooker troll in the world.”

  She laughs, and I fumble to unbutton my pants. No sense wasting opportunity, and a double-O, on the ice—she’s gonna remember my name for-fucking-ever.

  Which is good, because I’m never forgetting hers.

  I’ve almost worked Jupiter free when a whistle erupts behind me.

  “We’re playing that kind of stick hockey today?” Manning’s cheerful voice carries across the ice.

  “I’m going to feed that royal ass his nuts,” Joey growls.

  I’m going to stand back and watch.

  Because if I’m not getting back in her pants, watching is all that my nuts are currently good for.

  21

  Joey

  Hockey doesn’t come naturally to me. I grew up in a place where three snowflakes would shut down the entire state. The extent of my experience with hockey was chasing a tennis ball down the street with a broken broom.

  But I’m so fucking pissed that his royal cheerfulness just cock-blocked me that I’m going to mop the ice with his face.

  I think.

  Probably.

  Just as soon as I come down off this happy cloud Zeus’s fingers put me on.

  Holy shit.

  I came so hard, I thought my vagina was going to flip inside out.

  He sets me down on the ice, where my rubbery legs almost give out on me. He catches me under the armpits with a grin that nearly fries my motherboard. “You got this, Fireball.”

  Know what he has?

  He has a bulge in his pants that can probably be seen from the International Space Station.

  And it’s making my very satisfied pussy pop another lady boner.

  Zeus Berger is more than hot air.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve cared if a man ever pops my cherry, but if I leave this town without screwing that man’s brains out, I’m going to be a bitch to live with.

  And I’m already a bitch to live with.

  I lean around Zeus and point to Manning, who’s accompanied by Ares, Jett, and Ambrosia. “I get the Bergers. You get the leftovers.”

  “Hardly sporting,” he says with that shit-eating grin.

  “Fuck sporting.”

  “Tough chicks on my team,” Ares says.

  “I’m gonna eat you for breakfast,” Ambrosia tells Jett.

  He smirks in a way that suggests she already did.

  They pile onto the ice, every last one of them steady in their skates.

  “Don’t you dare fucking miss another goal,” I growl at Zeus.

  He adjusts himself and grins at me again. He’s pushing six-nine, broad as a house, but when he smiles—I shiver.

  That smile packs the punch of a hundred men.

  Because Zeus Berger doesn’t do anything small.

  He pushes away from me with a grace impossible to ignore. His Predators T-shirt is stretched to its limits over his thick arms and barrel chest, and his skin’s hot despite the cool temperature in the rink.

  And his fingers—I shiver again.

  He might’ve just ruined me for dildos.

  He retrieves both our sticks while Ares collects the pucks, eyeing each like he’s considering taking a bite.

  Jett and Ambrosia circle each other, flirting and laughing. Manning checks the goals.

  All of them are clearly in their element on the ice.

  I’m going to land on my ass before this game’s even started.

  Zeus turns back and watches me as I once again get my bearings. He’s a leopard in the rink, just as likely to pounce and play as he is to pounce and eat. His feet aren’t still—I suspect the only time this man is still is when he’s asleep, and maybe not even then—and his eyes are locked on me as though he knows I’m thinking about him.

  Or possibly as though he knows I’m going to bruise my tailbone and probably get squished by my own teammates and land in the wrong goal before the next fifteen minutes are over.

  I’m bad at a few things.

  Knitting. Baking. Putting up with bullshit. Driving. Yeah, I’ve got a lead foot and I can’t park for shit. Shut up. I can make your ass puke in an airplane too.

  Point is, I know where I’m good and where I’m bad.

  And those three goals aside, I’m going to suck eggs on this hockey rink.

  Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try though.

  I’ll own sucking before I whine my way through not trying.

  Zeus skids to an easy stop next to me. “Four on two isn’t very fair,” he says.

  “He looked at my sister wrong,” I say, because hell if I’ll admit to knowing I’m going to suck. Also, I need the rage—which I’m struggling to actually locate in this post-orgasmic bliss still making my legs wobbly—to fuel my game.

  I punctuate my statement with another slip on the ice. He steadies me, heat shoots from my armpits to my love muffin, and I grip his arm.

  I don’t want to play hockey.

  Not ice hockey. Tonsil hockey, probably. I could go for a score.

