Wanna Puck? - A MFM Bad Boy Hockey Star Menage

by Layla Valentine

  Joel was a good student, watching attentively as he pleasured my top. Hot tingles started from my toes and scalp, rushing over my body to collide in the center, bouncing back the other way with the force of my release.

  Sudden sensitivity in the wake of it had me pushing him away, quickly and gently, bringing his face up to kiss my mouth, lacing his fingers in mine. He obeyed without the slightest hesitation. To my immense surprise, his erect cock was pressed against my leg. The man was ready to go again?!

  “You just don’t stop, do you?” I asked breathlessly.

  “I run out of energy eventually,” he said with a shrug.

  “After how many times?”

  “I don’t know,” he said thoughtfully. “Nobody’s ever been able to wear me out before.”

  “Challenge accepted,” I said with a grin.

  He laughed and kissed me, and we were off again.

  Chapter 11

  “All right, all right, you win!” I laughed as the first sunbeams shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “I can’t take anymore!”

  “You beat out all the rest,” Joel said breathlessly, collapsing back on the bed. “Almost got me, too. I think one more round would have knocked me out.”

  “I think one more round would have numbed me for life,” I admitted dryly.

  He chuckled and kissed me briefly, then rolled back on the pillows and let his eyes relax, unfocused in the pale light of dawn. My entire body ached pleasantly, satisfied more times than I could count. Waves of exhaustion rolled over me, but I wouldn’t allow the fatigue to take hold. I’d made that mistake once already; I wouldn’t confuse the issue by sleeping beside Joel.

  I slid out of bed liquidly, every muscle and nerve loose.

  “Mind if I shower?” I asked.

  “Go ahead,” he mumbled, waving me in the direction of the bathroom. “Towels in the closet. Bathroom closet. It’s…in the bathroom.”

  “Thanks,” I laughed.

  “My brain’s gone; you took it.” He grinned with his eyes closed.

  “I’d apologize, but I don’t like to lie,” I teased.

  He chuckled sleepily, and I sashayed into the bathroom. The water felt magnificent against my skin, and his expensive soaps and body washes woke me up immediately, soothing and stimulating my punished muscles. Endless hot water poured over me for what felt like hours—wonderful, glorious hours.

  My tired legs gave out before the water heater did. Breathing easy and smelling like eucalyptus, I returned to the bedroom, expecting to find him passed out.

  “Did you enjoy the shower?” Joel asked from the open door of a room-sized closet.

  I blinked at him in astonishment. “I did,” I said, recovering myself. “But how are you still awake? How are you still alive?”

  He smiled and shrugged, then laughed. “I work out five hours a day—sex isn’t much different, is it?”

  “I guess not,” I admitted. “But damn, boy.”

  He winked at me and pulled clothes out of the closet.

  “My turn,” he said happily, dropping a kiss on my mouth as he passed. “Back in a minute. Make yourself comfortable; mi casa es tu casa.”

  I watched him walk away, his firm ass rippling with every step. He was easy to appreciate, with those hard lines and thick muscles. His body didn’t have quite the same effect on me as Dante’s had, though. Just like his lovemaking, Joel’s body didn’t seem quite finished yet.

  I was dressed and ready to go by the time he came back out. I had a ton of material to work with, and I was eager to go home and get started. His aroma hit my senses before I saw him; a clean sort of masculinity which made me pause.

  Should I stay for round…seven? I had lost count. I turned to him with a grin.

  “Guess you and Dante are even now,” I said with a smirk.

  Joel blinked at me, then his brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, your whole secondary competition? I’m sure he told you; it’s not like he would…”

  I saw Joel’s confusion slowly fade under a gleeful comprehension. My heart sank like a stone.

  “Dante didn’t say anything, did he?”

  “No, but you did!” Joel crowed. “He thought he was going to win? Ha! He might be a nostalgic throwback for some of these women, but he’s no match for a young player.” He struck a superman pose with a conniving smirk.

