Puck You: A Reverse Harem Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Her Hockey Harem Book 1)

by Mia Wilde

  Puck You

  A Reverse Harem Enemies-To-Lovers Romance

  Mia Wilde

  Ravish Publishing

  Contents

  1. Madeleine

  2. Donovan

  3. Jared

  4. Madeleine

  5. Ash

  6. Piotr

  7. Madeleine

  8. Chase

  9. Garrett

  10. Madeleine

  11. Donovan

  12. Jared

  13. Madeleine

  14. Ash

  15. Piotr

  16. Madeleine

  17. Ash

  18. Piotr

  19. Madeleine

  20. Chase

  21. Garrett

  22. Madeleine

  23. Donovan

  24. Jared

  25. Madeleine

  26. Madeleine

  27. Madeleine

  28. Ash

  29. Madeleine

  30. Ash

  31. Madeleine

  32. Piotr

  33. Madeline

  34. Chase

  35. Madeline

  36. Chase

  37. Madeline

  38. Garrett

  39. Madeline

  40. Garrett

  41. Madeleine

  42. Jared

  43. Madeleine

  44. Donovan

  45. Madeleine

  Afterword

  Cherry Picking: A Reverse Harem Virgin Romance

  PUCK YOU

  A Reverse Harem Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

  MIA WILDE

  Copyright © 2019 by Ravish Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s devious, dirty imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Get exclusive access to Mia Wilde’s book releases and promotions by signing up to her newsletter.

  1

  Madeleine

  It’s my first day in a new job and I’m F-U-C-K-E-D. My heart is pounding like my upstairs neighbors’ bedframe while they bang out a morning quickie like horny rabbits. I have nothing to wear. Worst of all, I already know that my coworkers are gonna hate me.

  How do I know?

  Because that’s exactly why they hired me in the first place.

  I pull a dark jacket close around me, staring at myself in the mirrored wardrobe that covers an entire wall of my downtown penthouse apartment. The jacket shows off the curves of my hips and the delicate shape of my waist, but I’m not trying to show off.

  Showing off was what I did at The Seattle Shredder. Showing off was exactly what got me into this stupid, screwed up situation in the first place.

  I brush my long brown hair out of my face, then pull it back for a second to what I’d look like if I wore my hair up. I pout, my pink lips puckering back at me in the reflection.

  No. It’s wrong—all wrong. Too sexy. Too…well, too fuck me. I need to change my skirt. Maybe my shirt, too. Keep the jacket. Or lose it, maybe.

  God. I’d never normally be this fussy, but I don’t know how to dress for this kind of job. My last gig didn’t demand anything but my showing up sort of on time and having a juicy scoop to hand to the editor before we went to press.

  But this isn’t my last gig. I’m facing down a whole new monster now. Six of them, to be exact.

  And if I’m not careful, right down to the clothes I wear when I walk in to meet them, I know they’re the kind of monsters that won’t even flinch before they devour me whole.

  For the last five years, I’ve been a journalist. Not just any journalist, either. I was the most-read gossip columnist in the whole city. And when that city is Seattle, there’s only one thing to gossip about: The Seattle Stormbreakers, the roughest, toughest hockey team in the whole league. It might have been years since they made the play-offs, but the city still salivates when it comes to the antics of its six bad boy starting squad members.

  See, the Stormbreakers aren’t just any run of the mill hockey team, either. They’re as famous for their wild lifestyles off the ice as they are for their skills on it. Add to that the fact that every single one is as hot as the gossip I dished on them, and we had women all over the city waiting with bated breath to hear about every backroom brawl and supermodel walk of shame that I could dig up.

  It meant I’d made a career out of pissing them off. And they’d always been happy to let me know. In my five years of tormenting them, I’d had it all. Chase Halloway calling me drunk at 3AM just to curse me out for the quotes from his retired hockey star dad I’d put in my front-page profile. Garrett Fleming storming out of the mayor’s Christmas ball because I’d just walked in. Jared Southern cornering me at the opening of a cocktail bar, telling me exactly what he thought about the ban that had fucked his season after I revealed his nightclub brawl.

  As far as I was concerned, that was their problem, not mine. They might hate me, but we all orbit the highest layer of Seattle’s glamorous society, so we run into each other. Truth be told, it always gave me a little thrill to see them out and about, and not just because it gave me more fodder for my columns. Sure, I might find myself having daggers stared at me any time I’m in the same room as them, but when it’s Piotr Zhernakov’s raincloud-grey eyes doing the staring, I can live with that.

  But then two weeks ago, it all changed. The Stormbreakers have finished near the bottom of the conference for the last three years. They have the skills, but quick tempers, big egos and bad attitudes don’t make for a smooth run to the cup finals--especially when the publication of their antics usually end with their best players getting benched.

