Puckered Up

Harper:

“You’d tell me if I looked like a marshmallow, right?” I scrunch my nose in the mirror at the tulle monstrosity I’m wearing before turning to give my dad a worried look.

“You look great, sweetheart,” he says gruffly, glancing up at me from the sports section of the newspaper that’s holding his attention.

It’s not like I want to be wearing a knee-length, skintight, pale-blue satin dress with six inches of white tulle along the hem, which makes me look like some kind of snowman-mermaid hybrid. But when your dad tells you that this year’s Seattle Ice Hawks ice princess is bedridden with mono, and he begs you to step in as her replacement, you don’t have that many options.

What was I supposed to do, tell him to ask his other daughter, who just happens to be reliably free on a Friday evening? I had no choice but to agree to help him out. Even if that means betraying one of my most sacred principles—that I will never, under any circumstances, date a hockey player.

It’s specific, I know, but trust me. Growing up with a hockey coach for a father, I have my reasons. Thankfully, I’m not being auctioned off for a real date. It’s just for charity.

“Listen,” Dad says, rubbing the bridge of his nose and folding the paper neatly in front of him. “It’s for charity. You’re doing a good thing. I really appreciate you taking one for the team.”

Taking one for the team. If I had a dollar for every time I’ve heard that phrase throughout my life . . . Well, let’s just say I wouldn’t be writing for an online magazine. I’d own the whole damn publishing conglomerate.

A string quartet starts playing in the distance, our cue to leave my makeshift changing room and enter the ballroom with the rest of the guests. Dad was already milling around during the cocktail hour in the foyer when I frantically texted him to come help me, and I know better than anyone that every minute spent in here with me is a minute spent not raising money for the local children’s hospital.

For the record, I have nothing against charity. I think it’s great what the team’s doing for those kids. It’s the whole being an item in the auction thing I’m not so thrilled about. “Win a Date with the Seattle Ice Hawks Ice Princess” is how the event is being publicized, but the real ice princess is down for the count, so I guess they’re stuck with a loud-mouthed online columnist instead. Oh, and don’t worry—the event organizers are still making me wear the ice princess dress, and let’s just say it wasn’t made for asses like mine. Good times.

My dad stands and straightens his tie, then adjusts his black slacks around his waist.

“You look really nice, Dad,” I say, unable to stifle the smile stretching across my face.

He always wears a suit to events like this, as well as to the games, but I happen to know this suit is special. It’s about as old as I am, but until recently, it hadn’t fit him for about a decade.

After our mom walked out when I was little, he was so focused on taking care of me and my sister, Faith, he stopped taking care of himself—to the point that his doctor put him on heart medication two months ago. And said that if Dad didn’t make some serious lifestyle changes, he’d be at serious risk for a heart attack.

Faith and I have slowly started introducing healthier options into his diet and encouraging him to get in a few hours of exercise a week. It’s been an uphill battle, for sure, but he’s made some real progress. And that classic, well-tailored suit he’s wearing tonight is proof.

“Thanks, sweetheart. Don’t hide in here for too long, okay?”

I fake a scandalized look, placing my hand on my chest and raising my eyebrows. Dad chuckles and slips out the door, the music swelling and falling as it closes.

Turning back to my reflection, I tug at the hem of the dress, but it doesn’t change anything. It is what it is at this point. At least they let me wear my hair how I like it, instead of forcing it into the painful updo the ice princess normally wears. I give myself one last hopeful grin in the mirror before slinging my small beaded purse strap over my shoulder and unleashing myself on the party.

My first order of business? Find the bar. It might not be very princess-like, but zero fucks are being given. If I’m expected to be a walking, talking marshmallow, then I’m going to be a tipsy one.

As I march down the hallway in these ridiculously high strappy silver heels, the music and the murmurs of the crowd grow louder. When I turn the corner, I’m instantly greeted by a series of gasps from a group of older women to my right, who can clearly tell I’m not the real ice princess.

