Puck Money: A Hockey Love Story

by Miller, Raine

  She’s on the phone, but her eyes light up when she sees me, a wry grin pulling one side of her mouth up. She’s talking to a client about his quarterly results and I know I should be a gentleman, let her finish her call. But I simply can't do it.

  I step behind her desk and kiss her neck. She ignores me, mostly, which only emboldens me more. I want her. I want her attention. I want her body.

  My mouth works against her creamy skin and I’m pleased to see her nipples pucker against the thin fabric of her blouse. I feel her up from outside her shirt and she leans her head back, clearing her throat as she tries to finish her conversation.

  The moment she hangs up the phone, I’ve got her up and splayed across her desk, which is risky if a client walks in. But I don’t care if someone sees us. I am simply overcome by lust. Pure lust because I’ve had her now and I won’t let her go. Filthy thoughts run through my head as I pluck open the buttons of her blouse, baring her sweet, creamy breasts encased in a lacy white bra.

  Mine.

  It’s not like me to feel this territorial. But then again, I’ve always said I don’t do casual. This is real for me. It’s the real thing—she is mine and I am hers. The need to brand her right here in this nearly public space is a wild notion made real when she responds with a growl, tearing at my zipper and pulling my cock from my pants. In seconds I’m beneath her skirt, pushing her panties to the side, burying my cock into her wet, warm depths.

  Oh, fuck!

  YA khochu trakhnut' tebya navsegda! I shout a string of Russian curses before pressing a blistering kiss to her lips. She bites my bottom lip as I pick up the pace, fucking in and out of her, the need to come inside and mark her as mine, a running mantra in my head.

  When I feel her cunt clamping down on my cock, and know she’s coming, I allow myself to follow her over the edge. It’s hot and intense and explosive as I come hard, pounding into her until my cock is wrung dry. What the fuck was that? And when the hell can I do that again?

  After one luxurious moment of kissing her, I’m reminded that we’ve just fucked on her desk, at her place of business, in the middle of her workday. Anyone could come in the door at any moment and discover us. Guiltily I pull her to her feet so we can crowd into the little office bathroom to clean up.

  "Well, hello to you, too," she says, blushing heavily.

  "Sorry, that was—I don’t know what that just was."

  "Intense?"

  "I couldn’t wait," I say with a shrug.

  "Guess not. But thank you. It’s good to be wanted."

  "You are. Wanted. Always."

  She smooths her hair and checks her blouse before walking back out to her desk. I follow her out, feeling her mood change and a chill descend over us.

  "Everything okay?" I’m not imagining it, am I? "I’m sorry, krasotka, I was so…desperate with you."

  She gives me a sad smile. "I’m fine. It felt good. It’s just…maybe this is going too fast?"

  Shock strikes me with a painful blow to the heart. "I’m sorry?"

  "It’s just…something you said on the road about me being your lucky charm? I’m not, Boris. I can’t be. You built your brand long before you met me. And I don’t know if I’m ready to be part of the wive’s club or whatever. This is…it’s an intense feeling between us. I feel it. It’s real. But I need…I think we both need to take a breather. Slow it down."

  "I don’t think I know what you are asking for.”

  "I know you’re not a casual relationship guy, you’re all in or you’re not in at all. I get that. But this is…it’s really intense, really fast, you know? What happened to dating?"

  "We can," I say. "I’ll take you on a million dates."

  "I just…I think maybe we need some space."

  "I do not need space," I tell her. "But if you do, then I’ll respect your wishes."

  "Thank you." Her voice doesn’t sound the same as she sits in her office chair and flicks her hair back behind her shoulders. I see the very moment she switches to professional mode, though, her back going ramrod straight, her lips pursing in concentration.

  "I’ve got all of your investments set up. Early indicators look good, but the market is somewhat volatile due to the upcoming election, so there’s some fluctuation. Your first quarterly earnings report will be ready in October, but the January report will be more telling. We can make adjustments as needed at that point."