  This season, the Stormbreakers’ management wants them in the finals. And to have that, they need to improve their image. On paper, it makes sense. Who better to do that than the girl who’d ruined it in the first place?

  My career at the Shredder had stalled, anyway. Having a creep for an editor and a mind of your own will do that to a girl. And the Stormbreakers’ offer of financial compensation had been good. Very good. Good enough to justify throwing myself into the lion’s den—if those lions were six brooding, square-jawed, hunky sports stars, anyway.

  I change into a dove grey pencil skirt with a bright blue silk shirt tucked in at the waist. Smart, professional, effeminate, and best of all, they’re Stormbreaker colors. Running my fingers through my hair one last time, I decide to leave it down.

  I’m not usually this nervous. If anything, people tell me it’s too much the opposite. Ex-boyfriends were especially fond of telling me that I was confrontational. Difficult. Intimidating. To me, that always sounded like a compliment, especially since it did a good job of getting rid of men who didn’t know how to handle me.

  Handling the Stormbreakers, though—it’s got me on edge. Part of me knows that I can take whatever those boys want to throw at me. But if I’m wrong then I might be in a whole world of trouble.

  And trouble, as fate would have it, is the Stormbreakers’ specialty.

  Now that I’ve finally found an outfit I can stand to exist in for five minutes, I check the clock.

  Shit. I need to be
at the stadium in ten minutes. Swallowing the half-cold cup of coffee I left out on my dresser, I have to slip on some low heels as I’m hopping out the door.

  I get to the stadium a…little late. Maybe more like a lot late. Tom Laramie, the team coach, is waiting for me just inside. He’s a big guy, now in his fifties, with bushy eyebrows and thick grey hair.

  “The boys are over in one of the suites ahead of practice. Owner says he wants you to go over this PR strategy before the season starts, get ‘em all singin’ off the same hymn sheet when it comes to building up support.” Ever the gentleman, Tom offers me his hand to help me up the steps to the top boxes.

  We walk through the stadium together, a twisting maze of internal corridors once you get away from the concourse.

  “You want me to meet with them all at once? Right now?” I’d been expecting to get them one by one at first. A chance to turn on my charm, take control of the situation. “You sure that’s a good idea, Tom?”

  “How come? The fearless Madeleine Christensen ain’t scared, is she?.” His voice is a mix of pity and amusement as we come to the suite’s door. “Good luck to you, honey. The way these boys have been talkin’, you’re gonna need it.”

  I catch sight of my reflection in the glass of a picture from the last championship the Stormbreakers won. It’s practically in black and white. Nonetheless, all that fussing turned out to be worth it. I look good. Not just fuck me good—I look like someone who shouldn’t be fucked with, either.

  These boys can hate me all they want. If I look hot as hell while they do it, it’ll probably just piss them off that much more. But whether they like it or not, they’re playing my game now, and we’re on the same team this time.

  I hold my head up high, defiant as I open the door.

  Time to go meet my biggest fans.

  2

  Donovan

  From the moment we first heard the news, we decided that we’re going to make her our bitch.

  She more than deserves it. The owner and coach might have told us that we had to accept our new PR manager, but that didn’t mean that we were totally powerless. Or that we had to like it, for that matter.

  As the captain, it’s my job to act as the voice of the squad—and right now that voice is united in telling the bosses that we’re going to make Madeleine Christensen’s life with the Seattle Stormbreakers as stressful, shitty and short as possible.

  It’s not that I don’t like the attention. I’ve had that my whole life. First I was the local talent, then I was the kid who was gonna make it big, then I was the Stormbreakers’ newest star. Now, I lead my boys out onto the ice in front of thousands of fans every week.

  We’d have thousands more if it weren’t for sassy little Madeleine’s stories about us in the papers, but that’s her problem now—not ours.

  Madeleine isn’t the only woman whose attention I’ve captured, though. With my dark hair, ice blue eyes, clean-cut square jaw and athletic body, I look good and I know how to take advantage of it.

  Years earlier, when I was a rookie, Madeleine published a story about what I get up to in the bedroom: threesomes, foursomes, handcuffs and some legendarily hard fucking. Anything that leaves me and a gorgeous girl aching, sore and feeling good. I can still remember my first headline. Donovan Stone: What WON’T He Puck? That had been our first run-in, and she’s had her pretty, manicured fingers all over tales of my sex life ever since.

  It’s not that I mind the attention. Hell, if anything, Madeleine’s tales of my skills and endowment have led to more than one additional conquest by yours truly. The problem is that I’m not the type to kiss and tell. That’s strictly between me and a select few…dozen girls.

