PROLOGUE

DAMN YOU, MEMORIES

LILY

 

“I have a brown belt in karate.”

“And I have a black belt in kick your fucking ass.”

These are the words that keep repeating in my head, over and over. Along with Randy’s promises: “I can take your mind off your problems if you want.” And “I bet a few orgasms’ll make you forget all about that dickface ex of yours. Wanna find out if I’m right?”

I drag my palm over my face and check the clock. It’s four in the morning. I’ve been trying to sleep for the past five hours. Between two and three I managed not to stare at the ceiling or my clock, but I woke up with my hand in my damn underpants. Again.

I cram my head under the pillow, as if it’ll act as a barrier between my brain and the memories. I’m unsurprised by my lack of success. So I give in. If I stop fighting the fantasies, maybe I’ll be able to manage seeing him tonight. I roll over onto my back, close my eyes, and let the images come. I’m instantly transported back in time.

Okay, that’s not even remotely true, but I recall, with startling clarity, my introduction to NHL superstar Randy “Balls” Ballistic, the newest addition to Chicago’s team. 

I’d been camping in the northern Canadian wilderness with Benji, my jerkwad boyfriend; Sunny, my best friend; and Kale, Benji’s best friend and Sunny’s ex. The experience had not been all that pleasant. After seven days with no running water, I’d been desperate to disappear the forest on my legs and bask in the wonders of a hot shower at Sunny’s brother’s cottage in Muskoka. I also needed to tackle the mess that was my fur burger.

Before the trip I’d canceled my appointment with my waxer. She was expensive, and I needed the money to buy groceries for the trip. I was also angry with Benji, so I let my bush grow in to spite him. He had grown a horrible, patchy, ugly beard, so I’d done the same between my legs to see how much he liked it when I rubbed it all over his damn face. Not that he gave me the opportunity to do so very often.

Anyway, as I was about to tackle the hairy muppet living on my cooch, the door to the bathroom flew open.

I fully expected Sunny, or maybe dickhead Benji, to be the one busting in on me. It was neither.

Instead I stared at a man—a broad, well-built, superhot man—with his hand in his shorts. His dark hair was pulled back in one of those stubby little man-bun things, and his eyes were the color of honey. He sported a somewhat ungroomed beard, but it was lush, and it worked for him. The hand down his pants was attached to an arm with a full tattooed sleeve.

I screamed, as seemed appropriate, considering the superhot guy I’d never seen before in my life—apart from on TV during hockey games, but this was out of context so I didn’t recognize him—standing in the bathroom doorway. His massive, muscular frame blocked my only way out. Also, I was completely naked, covered in shaving lotion from ankle to thigh, and my crotch was extra furry. 

His eyes dipped and widened, taking me in. “You should probably lock the door.”

“Who the fuck are you? Get out! What are you doing here?” I nabbed my towel to cover all my bits.

He took a step back, hands raised as if in apology, but his smirky smirk said he wasn’t all that sorry. “Settle down, honey. I was just looking for a bathroom.” He moved away from the door, chuckling.

I was furious. Embarrassed and not completely rational, I covered myself with the towel and searched the bathroom for a weapon. The toilet paper holder had a blunt end if I needed to club the sexy intruder. For some reason, instead of staying in the safety of the bathroom, I’d chased after him, wielding my makeshift weapon, and managed to flash him my overgrown vagina yet again. His amusement was infuriating.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, less than an hour later I found myself trapped in the kitchen with him. Alone. Sunny and her current boyfriend, Miller “Buck” Butterson, had disappeared into the woods to “work things out.” Randy was Miller’s friend and NHL teammate. So there I was, forced into close proximity with a hot, insanely cut hockey boy. Despite the earlier embarrassment, being trapped with Randy was preferable to ending up alone with Benji, who had gone from being my boyfriend to my ex over the course of the past week and still hadn’t taken the hint and left.

He and I had been fighting nonstop while we’d been camping—a trip that was supposed to be relaxing. The situation had been escalating for a long while, but it had finally reached unmanageable. I was done in so many ways. After seven years, Benji’s persistent needling and negativity had become an anchor, weighing me down, keeping me tethered to a history that no longer felt good. 

While I wallowed in the aftermath of my poor life choices, Randy had sat at the table, eating bowl after bowl of Corn Pops and reading the sports section of the newspaper. Benji had followed me around the house, pushing every single one of my buttons. Heedless of our audience, he wouldn’t give up. I’d told him in no uncertain terms that we were done, but sometimes he was thickheaded. Or he thought it was a game. We had broken up before. Several times.

And then he called me a bitch.

