Pucking Strong: An MM Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 4)

I don’t like being late for things. In the hockey world, it gets drilled into us that being early is being on time. Planes don’t wait for us. Neither do busses. Reservations typically don’t wait either. And I didn’t make these reservations. I don’t even know the restaurant. My GPS says it will take us almost thirty minutes to get there. And Teddy still hasn’t come out.

What the hell is he doing in there? Probably still laughing and joking with Novy. The man is such a showboat. He’s my teammate, and he’s a friend, but …

Fuck, I don’t know what I’m even thinking. He’s a teammate and a friend. Full stop. I’m sure nothing untoward is happening. Teddy is just dedicated to his job.

I think perhaps I’m just hungry.

And oddly nervous.

I’m going on a date with my husband. But it’s a fake date, orchestrated by our PR director. There will be a cameraperson ready to photograph us entering and leaving the restaurant. And Poppy expressly asked that we “crank up the spice” to quell the nasty rumors that this is all just some kind of publicity stunt.

Well, I suppose this is a publicity stunt. The date, I mean. All part of Poppy’s grand Operation Mighty Oak. But our marriage doesn’t feel like a stunt. It may have been spontaneous, born out of necessity, but my affection for Teddy is very real, and growing stronger every day.

Poppy assures us that in a couple weeks, this will all die down. For now, the gossip machine is firing on all cylinders. My American agent, Laura, has been harassed by the press all week. They want an official statement about my press conference. But the conference was my official statement. I’ll not be making another one. Poppy said it went viral, so why would I bother?

She was so touched by my including Novy and Morrow in my remarks that she baked me enough cookies to feed my entire apartment building. She brought them by last week, tears in her eyes, and stayed for two hours, letting her daughter play with Karro.

I fight the urge to check my watch for a third time just as the front doors of the practice arena open. Teddy comes striding out, and my eyes go wide. He’s wearing a sleek forest-green suit, a black belt and shoes, and a white shirt, no tie. The shirt is unbuttoned halfway down his chest. His hair is pulled back, bundled at his nape.

Behind him, a few of the guys, including Novy, pool out of the open doorway, wolf-whistling and calling his name.

“Yeah, Teddy!”

“Get it, superstar!”

“That’s my physical therapist!”

Teddy just laughs, his smile lighting up his entire face, as he waves them off and strides over to the car. He’s almost reached it before I remember myself. I fling my door open and step out, circling the back of the Porsche to try to beat him to the other side. Like Teddy, I’m dressed in a suit with no tie, only mine is stone blue.noveldrama

“Hey, Karlsson, have him back by ten,” Novy shouts.

The others all laugh.

“Looking good, Karlsson!”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, boys!”

I brush my hand down the front of my crisp white dress shirt and open Teddy’s door for him.

“Hey,” he says, breathless. “You look great.”

“As do you,” I reply. “Is that my suit? I don’t recognize it.”

He just grins, slipping into the front seat. “Nah, it’s mine.”

We make it to the restaurant with less than a minute to spare. I give my keys to a valet. Offering Teddy my hand, I help him unfold his long legs and stand. This little sports car may not be practical for two men as tall and broad shouldered as we are, but that’s not really the reason one buys a Porsche.

He presses into me as the valet rushes behind him to shut his door. “How we didn’t just get a dozen speeding tickets, I will literally never know.”

I just chuckle. I’m about to lead the way inside when Teddy stiffens, his hand wrapping around my arm. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“He’s right over there—no—don’t look,” he hisses as I’m about to turn. “He’s literally standing in the fucking bushes. Oh god, this is like something out of a bad movie.”

“What do I do?”

“Don’t turn around! Just act natural.”

I sigh, feeling foolish. “We can’t stand here, Teddy. Let’s just walk in.”

“Okay. But do we, like, walk in together? Like, hand in hand? Or do you sort of walk ahead? What will look more believable for pictures—”

“Not choreographing this will look most believable.” I tug him along next to me, putting myself between him and the camera.

“Don’t look so mad,” he says through his fake smile. “You’re supposed to be in love with me, remember?”

