Grudge Puck: A Hockey Romance Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Grudge Puck

  June Winters

  Copyright 2017 June Winters

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy.

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  ***

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  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  New Beginnings

  Camille Kennedy

  I felt like taking a stroll down memory lane while I busily churned a mixing bowl full of brownie batter.

  I cranked up the volume on the kitchen stereo—but not too loud, or the pot-bellied guy that lives upstairs will turn bright-red with anger and march down to yell at me. Today I felt like revisiting the Pixies, a band I was obsessed with in high school. And now, whenever I play their albums, a flash of high school memories come rushing back.

  I sang along and bopped about to the music, laughing aloud when I suddenly remembered some silly inside joke that me and my friends spent all of senior year repeating. Or cringing with never-ending embarrassment when I recalled the time I relentlessly pursued that hot nerdy guy who clearly was never into me …

  I always get a little lost in my own head-space when I'm working at the bakery. That's one of the reasons it's so hard to get awa—

  “Camille!”

  The sudden shout scared me so bad, my head nearly rocketed through the ceiling. I almost dropped my mixing bowl, too, fumbling it from hand to hand before I managed to catch it and safely set it down.

  I let out a sigh of relief. With a hand over my racing heart, I turned the Pixies down to a whisper. Then I turned around to face Piper, the other half here at Velvet Bakery.

  “I'm so sorry Camille! I didn't mean to scare you.” Piper covered her mouth with her hand to politely hide her smile. “But you got some sweet vertical on that jump, dude.”

  I laughed too. “It's my fault. I couldn't hear the door over the music.”

  Piper put her apron on. “But um. I have to ask: why are you here? You're supposed to be taking the day off, no?”

  “Well,” I stalled. “I just wanted to make sure everything went smoothly.”

  Piper stared right through me as she tied the apron strings into a knot behind her back. “Uh huh.”

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer: she wasn't buying what I was selling.

  “I'm just wondering. Does this have something to do with the fact that I went out to the club last night?”

  “Partly?” I sheepishly admitted. “It's just that, you know, our shop is still so new. We're still trying to making a name for ourselves, and first impressions mean a lot. So we have to be consistent, or—”

  Piper cut me off. “And you've got to trust me, Camille. You're not the only one who's put some serious skin in the game, you know? I'm your business partner! And I shouldn't have to remind you that I also quit a pretty decent job to open this shop.”

  “I know, I know. I'm sorry. I really didn't mean anything by it.”

  “And that also means you've got to take some time off, Camille. I can't have you burn out on me. You've got to have a life outside the bakery. I mean, shit, what does Matt think of you working all the time?”

  Saying his name made the wheels in Piper's head turn. I knew what the expression on her face meant: she'd begun to piece the real story together. I flinched, knowing what was coming.

  “Waaaait a minute. Weren't you and Matt supposed to go to Rockaway Beach today? Wasn't that the whole point of you taking the day off in the first place?”

  I toed at a smudge on the hardwood floor. “Yeah, it was.”

  “Did you guys break up?”

  “I wouldn't even say we were serious enough to call it a break-up in the first place. But yeah, we won't be seeing each other anymore.”

  “But why?”

  “Um.” I turned my back to Piper and resumed my prep cooking. “He had this crazy idea that I spend too much time at work and we never saw each other.”

  “Wow, that is crazy,” Piper giggled.

  “Okay, sure, I work too much. But I'm trying to follow my dreams and carve out an honest living here! And what about him? He's content living the life of a 'freelance audio engineer,' whatever the hell that means. I guess it means living at bars and only making enough money to barely pay your rent.”

  Piper shrugged. She didn't think Matt was 'manly' enough for me, but that's a frequent complaint she makes about all the guys I date. It's odd, considering that Piper was raised on a hippie commune. But as free-spirited and open-minded as she is? She likes her guys beefy and manly.

  “Not for nothing, but this is just a gentle reminder that Matt failed the bicep-calf test,” she added.

  I rolled my eyes. I don't take the “bicep-calf test” too seriously, but Piper swears by her own invention—and any guy she dates must pass the test. Here's how it works, simply: boy's bicep must be thicker than girl's calf. She's dead serious about it, too. Piper will absolutely bust out a tape measure on the first date if it's too close to call.

  “I don't think I've ever dated a guy who'd pass that test,” I muttered.

  “Uh huh. That doesn't surprise me.”

  “And I don't even want to meet a guy that does.”

  “Sure.”

  “Seriously. I just want a guy that fits my life. Every guy I date wants me to change for him. Why do I have to be the one that changes? Why not him?”

  “I dunno.” Piper neared with outstretched arms. She wrapped them around me and squeezed me with a tight hug. “But I'm sorry to hear the news.”