  I feel myself backing away, horrified…shocked…angry. What the hell is going on here? I left the airport and rushed over here to see the woman I love. We had sex on her desk. She came. I came. And now she’s behaving like I’m a fucking client, in full professional mode.

  I feel sick about whatever she’s doing here. But if she wants space, I have to give it to her. I don’t have a choice.

  I’m in a daze as I leave her office. It’s good my subconscious knows the way home, because I don’t think I could consciously make my way there right now. Over and over I replay how I burst into her office, so eager to see her, to have her. I was a brute. I took her like some animal, rutting into her with no self-control. I scared her away and it’s my fault. I did this. But there are two people in a relationship. And perhaps right now, because I called her my lucky charm, she’s not actually as committed as I thought. And there is fucking nothing I can do about that. Shit.

  * * *

  Bruce, my dyslexia coach, is a nice guy but he tries too hard to be funny. My first session is completed, and even though I am most decidedly not in a funny mood, I can see the value, so I make another appointment for the following week.

  Ally meets me at the Starbucks across the street, after my session so we can go over the next week’s schedule. There’s a lot of internal Crush stuff happening on the calendar this month. Social media, photo shoots, and press events to gear up for the big home opener. We review and get everything calendared into my phone, but as we finish up, she’s onto me. I’m not fooling anyone.

  "Boris, will you tell me what’s up with you, please?"

  "Talia broke things off," I admit.

  "Why on earth would she do that?"

  "She just said things were moving too fast. She needed space."

  "Space to continue to act like she isn’t in love with you?"

  "She’s not in love with me," I say. "But I thought she might get there someday."

  "How long have you guys known each other?"

  "Only a few months. And we had a rather serious experience not long ago. I think it scared her a lot more than she’s admitting."

  "The thing where she fell?" Ally asks in a knowing tone.

  "She didn’t fall. She was abducted and held hostage. I had to break her out."

  "Whoa."

  "It was intense. Scary. I would have been scared if I was her, and it was my fault. The guys were after my money and they used her as bait."

  "That’s…insane. And she’s pretty young, right?"

  "Early twenties. She said she hasn’t really had a relationship before."

  "I think there’s a lot to unpack. But if it’s real, you’ll find a way. You have to earn trust. Relationships and trust take time to build, Boris. My advice? Give Talia the space she's asking for but also make sure she knows how you feel about her."

  "So, you think I should fight for her, then?’

  "I mean, it sounds like you already have. Like, literally." Ally grins. "But hell yeah."

  I have some work to do. Actually, a great deal of work.

  And maybe I'm more of a fighter than I thought.

  Fight? For Talia, my beloved krasotka, puck-money goddess?

  Hell yes, I will fight.

  Twenty-Eight

  Talia

  QUIDDITCH MATCH?

  “I don’t think I'm going," I say, arms folded with feet firmly planted.

  "Don’t be a baby," Parker says. "You said yourself you loved the first game."

  "And then I got kidnapped and slapped around by a bunch of goons." I lift my chin at her and stand my ground.


  But Parker gets up in my face, and then she pulls me into an awkward hug, my still-folded arms wedged between us. "I know you keep saying you’re fine, but I don’t think you’re really fine, are you?"

  I bury my head in my best friend’s shoulder and cry. It’s the first time I’ve allowed myself to break down. I’ve tried to convince myself I was fine, but she’s right; I’m not fine. She doesn’t ask me to talk about it. She knows what happened. She knows I’m having horrific nightmares and waking up terrified. She knows Boris saved me. She knows I pushed him away. There’s no need to rehash it.

  Parker just lets me cry for a very long time. Finally, when the tears subside, I pull away.

  "I probably look like a blotchy, red mess," I say, sniffling.

  "You do, but it’s okay. You needed that, huh?"

  "I think I really did." I wipe under my eyes to get the last remnants of tears brushed away.