  “Yeah, um…I better go,” I said uncomfortably.

  “Oh, yeah, sure. Let me walk you out,” he said happily. “Oh, I’m going to rub this in his face. After the press conference he was talking about you, you know. Staking his claim, sort of. How guys talk. I didn’t think he’d do it, but he sure as hell didn’t think I would! This is going to be fun. Man, I can’t wait for the next game! I might actually go to practice today. Hell yes.”

  Guilt and fear wriggled through my gut, and l made weak acknowledgments to his comments as he walked me to the door. A big squeeze and quick kiss later, I was in my car and on my way. I swallowed against the sick feeling roiling in my belly. I had fully expected Dante to brag about bedding me, if only to pin down his lead.

  The fact that he hadn’t done so made me wonder if my tearing into him had inspired a change of heart. He had definitely intended to use me, though, I reminded myself. This was his fault; he started it. Right?

  “You sure as hell made it worse, though,” I told my reflection in the rear view mirror. “They already hate each other.”

  I shook my head and slapped the steering wheel. I wasn’t supposed to get involved with my stories. That was like the journalistic prime directive or something. Now, whatever drama I documented would be compounded by my influence, and if anybody went digging, my credibility would be forfeit.

  “I can’t write it,” I realized as my gut turned to ice. “I’m going to have to write that fluff crap from the first interview. Oh no, everything’s fine, no drama here! That’ll really push my career into high gear.”

  My own sarcasm soothed my nerves slightly, but didn’t solve the problem. This article was my shot. Not my one shot or my only shot, but it was my right-now shot at success. If I didn’t go all in and take a risk, I would blow it. I would get another chance, of course. In a month, or a year, or ten years from now.

  But who wanted to wait?

  “Journalistic integrity,” I answered myself dryly. “I stake my reputation on this story, I better be damn sure my reputation is spotless.”

  But it wasn’t, not anymore. If this exploded (which seemed inevitable), it would be my doing. It wouldn’t take a genius reporter to figure that out. The press conference was probably online somewhere. Amateur internet detectives would have me tried and hanged by public jury before I ever had a chance to defend myself.

  My career would be over, not to mention Dante’s and Joel’s. How would their fans react to this?

  I was facing the same problem with this as I had faced with the flame piece I’d been prepared to write on Dante’s womanizing. I shook my head at myself. This whole project had been a disaster. The pull of a pint of ice cream and fuzzy pajamas was nearly overwhelming, but there was no way I could take a break now. I had to figure out how to take vanilla material and make it a career-changing sundae.

  I nearly made it back to my apartment without having to talk to anyone. I was not in the mood for small talk, or any other talk for that matter. To my relief, the hallway seemed clear. Just a few steps from my door, though, Luis stepped out of his apartment to pick up his paper.

  “Ah, the walk of shame again! In the middle of the week, no less. Two days in a row?” he leered at me.

  “Life of an investigative journalist,” I said as I kept walking. “The story never sleeps.”

  He stepped in front of me, blocking the hallway.

  “Then the story and I have something in common,” he said, giving me a look intended to be smoldering.

  “You should see a doctor about that. Excuse me.”

  “You don’t need an excuse, sweet thing,
” Luis half-sang.

  He reached out to touch me, and something snapped. The stress I had been battling since I left Joel’s mansion culminated in an explosive rage, and I knocked his hand away from me as hard as I could with the side of my wrist.

  Yelping, Luis grabbed his arm and retreated into his own doorway. I walked past him without a second glance, keeping my cool, in spite of my racing heart.

  “Take a compliment, you dumb—”

  I shut the door on the rest of his sentence. I didn’t need to hear it; I knew where it was going.

  “It’s okay,” I said, shaking it off. “Let it go. You screwed up, but now you’re going to do something about it.”

  I cracked my fingers and sorted out my notes from the first interview. Compared to everything else I’d learned, these notes were lifeless. Utterly boring. With a sigh, I ran my hands over my face.