“I’m Swedish. This is just my face. I look this way when I’m happy too.”

Teddy snorts a nervous laugh.

I do try to relax my shoulders a little. Then I nod to an older couple as they make their way out of the restaurant. The lady takes in our joined hands and Teddy’s smile and frowns. Her lip curls up as if she just smelled something rotten. It stops me in my tracks. I know Teddy sees it too, because his hand tightens in mine.

He shocks the hell out of me by rounding on her. “What? You’ve never seen two men holding hands before? Take a picture. It’ll last longer!”

Knowing there’s a photographer in the bushes, Teddy and I both start laughing.

The older woman gasps, her hand flying up to clutch her literal pearls, as her husband, an old white man in a navy sport coat, wraps his hand around her arm. “Come on, Denise.”

“Yeah, keep walking, Denise,” Teddy calls after her. “Nothing to see here.”

“Will you stop?” I say in his ear.

“Hey, later tonight, we’re gonna go home and do gay stuff together,” he adds, giving her a dramatic wave. “It’s gonna be great, Denise! We’ll Snapchat you photos!”

“Come on.” I pull him away.

“Fuck, I feel better.” He pulls the door open for me. “Shall we? I’ve heard the branzino is divine.”

We make it through drinks and the appetizer course before the subject of the photographer comes up again. Teddy is mid-sentence, recounting a progress update from Karro’s tutor, when he stops, his shoulders stiffening. He sets his amaretto sour aside, eyes locked on the empty plate of mussels between us.

“What’s wrong?”

“The photographer is in the corner by the bar.”

Before I can say anything, my phone buzzes in my inside pocket. I reach for it and see a message from Poppy glowing on the screen:

I flash Teddy the phone and let him read the message. “Is this a good thing?”

He shrugs. “I guess. I mean, we do look good.” He brushes his hand down his chest. “I lied in the car though.”

“What?”

“This suit. It isn’t mine. It’s Novy’s.”

“You’re wearing Novy’s suit?” I note the way it fits a little too large in the shoulders.

He glances sharply across the table, eyes narrowed. “You better not be about to ask me if I traded sexual favors for it. The answer is no, asshole.”

I raise both hands, leaning back in my chair. “I said nothing.”

“I forgot my suit at home, and he had one. End of story.”

I smile, sipping my beer. “You should keep it. It looks better on you.”

He huffs, poking at the mussels with a fork, looking for one with the meat still inside. “Oh believe me, for five hundred bucks, I’m keeping the suit and the shoes.”

I just hum, contentedly sipping my beer. Since our conversation in the car last week, I’ve felt a new kind of curiosity towards Teddy. And I’ve researched the term. Demisexuality. It’s a rather broad term, covering everything from those who seek no sexual touch ever to people who engage in casual sex but may not express romantic feelings until a deeper relationship is established first.

The more I read, the more the label seems to fit me. The article last night talked of primary versus secondary sexual attraction. Apparently, primary attraction happens at first sight. You can look at a person, even a stranger on the street, and feel attracted to them. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt that before. Aesthetically, I may look at someone and admire their beauty. But I admire them with the same feeling of joy or excitement as seeing a sunset or a stag standing in the snow.

I glance across the table at Teddy again. Aesthetically, he’s very pleasing. I’ve always thought that. He’s a composition of sharp angles—broad shoulders, long legs, pronounced cheekbones. I particularly like his neck. I like watching how it twists and elongates as he looks around, as he laughs.

But I want to photograph his neck, not lick it.

The article had a lot to say about scent as a primary attractor too. As a Swedish person, I found it all very amusing. We Swedes enjoy having our own space, even with friends and family. It made me mindful. How often do I ever let myself get close enough to smell another person? Well, aside from the sweaty hockey players I encounter on the ice. But not one of them has ever sparked my sexual interest with their stench.

No, scent has only aroused me with one person. Only with Teddy.