  The team and I are sitting around the conference table in one of the arena’s suites when she walks in. Immediately, all six of us turn to stare.

  I’m not afraid of much, but I was afraid of this.

  She doesn’t look like the living embodiment of evil. Her outfit hits her curves perfectly. Just the right side of professional, but on a body like hers, she must know that she’s just made six pairs of dress slacks fit a little tighter just by inhabiting the same space as us.

  She looks like a movie star. She looks like the kind of girl I’d usually have offered my number to. Maybe taken out once or twice or a dozen times.

  Honestly, she looks like the kind of girl I’d have swaggered up to and dragged back to my room to fuck until she was cross-eyed—at least, if she was anyone other than her.

  Madeleine swans through the suite as if she isn’t facing down the six men who hate her more than anything else in the world. I’ve gotta hand it to her—she’s got guts. And I’ve got a hard-on. I have to flex the muscle in my thigh to try and get rid of the erection half-straining at my pants. Looking that good, facing us down like that… Hate her or not, she’s still effortlessly pushing all my blood down south.

  “Look,” she says, staring us each down in turn. “You know who I am and what I’ve written about you. Half of you try to fight me when you see me in the street. The other half at you have probably been paid just to sit in the same room as me right now. But I know who you are, too. You six are the backbone of the Seattle Stormbreakers. You haven’t won a cup since 1989. You’ve finished dead last two of the last three years.”

  Oh, that’s rich, coming from her.

  “That’s because we lose half of our first team every year because some bitch likes to publish stories that get us benched and suspended,” I point out.

  Her hazel eyes flash at me for a second. “That’s because some captains don’t know how to keep their team under control, Mr. Stone.”

  Incredible. She wants to make this personal? I don’t know if she’s brave or stupid, but she’s crossed a line and she knows it. It’s written all over her soft, pillowy, cocksucking lips.

  I’ve kept my team together over the last few years, even as the crowds thinned out and the wins got fewer. I won’t have my own worst enemy sneering in my face.

  “I know all about control,” I told her. “It’s about time someone brought you under it a little.”

  “Bigger men than you have tried,” she shoots back.

  Somehow, I doubt that. At 6’3, most of the guys I know who are bigger than me are sitting in this room.

  “Mr. Stone raises an excellent point, though,” she continues. “Control is exactly what I want to talk to you about. You boys have passion, which is cute, but what we need is some restraint. You can show off your team spirit all you like, but…”

  “Oh, we can show off.” I slide my chair back just a little. Time to let her see what she’s really dealing with here. I spread my legs. She can’t help but look at the bulge between my thighs. I may not be fully hard yet, but there’s already plenty to see.

  And she’s seeing it. Can hardly tear her gaze away.

  That’s more like it.

  “Impressive,” she says.

  Yeah, it is. I’ve been told so plenty of times. Long, thick and better than any I’d bet a frosty ice queen cunt like her has ever had. No wonder she’s a little stunned.

  “If only you were as impressive on the ice.”

  Clever. Just like that, my temper breaks and I can’t control myself.

  “Oh, fuck you, Madeleine.”

  “No, fuck you.” A blush rises on her cheeks, staining the porcelain skin rose pink. “You think you’re gonna scare me off this job, but I’ve still got one more headline in me: I can handle you, Donovan.”

  “Oh, but it’s not just me.” I smirk. I know I’ve got the upper hand. These boys have been at my back for years. I’ve been running this team as much as Coach for the last few seasons. We’d die for each other. Compared to that, a hot little thing like Madeleine doesn’t stand a chance. “See, I’ve been talking to my boys, and we all want a piece. You wanna prove that you can do this job, you’ll have to handle all of us.”

  We all rise as a unit and file past her to our first pre-season practice. She doesn’t say a wor
d as we leave.

  Looks like when she’s not hiding behind her headlines, she doesn’t always have such clever replies.

  3

  Jared

  When we pour into the locker room, we all immediately begin getting undressed. Layers off, gear laid out. I slap a hand to my six-pack, hard muscle rising and falling all the way up to my pecs. Even coming away from the off-season, I’m just as shredded as I’ve ever been. As one of the biggest, baddest enforcers in the league, I have to stay tough, rough and ready for any kind of action on the ice. And at 6’5, with muscles like mine, it’s no surprise that I get plenty of chances to get some action off the ice, too.

  There’s always a big energy ahead of the first practice of a new season. Yeah, we might not have done as well in the last few years as we would have hoped. This time, though, there’s something different in the air. A real hunger. Not just to win against whatever set of nitwits the league throws at us next. We wanted to win, period. Shove this whole Madeleine scheme right down our owner’s throat. Maybe shove a little Stormbreaker pride down Madeleine’s throat while we’re at it, too.