  “There is absolutely no reason why I can’t work in fuzzy pajamas,” I decided out loud. “And I’m sure they eat ice cream for breakfast somewhere in the world. Italy, maybe? No, they have wine for everything. I think. Hey, wine couldn’t hurt either.”

  And so, bedecked in my pity-party outfit with my friends of the grape and dairy variety, I sat down to turn a turnip into a six-course meal.

  Chapter 12

  “It’s crap.”

  Two days had passed since I’d left Joel’s place, and I had finished the article. The finished product was an uninspiring, sugar-coated, manager-approved fluff piece. A compilation of common knowledge at best, a career-ender for me at worst. It was utter, complete, total…

  “Crap.”

  With a sigh, I closed my laptop. There had to be some way to fix this, but after wracking my brain for two solid days, I couldn’t come up with anything. This was the material I could use. Everything else was off-limits.

  Deciding on a TV break, I curled up on my couch and flipped through the guide. I scrolled through without seeing anything the first time, still preoccupied by my conundrum.

  The Harriers were a great team. That was undeniable. My entire article was forty sentences reiterating that point, and it was obvious. Maybe more obvious to me than it would be to an editor, since I had written it, but still…it obviously wasn’t earth-shattering news. Their name on the TV made me pause. Their game was on.

  “Nothing like a little inspiration,” I sighed, turning up the volume.

  The announcers certainly liked to hear themselves talk. I waited impatiently, suddenly aware that I was desperate to see my two guys in action. I missed Dante, which irritated me, but I was concerned about Joel, which surprised me. I hugged my knees as the players began to slide onto the ice.

  There was Dante, flirting with his fans. There was Joel. My concern deepened when I saw his behavior. He barely acknowledged the hordes of people screaming his name. He was looking at something else with a burning intensity. Dante.

  Dante caught the look at the same time I did, and gave a challenging sort of nod. My heart lurched with anxiety.

  The game began without further incident, but I could feel the tension cutting like a hot knife between them. Their teammates gave each of them a little extra room and stayed between them as much as possible, and it was definitely deliberate. There must have been an altercation in the locker room.

  “Whoa! And Palmer misses his first goal of the season. Easy shot, too, wasn’t it Steve?”

  “That it was, Dave. Palmer could make that shot in his sleep. This’ll be a moment for the rumor mills.”

  “Shake it off, Joel,” I told the TV.

  He didn’t. I watched him compress into his rage, vibrating with tension. The game went on, and Dante managed to maneuver into the key position. He hit the puck…and missed.

  “All right, who hexed this team?” Steve asked with a laugh. “There is definitely some tension in the air today. Puck goes in the net, Drake. Man, this is not looking good for the Harriers.”

  The team was regrouping. Dante’s body language was terse and aggressive. He made a pointed gesture in Joel’s direction, lighting the short fuse on the powder keg. Joel snapped and skated into him, pushing him backwards with his chest. Dante shoved back, and soon they were locked in a bloody brawl. The other players moved back, giving them room.

  “Whoa! There’s that tension, Steve. What was that you were saying about rumor mills?”

  “They will have a field day with this, Dave. The Harriers’ PR team must be pitching a fit as we speak. Oh, looks like the referee has finally made it out there, breaking up the fight between Dante Drake and Joel Palmer. And they are being escorted off; the Harriers receive two major penalties. Both star players are out for five. We’ll see how this affects…oh, and the Harriers score their first goal!”

  “Oh, no.” I buried my face in my hands, my stomach rolling with guilt.

  There was no way this wasn’t my fault. Joel and Dante had been so careful to keep their animosity out of the public eye, and now they were fighting on the ice? I should have kept my mouth shut, no matter how much Dante had pissed me off.

  I looked at their faces as the camera panned over the penalty box. I saw fury etched into every line of Dante’s face. Joel just looked like a whipped puppy, sulking under his own personal dark cloud.

  “Dante’s going to kill him,” I muttered, my heart lurching. “Or Joel’s going to quit. Damn it, Livia, why did you have to go and screw with everything?”