  He’s grinning again like he knows it. “Fireball, we’ve got a problem.”

  “Too many clothes and an audience,” I grunt in agreement.

  He snickers, my pussy tingles, and my nipples point out they haven’t gotten any attention at all.

  It’s official.

  Zeus Berger has finally made me the equal to every man pilot in the world. I, too, want to fly, eat, sleep, and screw.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  Fine. Definitely not in that order.

  “The problem,” he says, “is that you suck on the ice. And I’m not losing to that royal fucker today.”

  I straighten my spine, my skates slip, but he’s still holding me up. “I’m not sitting this out. So you’re just going to have to make up for my suckage for once.”

  His gaze drops to my lips.

  I manage to not let my feet get away from me this time, but hoooo, doggie, my legs haven’t wobbled this much since my first check ride in pilot training.

  “Think I got a solution,” he says, his voice low and rumbly.

  “We break their kneecaps?”

  That thing I mentioned about him not doing anything small?

  Yeah. He goes big with the admiration too. His eyes are so lit up with it, they’re practically smoking.

  Or maybe I’m getting my A-words confused.

  Because anyone else might call that affection.

  He pulls me away from the wall. “Something much easier.”

  “Clunk their heads together?”

  “Nope. We get my head back between your legs.”

  My pussy leaps in agreement. My nipples strain against my bra. And before I can count backwards from Sunday, he spins me out, sneaks behind me, sticks his head between my knees, and stands until I’m sitting on his shoulders.

  I shriek—dammit, I hate when I do that—and grab a fistful of his hair to steady myself. He tucks my calves behind his arms. “Quit squirming or we’re both going down,” he says easily, as though it’s no big deal to add another half of his body weight and three more feet of height while he’s on ice skates.

  “Yo, Ares,” he calls. “You bring the rubber chicken?”

  Ares pulls a rubber chicken out of the front of his pants.

  “Swear to God, I am not related to you two,” Ambrosia declares.

  Zeus zips us both closer to her while Ares drops the chicken and smacks it with his stick. “Are too,” he taunts his sister.

  “Saw you born,” Ares calls.

  “Better you than me,” Jett calls as he tries to steal the chicken, Manning rushing up behind him to help.

  Zeus easily claims the c
hicken—the pucken?—and suddenly we’re flying around the ice, him pushing a rubber chicken with his stick, me hanging on for dear life.

  And laughing.

  Because oh my god.

  I’m flying.

  Flying.

  On Zeus’s shoulders.

  While rubber chicken hockey rages below.

  This is one for the books.

  22

  Zeus

  We’ve officially adopted Joey.

  She probably doesn’t know it. Probably shouldn’t know it. But we have.

  Once you play rubber chockey with us, you’re ours.

  Consider yourself adopted by extension. Welcome to the rubber chockey club.

  Guess we have to keep Manning too, but so long as he keeps his hands off Joey’s sister, we’re fine.

  We’re hanging at Ducky’s Burgers, a hole-in-the-wall joint two blocks from Mink Arena, eating the shit out of these juicy burgers the size of my fist and fries fresh from the potatoes while Joey and Chase and Ambrosia bicker about the future of space travel.

  I could argue with them, but these fries are hot and salty and the next best thing to pineapple tater tot casserole, so instead, I’m just listening.

  And playing that triangle tee game.

  Joey solved it in four seconds. Because she’s Joey.

  Me?

  I get like six pegs left every time.

  It’s her fault. Every time she opens her mouth, I quit paying attention to my burger, my fries, and the tees, and I just listen.

  She’s smart. She’s tough. She’s probably a terrible singer.

  But I can’t stop listening to her voice anyway. It’s music to me.

  “Fine,” she says to Chase. “Believe what you want. But don’t come crying to me when Peach and I put a colony on the moon and suddenly you want a piece.”

  See? Fucking music. She’s got balls and she knows what she’s worth and she’s not letting anyone—not even my best friend, who can be fucking ruthless—undersell her.

  “Shut up and just make her a real offer,” I tell Chase.

  He gives me one of those looks that means I’m probably gonna find some massive blow-up Halloween spider in my living room when I get back to Nashville, but I don’t fucking care.

  He wants in on Joey’s company. I know it. He knows it. Ambrosia, Ares, and even Manning know it. He’s dicking around now, seeing how far he can push her.