Flashing them my most beauty-pageant-worthy smile, I take a sharp left, scanning the ballroom for something, anything, to drink. It doesn’t take long for my gaze to land on the bar in the far corner . . .

And the line that’s twenty people deep, and growing.

Cursing under my breath, I make my way to the end of the line, wishing it was socially acceptable to ignore everyone and stare at my phone all night. How else am I supposed to deal with the awkwardness of being alone at a charity gala, wearing a dress that screams, yes, actually, I will be performing at a child’s birthday party after this.

“Are you Harper Allen?” A small woman with curly red hair and horn-rimmed glasses taps me on the shoulder, looking at me expectantly over her glasses.

“Um, yes?” I say, more a question than I meant for it to be.

“You’re late. Come with me.”

She grabs my wrist with her bony fingers and leads me across the ballroom, where a small crowd of people have begun to trickle in, most of them fawning over the horde of hockey players in the corner. It’s easy to spot them—they stand nearly a head taller than everyone else in the room, and have wide shoulders and powerful builds.

It takes every bone in my body not to roll my eyes at the sight of them in their slick blue suits, their hair perfectly coiffed for the cameras. They’re all laughing at something one of them has said, elbowing one another and slapping each other’s shoulders. Cocky pricks. They think they’re practically God’s gift to humanity, and the worst part is, just about everyone here agrees with them.

“Um, excuse me, but where are we going?” I ask as the woman continues to lead me by the wrist, weaving through the tables covered with white tablecloths like we’re competing in some timed obstacle course.

“Backstage. Auction items were supposed to be checked in twenty minutes ago. You’re late.”

I flinch at being referred to as an auction item, just in time for the woman to turn and give me a disapproving glare. Seriously, my dad owes me big-time for this.

We weave around a few more tables before arriving at the stage. A tall wooden lectern stands stage left, and along the back is a single row of tables featuring posters advertising each of the items up for auction.

There’s the standard VIP season ticket package, a trip to Mexico, a subscription to a fancy wine-of-the-month club—you know, the usual. And then, of course, there’s the big-ticket item, the one that’s been drawing crowds since the Ice Hawks Gala began: One Night of Bliss with the Seattle Ice Princess. The poster at the end depicts a staged photo with last year’s princess and winner. Her smile is so blindingly white, it’s almost hard to look at, while the tall man next to her looks like he might have had a few teeth replaced over the years.

It’s not mandatory that one of the players wins the date every year, but it’s expected that they make a real go at bidding to win. Not only does it look good for the team to have their golden boys give the appearance that they really care about sick kids, but it also encourages all the other men in the audience to compete with them, because who doesn’t want their ego stroked by beating one of the Seattle Ice Hawks at winning the girl? The other bidders might not be able to outskate the players on the rink, but maybe they can outbid one of them for a date. Ridiculous, I know.

The woman drags me behind the curtain, where the certificates and gift baskets are all waiting to be put on display. I may be the only living auction item, but the way this woman starts prodding and poking at me sure doesn’t make me feel human.

“Well,” she says after a few minutes of fluffing the tulle around my knees, “you’re no ice princess, but you’ll have to do.”

“I never claimed to be one, but by all means, insult away,” I mutter under my breath. Clearly not under my breath enough, because the woman clucks her tongue and adjusts her glasses.

“You go onstage when you hear your item called. Smile and wave like you’re sitting on a float at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. A lot of girls would kill to be in your position tonight. And stop making that face like you just stepped in dog poop.”

With that, she scurries away, leaving me alone with the other pretty packages up for bids.

I take a few slow, deep breaths to calm the small fire of rage burning in my belly, reminding myself that I don’t worship the team like these people do. Of course, I’m grateful for the opportunities my dad’s job has given me. I’m aware that not every girl my age gets to attend fancy galas and hang out with professional athletes on any given night.