  I buried my face in a pillow and screamed. I should have known that sports writing was a bad idea. I should have stuck with what I knew, stayed a little fish in the big pond, but no. I had to get all ambitious and reckless and…ugh.

  This was not a good look for me. I threw the pillow away and stood up. Without a thought to my appearance, I shoved my feet into a comfortable pair of shoes and pulled on a thick-hooded sweatshirt. People always said that walking cleared their heads. It was time to test that theory; ice cream and pajamas certainly hadn’t helped.

  Chapter 13

  “Hi Joel, it’s Livia. I had a few follow-up questions for you. I don’t know when you’ll get this message, but it’s 10:30 in the morning now. If you could stop by my place sometime today, I would really like to do one final interview before I send this story to print.”

  I hung up on his voicemail after leaving my address. I had been calm throughout that entire phone call, but now, it was time to call Dante. Strong, mixed feelings for the man made my mouth go dry. After a drink of water and several deep breaths, I dialed.

  “Hello?”

  I really hadn’t been expecting him to answer, and my stomach flopped.

  “Hi, Dante, it’s Livia. I was hoping to get a follow-up interview with you—just a couple more questions before I wrap up this story.”

  Silence answered me. It stretched out so long, I thought he had hung up.

  “When?”

  “Any time today. My place this time.”

  “Why?”

  His single syllables weren’t giving me much in the way of a read on his emotional state, which only heightened my anxiety. When I spoke again, it came out a squeak, and I had to clear my throat.

  “I—um, excuse me—I saw the fight yesterday, and I think that there’s more to this story. I don’t want to miss anything.”

  More silence. I was beginning to squirm, and I had the sneaking suspicion that he knew it.

  “Same place I picked you up?” he asked.

  “Yeah, just—”

  The call ended.

  “Wow. Rude.”

  I sighed and ran my hands over my face. Not that I didn’t deserve it, but it was sort of killing me to suspect that the kind, sophisticated, smooth man I had met on our first date was a fabrication. Unless this was the fabrication, and that had been the reality…I couldn’t really see the cold, distant Dante getting into a fight over a girl in the middle of the game.

  “Well, I guess I’m going to find out,” I said, glancing around my apartment.

  I busied myself with tidying up while I
was waiting. Not that there was a whole lot of tidying to do, but the uncertainty was stressful enough to make me go looking for dirt. Not knowing for sure whether either of them would show up or when was curdling my gut, so I blasted the feeling away with music and unnecessary chores.

  Three hours later, my doorbell rang, shooting my heart into my throat. I hurried to the door and peeked through the peephole to see which of my warring suitors was waiting for me. To my shock, they were both there. I took a breath, smoothed my hair, and pulled the door open.

  “Come on in,” I said, disguising my nerves with excessive warmth.

  “We decided to do this together this time,” Joel said, almost apologetically.

  He sported a deep purple black eye which I almost wanted to fuss over, but I doubted it would have done anything good for anybody’s ego. I showed them to the couch, and took the armchair across from them, notebook and pad in hand. I opened my mouth to speak, but Dante began first.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said stiffly.

  “I would say so,” I answered before I could stop myself.

  “I wasn’t planning to tell you about the contest,” he said, shifting uncomfortably away from Joel as if trying to shut his existence out of his mind.

  “Then why did you?”

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking away.

  “Should I give you guys a minute?” Joel asked me.

  I shrugged. Dante shook his head.

  “I don’t know,” he said finally.

  I didn’t believe him, but I decided to let him dodge for the moment.

  “What was the fight about yesterday?” I asked.

  “You,” Joel said honestly. “Dante accused me of using you, and I pointed out that he did the same thing, and—”

  “You saw the rest, I assume,” Dante interrupted.

  “Yeah, so about that…what the hell, guys? Dante, you’re a grown-ass man, and you’re playing these stupid college games. Joel, you have your whole career ahead of you, and you’re risking it to dogfight with a legend. Why?”