  I hugged Piper back. “Oh, really, it's fine. I told you, we weren't anything. And now I can really focus on work.”

  Piper pinched my butt and, for the second time this
morning, I leaped several feet into the air.

  “Yow! The hell was that for?”

  She pulled a spatula off the counter-top and waved it at me like a knife.

  “You need to take some time off, lady!”

  “Never!”

  “Well, you're at least going to get out of my kitchen!” Wielding that spatula, Piper chased me out. “Because I'm scheduled to open, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. You can go sit in the office and drum up some hype on social media or something. I don't care what you do, but I'm opening the damn store like I'm supposed to.”

  “Fine.”

  I surrendered control of the kitchen and stood in the doorway, watching quietly as Piper took over and prepped for the day.

  “Hey, how was the club, anyway?” I asked her.

  “It was fun! Everyone had a good time. You really should've come out and seen some familiar faces.”

  “I know. Maybe next time.”

  Piper's ears perked up. “Next time it is—and I'll hold you to that.”

  “We'll see,” I said with a doubting smirk.

  “I'm holding you to it, Cammy. You need to meet someone to take your mind off Matt.”

  “Blech,” I chortled. “Matt's not even a blip on my radar and I do not want to meet anyone else. Period.”

  Piper tutted. “Whatever. Next time, you're coming out with me.”

  I rolled and slunk away for the office, my mind already busy with the next task at hand to make sure Velvet Bakery gets off the ground.

  We'd been open for a month; but it was a 'soft' opening to work out the kinks. Tomorrow was officially our grand opening—complete with a Times write-up to generate opening day hype.

  And now it was time to spam the heck out of social media once again to let everybody know about it.

  And pray for the best.

  Chapter 2

  Pest

  Beau Bradford

  Chelsea Piers Practice Facility, mid-morning.

  Me and the rest of the Blizzard players knelt on one knee at center ice while Coach wrapped up his game plan for tomorrow night's game against the New York Scouts.

  “Just like we've been practicing all season long: be strong on the puck, be fast in transition. Get pucks on net and keep bodies in front. Let's come ready to do battle, boys, and start this road trip off with a W.”

  We nodded and grunted with determination.

  Coach clapped his stick on the ice. “Alright. Hit the showers.”

  We popped up and made our way off the ice, but Coach grabbed the back of my jersey and held me back.

  “Bradford.”

  “Sup coach?”

  “I'm matching you up against Dave Leroux tomorrow night.”

  Coach apparently didn't have anything more to say. He slapped his palm against my shoulder pad, and I knew exactly the message he was trying to convey.

  Here's the deal with Leroux. He's a solid two-way player that plays a heady game. He's not supremely talented, offensively speaking. But with his vision of the game? He doesn't need a world-class shot or stick-skills. Players like him anticipate the play. They have a habit of appearing in the right place at the right time. Guys with his hockey IQ can make a very good living in this league.

  And after this past off-season, Leroux is set up for life. He just inked a 7-year, $6.5 million contract extension. Fans and media pundits who don't truly get hockey bleated on and on for months about how that contract was a “massive over-payment” that was going to “cripple the team financially for years.”

  They're wrong.

  They're dead wrong, in fact.

  But that doesn't matter to me. It's not my job to cajole Leroux and ease his mind and tell him to ignore the haters, and let him know that I think he's actually a great player who is worth every cent.

  In fact, my job is the opposite. Because tomorrow night, my assignment is to get Leroux off his game. And all those New York fans who screeched about what a terrible deal they got with Leroux have already done my work for me.

  They pierced his armor, and now I've got an easy opening to work with—to jam my hand into that gaping hole in his chest and claw and twist and pull at whatever meat and sinew I can wrap my fingers around.

  Because that's the kind of player I am: a pest. I make a living by getting under the skin of better players. My goal, to throw them off their game. To trash them, physically and mentally, until they're too broken down to skate or think straight.

  In other words, Coach was just asking me to do my job: to be a complete pain in Leroux's ass.

  I smirked. “You got it, Coach.”

  With that, we parted. I shoved the door to the dressing room open, where all my rowdy teammates were joking and laughing and tearing off their sweaty equipment.

  “Sup boys!” I boomed, making my presence known just as I always do.

  A chorus greeted me: “Beau.” “'Ey Beau!” “Sup Bradford.”

  I took my spot at my locker stall, right between my linemates: winger Vinny DeMarco and our captain, center Hunter Rockwell.

  Vinny was busy staring into his glowing cell phone.

  “What're you looking at there, Vinny?” I asked, peering over his shoulder.