It felt like a verbal backhand. And it was humiliating in front of a bystander.

Randy had dropped his spoon in his bowl. Milk splattered the table and his shirt. “The fuck you say to her?” he’d asked as he pushed back his chair. It toppled over, clattering to the floor. He wiped his mouth with the back of his tattooed hand. 

And then he’d stalked over to Benji and threatened to kick his ass—even though I’d come after him with a toilet paper holder earlier.

So I did what any hot-blooded Canadian woman would when a hot man—hockey player or not—threatened extreme violence on her behalf: I grabbed his face and stuck my tongue in his mouth.

I played it off as though I’d done it to make Benji jealous. But I hadn’t. Mostly I wanted to kiss Randy’s face for what he’d done. Play a little tonsil hockey with him. Plead insanity for a minute.

His beard was soft where it touched my lips and chin. His mouth tasted like Corn Pops. His tongue—oh God, his tongue. Despite my unexpected assault, he’d kissed me back. Benji’s freak-out had become mere static in the background. Sunny and Miller must have returned from their “walk in the forest” somewhere between Benji’s insult and my jumping Randy, because when I opened my eyes, there they were, witnesses to my attack.

Mortified, I locked myself in a bedroom at the cottage for the rest of the afternoon. I told Sunny I needed to be alone. During that time, I relived the kiss over and over, wondering if it was so electric because Randy had defended me, because I was angry with Benji, or because Randy was so damn hot. 

I promised myself I wouldn’t attack him like a starved lion on steak again. But by dinner, Benji had taken off, his raging texts cementing my conviction that we were now as over as we were going to get. Calling me a “flat-chested, cheating whore” wasn’t much of a point-winner in my book.

And still here was Randy. Gorgeous. Cocky. Chivalrous. Maybe a little arrogant. An excellent kisser and an absolute flirt. I needed a distraction, and he seemed like a good one. We ended up dry-humping in the kitchen. Later he came to my bedroom with promises of fun and orgasms. No obligations. No strings. Just a casual fling. Inhibitions loose from drinks and hormones raging from all the flirting, I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to, either.

Randy followed through on his promise to distract me from my problems. The orgasms were out of this world. Intergalactic. 

But we didn’t have sex.

He was okay with being a rebound lay, but he drew the line at revenge fuck. I didn’t ask what the criteria was for one or the other, but as the receiver of plenty of non-penetration-related orgasms, I could hardly complain. At the time. Regrets came later.

I thought he was so sweet. Until he and Miller went to a charity car wash the next morning, leaving Sunny and me at the cottage. The guys were only going to be gone a couple of hours, and Randy promised more orgasms upon his return. I had plans to make them the sex kind.

Then things got complicated. Before they even got back, pictures of Randy and Miller with what appeared to be topless models went viral.

I got a little ragey.

Pissed that I’d been hoodwinked, I deployed a black permanent marker with the wrath of a thousand PMS-ing women on a full moon. I defaced every pair of Randy’s underwear with the same message: TINY DICK INSIDE. It was a lie. A fabrication. Based on what I’d felt the night before—it was too dark to see—he was packing a substantial stick in his pants.

I gave his T-shirts a similar treatment, decorating them with ASSHOLE, so he knew how I felt about the bullshit he’d pulled. Like I would let him give me any more orgasms after some bunny’d been all over his dick, probably riding it because I wasn’t allowed to.

Rolling over in my bed, I sigh and blink away the memories. Turns out it was all a misunderstanding. But by the time I got the real story, it was too late. The damage had been done. I couldn’t take back the clothing destruction. 

It’s been a month since all this went down. A month of reliving the hours spent in that bed with him. A month of embarrassment over my overreaction. A month of being horrified that I let the whole situation happen in the first place. Tonight there’s a charity exhibition game, and Randy’s playing. Sunny’s forcing me to go with her because her boyfriend, Miller, set the whole thing up. So I have to see Randy again. I’m not sure what’s worse: my residual mortification or the fact that at least twice a week I wake up on the cusp of an orgasm, with Randy’s stunning face and body burned into the back of my lids. My body is clearly interested in receiving the pleasure he generously provided again. And again. 

And again.

But that’s too bad because I hate him. Smug bastard.

I hate him more because I can’t get my body on board. He was supposed to be a distraction. A fling. Screwing around for the sake of gratification and nothing else. He’s the last man I should want. He’s a player. He lives for the game. On ice, off ice, it’s all the same. And I don’t want to make the mistake of ramming my tongue down his throat yet again. I’ve already embarrassed myself enough when it comes to Randy Ballistic.

Grab your copy of PUCKED OVER HERE.