  She sighs. And that’s the thing with Parker. She will rip into me when I’m being a dumbass, but she’ll also come to my rescue to stand by my side. Literally. And when she sighs like this, I hear her unspoken promise. You will get through this, and I’m by your side until you do. God, I’m thankful for her.

  “Talia, we can’t live our lives in fear, can we?” No. She’s right about that. “Let’s get dressed up and go see a Crush home opener."

  We certainly can. There are two tickets at Will-Call with my name on them waiting to be claimed. Because Boris has made sure to send me messages and gifts daily since our breakup a little over a week ago. The first delivery was a dozen dark pink roses with a handwritten note that said:

  Krasotka,

  Dark pink roses stand for "appreciation and gratitude" both of which I feel for you. I will be forever grateful I walked into your office that day and found the best puck-money goddess in the world. I miss you.

  Boris

  His handwriting isn't the prettiest, but I can tell he has labored over his message, because it's perfect with no mistakes in the spelling or otherwise. Every day since, a different color of roses has arrived along with a handwritten note in the same disorderly scrawl.

  The second delivery was a dozen pure white roses plus a one-year subscription to MeowBox for LuLu. A box of gourmet cat treats and kitty-friendly toys will be delivered each month to LuLu Wentworth, tailored specifically for her. His note though? Even more touching than the gift.

  Krasotka,

  Two meanings for white roses are "purity and heavenly.” My feelings for you are as “pure” as they come and it feels like “heaven” being with you, so the color white is very fitting I think. But white also reminds me of your sweet LuLu, who I am also missing very much.

  Boris

  The third delivery contained two dozen red-tipped yellow roses and a fancy subscription box from The Bookworm Box—romance themed—the biggest one they have, of course. The proceeds from the subscription boxes go to charity, so I know he’s spent a great deal of money. I can now look forward to special editions signed by my favorite authors to add to my collection each month, but it was his sweet note that made me cry all the tears.

  Krasotka,

  Yellow roses tipped with red mean "friendship and falling in love.” We started out as friends and I liked you right away. I knew you were smart and kind and beautiful, but the night you first read to me was when I started to fall in love with you. I miss you reading to me almost as much as I miss you. Almost…

  Boris

  Day after day it went on with roses and presents and letters. I’ve sent a thank-you text for each gift with a picture of the accompanying roses, so he’d know I’d received them. Even if I haven’t been ready to see him quite yet, I wanted him to know the romantic gifts and his heartfelt notes were accepted and read by me. But otherwise, we haven’t spoken. My apartment and office are swimming in the scent of roses, and both could pass for florist’s shops. I have more subscriptions and gift cards than I know what to do with. The Designer Eyes gift certificate in an obscene amount of money for custom Tiffany & Co frames probably takes the cake for most impressive, though. It’s a straight-up fact Boris Drăghici has game when it comes to romancing a woman. Undisputed fact.

  Each arrangement of roses and gift has been more impressive than the last. Right up to the one that arrived earlier today. A gorgeous display of easily three dozen red roses with a large box and a note.

  Krasotka,

  A red rose can have many meanings—Love, Passion, Beauty, Courage—among them. I know you are beautiful both inside and out or I wouldn’t call you ‘krasotka’ all the time. It is simply how I think of you, and I cannot change how I feel. I witnessed your courage in the face of terror and saw your warrior heart in action. Talia Wentworth, you are everything a red rose means to me. I only hope I get the chance to tell you in person. There are 2 tickets in your name at Will-Call for the game tonight. Tickets will always be waiting for you at each game we play this season. I hope I will see you at one soon. Your dragon man needs you.

  Boris

  I’ve put off opening the Sin City Graphix box for as long as I could. But that became kind of impossible to avoid when Parker brings it over and shoves it at me. "Open it, Tallie."