  With the flick of a wrist, Vinny scrolled through an endless page filled with cute girls. I recognized the app, MeatMarket, since I use it religiously myself.

  “Seeing who wants to meet up after the game tonight,” Vinny answered.

  For us young millionaire bachelors? Life as an athlete on the road is very, very kind. There's never a shortage of girls who want to meet us after a game, no matter what city we're in.

  “Jesus. She's a smoke-show,” I mumbled, commenting on one of the scantily-clad babes that Vinny cycled past. “Now why the hell did you go past her?”

  “She looks too high maintenance.”

  I scoffed. “You're not trying to marry a girl you met off MeatMarket, are you?”

  Hunter tried to explain on Vinny's behalf. “Vinny likes to find the right girl and craft her a personal message.”

  “Oh, I know, I've seen how he works.” I rolled my eyes. “I prefer the scattershot approach.”

  Hunter chuckled. “I know you do, Beau.”

  “Don't lie, you miss the single life. Don't you, captain?” I jabbed Hunter, needling my elbow into his ribs until he swatted me away. “You can admit it. You know the things that we say in this room are sacred. Ain't that right, boys?”

  Everyone else in the room grunted in agreement.

  But Hunter just rolled his eyes at me and laughed.

  “Someday, Beau, you're going to meet a girl who's gonna grab you by the balls and make you want to settle down.” Hunter nodded at me with this awful grin, as if he were passing down some kind of sage wisdom that only he and the other married guys could understand.

  And I tried not to choke on all that sap. I'd never seen a guy so disgustingly and happily married. Yeah, he's got a great wife—her name's Honor—a real cute kid, and a perfect place up in the mountains in Boulder. A really picturesque life.

  If, you know, that's the kind of life you want. A wife you have to be loyal to, when all these hot babes all over the country are dying to fuck your brains out. A kid that needs constant attention. And a home that needs taking care of.

  It's certainly not the life I want.

  I held up an invisible whip and snapped it at Hunter—the universal symbol for pussy-whipped. “Whippah! Whippah!”

  Hunter took his whip-lashings with a good-natured smile. “Ah, Beau. I'm so glad you're on our team now.”

  Hunter wasn't being sarcastic. What he meant by that comment was that he's glad he doesn't have to face me on the ice as rivals anymore. Players and fans always say I'm the type of player you absolutely hate to play against, but would love to have on your team.

  That's because I'll do anything to help our team win. I'll hit, I'll fight, I'll score a garbage goal. I don't care how dirty a play is. I'll cheap-shot a guy if I have to. I don't ca
re how 'wrong' it is to hit a guy behind the play when the ref isn't looking, or ram him face-first into the boards. I don't care how my behavior flies in the face of the code and traditions of hockey or any of that boring-ass moral bullshit.

  I play to win. It's really that simple.

  And if you're wearing the same jersey as me, you'll never be happier that I'm fighting on your side.

  If you're wearing the other team's jersey? Buckle up, buttercup, because you're in for a rough ride. And you're gonna hate every second of it. Better get used to it.

  Vinny swiped right past a girl in a tube-top, who had conveniently taken the shot with the camera held right over her breasts.

  “Holy shit—her—wait!” I grabbed Vinny's wrist and tried to make him scroll back.

  Vinny wrestled his arm free and knocked my hand away. “You've got your own phone, dick-head! Use it!”

  I grumbled. “Fine. I'll show you how it's done.” I pulled out my own phone and loaded up MeatMarket. “Because getting laid isn't fucking rocket science, Vinny. You don't have to write these girls a goddamn poem. They want to fuck us just so they can brag about it to their friends. Not a single one of these girls want to get swept off their feet.”

  If a girl caught my eye, I put a check by her profile. Once I rounded up a few dozen girls, I sent them the same message:

  “6'3 millionaire pro athlete in town for two nights only. I'm hot and I do NOT want anything serious. Wanna meet tonight?”

  That message, along with my profile pic—which is my shirtless, flexed, and shredded upper-body—does the trick.

  “That easy, Vinny, that easy,” I chuckled. I closed MeatMarket, put it out of my mind, and took a look at Facebook instead.

  At the top of my feed, posted seconds ago, I saw a status from an old classmate I once knew.

  Holy shit, I thought with a smirk. Camille Kennedy, Little Miss Perfect, lives in New York City. And she opened a bakery? A vegan bakery? What the hell? That's so random.

  “Hey!” I piped up, grabbing the room's attention. “Anyone up for some sight-seeing in Brooklyn?”

  But the stares I got back told me all I needed to know. Athletes are creatures of habit and these guys wanted to go back to the hotel for their precious post-practice nap.