But it would be a whole lot easier to be happy about my current situation if I wasn’t forced to pretend to be something I’m not. And if there wasn’t a good chance I was about to be sold into a romantic evening with a freaking hockey player, which happens to be my least favorite brand of human.

I usually date hipster types, the kind of guys who appreciate poetry and obscure web comics, someone who wouldn’t know what to do with a hockey stick if his life depended on it. Someone who sure as hell wouldn’t prioritize a silly game over me.

Been there. Done that. And I have the emotional scars to prove it.

The music dies down, and the crowd erupts into a round of applause, which almost certainly means that my father is walking onto the stage to give his speech. While I’ve never heard it live, he’s rehearsed it enough at home that I practically know it by heart. He’ll thank everyone for being here tonight, talk about the important work the children’s hospital does, how meaningful their partnership is with the team, blah, blah, blah. It’s sweet, it’s touching, and it’s everything it needs to be to make these rich donors open their hearts—and more importantly, their wallets.

Dad delivers it perfectly, landing every joke (which I wrote for him, of course), and receives the appropriate murmurs of solidarity at the tug on your heartstrings parts. My heart swells with pride when I hear the loud applause that follows him offstage. These kinds of events aren’t why he got into this business, but damn, is he good at them.

Dad is replaced onstage by the auctioneer of the night, a tall man in a shiny silver suit who introduces himself as Stan. By the time he gets through his introductory remarks, I’m tuning him out, my ears ringing and my knees going weak at the thought of getting up on that stage.

For some reason, it didn’t quite hit me until this moment that I’m going to have to stand there in front of hundreds of people, in this ridiculous dress, for however long it takes for the bidding to be over. My head starts to spin and I’m about to look for somewhere to sit down when I hear the words I’ve been dreading this entire night.

“And now, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. Please welcome the Seattle Ice Hawks ice princess!”

I take a deep breath and climb the small set of stairs onto the stage, plastering the biggest pageant smile I can muster on my face, and march confidently to my mark to the right of the podium. The lights are bright, and I do my best not to squint as my eyes take longer than I’d like to adjust.

“How are you doing this evening, darlin’?” Stan drawls, holding the mic in front of my face.

“I’m wonderful, Stan, thank you for asking,” I reply in a sugary-sweet voice.

Sitting at one of the tables near the front, the woman in horn-rimmed glasses gives me an approving nod. Even I’m surprised by how confident and at ease I sound.

“Well, Princess, you’re about to be even better. Because tonight, one of these handsome men in the audience will win the opportunity to take you out!”

The crowd cheers, and I smile graciously at them in mock excitement, giving them the biggest smile I can muster, even winking for good measure. Honestly? I might be dying inside, but on the outside, I’m killing this shit. Maybe if writing doesn’t work out, I could consider the pageant circuit.

“Let’s say we start the bidding at one hundred dollars. Come on, boys, one hundred dollars, one hundred dollars, do I see one fifty? One fifty! Two hundred dollars, she’s quite a looker, fellas . . .”

The bidding process hurtles on so quickly, I can hardly keep track of the paddle-waving hands shooting up into the air, and I give up on trying to see who’s bidding. There are way more of them than I ever expected.

In some ways, it’s flattering to see so many men vying for the chance to take you out on a date, but I know that it’s a pissing contest more than anything. It’s not really about me or who I am as a person; it’s about showing all the other guys how much cash you can shell out in one night, and being the lucky asshole to land the ice princess. Still, I can’t keep my stomach from flip-flopping with every paddle that flies into the air, the same thought bouncing around and around inside my head.

Please not a hockey player, please not a hockey player, please not a hockey player . . .

“Sold! For one thousand dollars to the man in the blue tie. Come on up here, son, and tell us your name.”

Stan claps, and the crowd instantly joins in the applause.

I’ve been so lost in my own anxiety, I didn’t see the final bid, so I frantically scan the crowd to find the guy who’s just purchased me. Squinting into the audience, I catch the eye of the woman in the horn-rimmed glasses, who gives me a sharp look and raises her clapping hands to prompt me. A little too late, I join in on the applause as well, just as I spot a broad-shouldered form rising from the players’ table.