  My hands are shaking as I remove the lid. Inside is a denim jacket. But it isn't just any old jacket. It's a stunning, customized work of art with embroidery in Crush colors and embellishments, and DRĂGHICI #90 splayed across the back. ICE DRAGON runs down one sleeve and his dragon is embroidered down the other. It's so pretty I have to sit on the chaise to take it all in, so I don't crumble to the floor in a heap. It's when I remove the tissue from the inside of the jacket and see the label, that I nearly lose it. KRASOTKA is embroidered on the collar.

  Once I can find my voice, and after swallowing several times to hold back the tears, I tell Parker I’ve changed my mind.

  "I want to go to the game tonight. My puck-money dragon man needs me there."

  * * *

  I take an extra-long shower—so long that Parker bangs on the door to tell me to hurry my "cute ass" up. She French braids my hair into two long braids and puts me in the same leather leggings I wore before and a cute white top unworn with the tags still on, so it hasn't had the opportunity to be slopped with mustard or ketchup yet, but give me an hour or two and I’ll probably get ’er there. I'm being realistic because you know, white shirts and me? Not a good track record. I'll keep buying them though because I'm a baller like that. I layer my fancy Boris jacket over the white top and slip into some strappy red heels I really hope I can walk in, but damn…they do look pretty on my feet.

  Parker proclaims me "Ice Dragon approved" before shooing me out of the apartment.

  We walk to the arena, the noise getting louder as we approach. There is a band playing. Like, a marching band. There are women dressed in show-girl costumes with huge feather-plumed headpieces and teeny-tiny bikini tops. There are magicians and fire-breathers. It’s like a circus, a crazy menagerie of entertainers that totally sum up what Las Vegas is all about.

  Fans mill about, some drinking beer out of plastic Crush cups. They take pictures with the entertainers. Parker loves the whole crazy thing, but I’m fixated on the larger-than-life posters of Crush players, displayed brazenly all the way around the arena. When I see Boris’s poster, my stomach flips.

  Parker elbows me to get my attention but follows my gaze. "Ah. I see what’s got your attention. He is such a hottie."

  "He’s pretty hot," I agree. "But he’s more than that, too."

  "Why do you torture yourself like this?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like, tossing him to the curb and then staring longingly at his photo as if you’ve lost your best friend?"

  "I haven’t lost my best friend. I have you."

  "You know what I mean, Tallie. You’re clearly head over heels for this guy."

  "He said he thinks he loves me."

  "Right after he rescued you from a bunch of underworld dudes. You’d been through a whol
e ordeal. He probably felt really emotional."

  I give a whole-body sigh, gazing longingly back up at Boris’s poster. "Boris is a one-woman guy. Like, he wants to fall in love once and that’s it. And I worry that…I worry I can’t be that for him. His forever girl. You know? I’m not—he’s just really good and perfect, you know? He deserves someone perfect, too."

  "And you’re not?"

  "No."

  "And you think he is?"

  "I mean, no one is perfect—"

  "Exactly. You’re making shit up so you can justify that you’re scared about what you’re feeling. You found your guy. The guy. And he believes you’re the girl. So why don’t you just admit it, get together, and get on with your lives together?"

  I bite my lip, thinking.

  Parker adds, "Unless something about the kidnapping is holding you back?"

  I look at her sharply. "It wasn’t his fault."

  "I didn’t say it was."

  I grit my teeth. "I guess I…I know he's too trusting of people. Maybe not as much now that I’ve pointed out how much money they stole from him, but he acted naïvely—for years—and I guess—I guess I feel that maybe I got hurt because of that naïveté."

  And there it is. The thought I haven’t voiced. To anyone.

  Parker pulls me into her arms for another long hug. She says, "That’s a very valid thought and I’ll bet he thinks it even more than you do. I think you need to go talk to someone about your PTSD. But I also think you need to forgive Boris. I think you need to forgive him and let him love you the way you deserve to be loved. He seems like a great guy with a huge heart. We should all be so lucky."

  I know she’s right. He’s tried to apologize a million times. He feels guilty about what happened, that he totally blames himself. But really, how could he have known who these guys were? They took advantage of him in every possible way. I have to let this go. I have to get past it.