Shit, shit, shit.

You’ve gotta be freaking kidding me.

The man rapidly approaching the stage is a player, all right, with his wide shoulders, powerful thick thighs, and his unruly hair pushed artfully off his face.

I don’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean much. I stopped paying attention to my dad’s team the second I stopped living under his roof. Hell, I couldn’t even come up with a single name from the pool of his highest-paid stars in the last ten years, let alone from his current roster.

The crowd erupts in another loud cheer as the man reaches the stage, taking the short flight of stairs with such ease, you’d think he was skating on ice. He greets Stan with a firm, boisterous handshake before turning and flashing me a kind, winning smile. I steel myself and smile back, but I know this one doesn’t meet my eyes. Even though I might not know anything about this guy, I do know his type.

Sure, he’s gorgeous, with blue eyes so pretty, I forget my own name for a second. And, yes, that smile made my heart do a roundoff back handspring. But I can guarantee that he’s convinced he’s the best thing since sliced bread, and if it came down to it, he wouldn’t think twice about choosing his career and his team over me.

I’ve spent my whole life watching player after player cycle through their pick of hockey groupies, dropping them without a second thought when their relationship was “pulling focus from the team.” These guys are selfish and sweaty and loud and rough. And I can guarantee this one is no different.

“What’s your name, son?” Stan asks, holding the mic in front of the winner’s face.

“Jordan Prescott,” he says, taking the mic in his hand. He then turns to me, his full mouth lifting, and gazes at me with a curious expression that sends a tingle between my legs.

Stupid pheromones.

“But you can call me Jordie.”

The team hoots and hollers as the crowd laughs with delight. Jordie smiles at me again, and this time, I smile back with the same level of confidence and ease.

Have your fun now, Jordan Prescott, because there’s no way in hell we’re ever going on a date.

Jordie:

“You are such a dumb fuck,” my teammate Teddy says with a laugh. “Shit, this is gold.”

Sliding into my seat, I grab the pint glass in front of me and take a long gulp of beer while I wait for the laughter coming from my teammates to subside.

My prize, the ice princess, has been escorted backstage for who knows what, so I’ve rejoined my teammates at the table—my teammates who are all currently making fun of me. Fuckers.

“Why’s that?” I ask. It’s tradition for the rookies on the team to bid on the ice princess, and I’m not one to buck tradition. I’m damn happy to have a spot on this team’s roster, and I’m not about to fuck it up by breaking protocol.

“Because that hot little number you just bid on?” Teddy says with a sly smile that lights up his entire face. “Is Coach Allen’s daughter.”

Shit. That little bombshell settles like a hockey puck in the pit of my stomach, but a quick glance over at Coach Allen reassures me the slightest bit. He’s seated with the team leadership with a huge grin on his face.

He knows it’s a tradition for one of the guys to take her out, so he must be cool with it. Right? Mark Allen only joined the coaching staff this past year, so I’m still learning about what sets him off, but me bidding on his daughter doesn’t seem to be one of them.

“He doesn’t seem too bent out of shape about it,” I say, casually taking another sip of my beer.

Morgan, our backup goalie, leans back, crossing his bulky forearms over his chest. “You do realize you can’t hook up with her once and never call her again. Not unless you want to kiss your career good-bye.”

I scowl at him. “Who says I’m going to do that?”

Yeah, I might have a growing reputation for casual hookups. But that doesn’t mean that’s all I’m looking for, despite what the guys around me obviously think.

“So, what, are you going to date her? You looking for monogamy now, rookie?” Morgan chuckles into his beer like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all day.

Straightening, I shoot him a pointed look. “Maybe I am.” Hell, I don’t know. She is hot as fuck.

“Jordie, let’s think about this for a second. You’ve never had a serious girlfriend, and you’re what . . . twenty-six years old?”

“Twenty-five,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him. “So what?”

I’m young, and I’ve enjoyed playing the field. It doesn’t mean I’m never going to settle down. These guys should understand that better than anyone. Hell, most of them were huge man-whores before settling down with their current wives and girlfriends. Hypocritical much?

“So . . . you going after Harper Allen makes about as much sense as a grizzly bear dating a ladybug,” Teddy says to another chorus of laughter.

“You want some aloe, rookie? You just got burned.” Morgan chuckles into his fist.

“Having her in my bed every night wouldn’t exactly be a hardship now, would it?” I say, and the guys shrug. One point, Jordie.

“There’s just one tiny problem with that plan,” Teddy says.

“You mean other than her being Coach’s daughter?”

“Yeah,” he says, and all the guys laugh like they know something I don’t.

“She doesn’t date players,” Justin, our starting center, says over the rim of his glass.

“What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “Just a rumor buzzing around. She’s turned down every single guy who’s asked, and she’s made them very well aware that they’ll never have a chance with her, no matter how hard they try.”

“Well, she does now,” I say with a cocky smirk.

Morgan’s jaw flexes with an amused smile. “Someone’s overly confident.”

“How could you say no to this face?” I flash them a cocksure grin.

Morgan rolls his eyes. “Care to place a wager on that?”

“You know I never back down from a challenge. What’d you have in mind?”

“A bet. Winner takes all. We just need to decide the stakes.”

“I’m game.”

“You guys are idiots,” Teddy says with a shake of his head.

Morgan leans forward, placing his elbows on the table as he meets my gaze with a determined expression. One problem about hanging out with hockey players—they’re competitive as fuck—myself included. “A thousand bucks says you can’t get Harper Allen to fall for you.”

“Oh, you’re on.” This is going to be the easiest money I’ve ever made. Getting girls to fall for me has never been an issue before. Why should this one be any different?

“We need to put a timetable on this,” Morgan says. “One month? Two? What do you say?”

“One. Easy. Watch and learn, boys.” I rise to my feet and head toward Harper, who’s just appeared from backstage.

Harper is five and half feet of curves, with long dark hair, big brown eyes that sparkle with intelligence and wit, and a perky ass I want to bite into. In a word, she’s stunning. Looks wise, I’d peg her as a younger Jessica Biel—confident, outspoken, intelligent, and gorgeous.

She’s standing in line at the bar when I approach, looking like she’s getting more pissed off with every second that passes.

“Hey,” I say, stopping beside her with a confident smile. My fingers itch with the urge to reach out and run one palm along her spine, but I shove my hands into my pockets instead. One thing at time, Jordie.

Harper flashes me a quick, annoyed look, then mutters something under her breath I can’t make out as she turns back toward the bar.

“Having fun?” I ask.

She releases a slow, agitated exhale. “What’s a girl got to do to get a drink around here?”

Waving over a server who’s circling the room with a tray of hors d’oeuvres, I slip him a crisp hundred-dollar bill. He can’t be older than nineteen or twenty, and his eyes widen as he accepts the tip.

“Do me a favor and get a drink for the lady?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Absolutely, sir.”

I turn to Harper. “What would you like?” I anticipate she’s going to order a white wine, or maybe a glass of champagne, but Harper surprises me.

She addresses the server directly, not bothering to even look in my direction. “A gin and tonic. Hendrick’s, if you have it, with cucumber, not lime.”

Fuck, she’s perfect.

Less than a minute later, the server reappears with her drink, along with a fresh beer for me.

“Better?” I ask as she accepts the tall glass and lifts it to her lips.

“I’m supposed to be impressed because you have money?” she says with a biting tone and a roll of her eyes.

My mouth twitches with a smile. I love a feisty girl who makes me work for it. “I think the words you’re looking for are thank you, Jordie.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes again, and then takes a long sip of her gin and tonic. My brain momentarily short-circuits, and I forget how to breathe as her lips wrap around the straw. She’s that pretty.

Her eyes are arresting and moody, and I like them way too much. The deep-seated desire to know what makes her tick thrums steadily just beneath the surface. I’m intrigued, and I haven’t been intrigued by a woman in a long-ass time. Random hookups with girls I won’t remember, maybe a quick b-job in the bathroom … those are more my style, and for the record, I’m not proud of it. But something about Harper has me curious, and I want to know more.

“Bad time of the month?” I blurt.

Her jaw tics and fire burns in her eyes. “Did you seriously just imply that I’m suffering from PMS?”

I shrug and take a sip of beer before I respond. “I just figure it’s possible your poor mood is due in part to the shedding of your uterine lining. I’ve read that can be a particularly unpleasant time of the month for a woman.”

I’m hoping to make her laugh with my ridiculous statement, but Harper doesn’t smile. Her lips don’t even twitch, but her eyes sure do narrow at me. She looks irritated as fuck.

“You’re unreal, you know that?”

“Thanks.” I grin at her, shoving one hand in my pocket.

She wrinkles her nose at me and shakes her head in exasperation, like she’s dealing with a disobedient child. Even that is hot. “It wasn’t a compliment.”

I straighten my shoulders, my mouth turning down. “Listen, I apologize if we got off on the wrong foot. Can we start over?”

“I—” She opens her mouth, probably to refuse my request, or maybe to tell me to fuck off.

But I’m faster than she is, and I don’t give her the chance to shoot me down.

“Thank God,” I say. “Because I’m afraid I just came across as a total douche.”

“A douche?” She blinks at me, and I nod.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Exasperated now, she sighs. “If you must.”

I scan the room before looking back at her. “I hate these things.”

“You hate charity?” She smiles crookedly, obviously pleased that I’ve just shoved my foot in my mouth.

“No. The charity aspect, I’m cool with. But I don’t like all the rest of it—wearing a tux, making small talk, the tiny appetizers.”

Working her bottom lip between her teeth, Harper shifts. “How can you hate those little fig-and-brie things? They were heaven. Did you even have one?”

I frown. “Damn. I missed those.”

Harper chuckles, clearly pleased by my obvious disappointment at having missed out. The sound of her laugh is deep and husky and so perfect, it sends little fractures of heat zipping down my spine.

“You know what I think?” I say, gazing down at her. Even though she’s wearing heels, I tower over her. Rubbing one hand over the stubble on my jaw, I lock my gaze with hers. Her expression is bored, uninterested, but her chest rises as she draws a steadying breath.

“What do you think, Jordie?” She meets my eyes. “Please enlighten me.”

God, the sound of my name from her mouth. “I think you hate these things too.”

Her expression softens, and her eyes move from mine to my mouth and back again. “Do you want the truth?”

Nodding, I encourage her. “Of course. Give it to me straight.”

She takes another long sip of her drink, momentarily stalling. Her lips are full and kissable, but I force my gaze away because the sudden tightening in my balls pulls my attention south.

“I don’t hate these events. I hate hockey players. So you might as well give up now, because you’ve got no chance.”

“Hate is a very strong word.” I clutch my chest in mock discomfort, rubbing the spot over my heart. I don’t miss the way her gaze tracks hotly over my chest, and my mouth twitches as I suppress a smile.

“Well, it’s a strong dislike then. Which means you’re barking up the wrong tree, because this”—she waves a finger between us—“won’t happen. I’m not interested, and I never will be, so you might as well just run along and find a willing participant to have your fun with. A puck bunny will fit the bill, I’m sure.” She finishes this little monologue with a confident smile.

A husky chuckle falls from my mouth. “I don’t believe that for a second. But enjoy your drink. See you soon, Harper.”

I know how to quit when I’m ahead, and based on how little Miss Cranky Pants ogled my chest, I know I’ve gotten under her skin. That’s all I need for tonight. She’ll be screaming out my name in no time.

Watch and learn, boys.