I blame it on the fact that I’m still sleeping in his bed. I don’t know why I haven’t put a stop to it. Now that I’m admitting to myself that I’m curious about him, it feels like a line is being crossed. But I don’t want to stop. I’m getting the best sleep I’ve had in ages. And I like it. I like lying in the bed and having him roll to me, hands seeking in the dark. Even in sleep, he’ll curl around me, his head on my chest, our legs tangled.

If he doesn’t roll to me, I seek him out. I lock my arm around his chest and press my face to his neck, breathing him in. I’m not sure what to make of his scent arousing me because he’s using my body wash and wearing my cologne. Am I attracted to him? Or the scents? Or is this some kind of caveman hindbrain situation where I’m attracted to my scent on him?

“How are we doing over here?” says the waiter, removing the empty plates.

“Fine,” Teddy replies, fishing the cherries out of his drink as he tries not to look in the corner.

I hate that the photographer is ruining this for him. “I’m sorry,” I say as soon as the waiter leaves. “We can go if he’s making you this uncomfortable. Poppy didn’t say how long we need to stay.”

“It’s fine.”

But I know it’s not. He hates this performance as much as I do. I want to make it up to him. When I get back from this series of aways, I’m going to take him out again. No cameras. No falsity. Just good conversation and a good meal. We both deserve it.

He leans back as the waiter returns, placing down our main courses. We decided to split the whole roasted branzino and a plate of lobster and scallop risotto. He heaps some risotto onto my plate as I squeeze half a lemon over the branzino. He can’t help but glance at the corner again. “Has Laura said anything else about the interview requests?”

“I told her to refuse them all,” I reply, testing the flakiness of the fish with my fork.

“Will that cause problems?”

“I made it clear that would be my only statement. We’ll let them take these pictures, and hopefully we can all just move on.”

He nods, eyes on his plate as he tries the fish.

“Hey.” I set my fork aside and reach my hand across the table.

He glances at it for a moment before sighing and placing his hand in mine.

“I’m glad you’re here. Our voyeur notwithstanding, I’m having a nice time.”

He snorts. “Seriously?”

“What?”

“You can use the word ‘notwithstanding’ correctly in a sentence, but you don’t know the phrase ‘happy as clams’?”

Feeling prickly, I switch to Swedish. “And you can’t understand a word of Swedish, so let’s refrain from throwing rocks at glass houses, shall we?”

The words roll over him like a wave, and he just purses his lips. “Fair point.”

“I thought so,” I say in English.

He chuckles, dropping my hand to resume his meal. “Oh, don’t try to hide it now, Mr. Big Shot. That felt really good, didn’t it? Foreigners love making Americans feel dumb by speaking languages they know we don’t understand. How many languages do you speak, by the way?”

I consider for a moment. “Fluently? Or just enough to get by?”

He sighs. “Let’s go with fluently.”

“Three.”

“Swedish, English, and …”

“French. I played three seasons with the Canadiens before I joined the Rays.”

“Fuck, that’s so hot.” He takes a bite of the risotto. “And this is so fucking good.”

It is good. Creamy and hearty with chunks of grilled scallop and a whole lobster tail. As we sit and eat, and as I watch Teddy try and fail to stop glancing to the corner, I get bold. This will be our last chance to be alone for several days. Even once I get back from these away games, our schedules mean I’ll hardly see him.

In this moment, I feel greedy. I want his attention on me. And I want him out of his own head, not focused on how he looks being photographed eating this damn fish. “Can I ask you a question?” I say, setting my fork aside to sip my water.

“Sure.”

“I’ve been researching demisexuality this week.”

“Well, that’s good, right?”

I nod. “I’ve learned a lot. I’m currently exploring what it means to feel primary versus secondary sexual attraction. I’ll admit, I’m not sure I’ve ever felt primary attraction before. At least, not the way the article describes it.”

“Well, I think that’s actually common for a lot of people. Not just those who identify as demi. It’s no big deal if you don’t cross some rando on the street and think, ‘Whoa, he’s hot.’”

“Is it like that for you?”

He nearly chokes on his water. One hand to his chest, he lowers the glass. “Pardon?”

“Do you meet people and feel an instant sexual attraction based solely on their physical attributes?”

He shrugs. “I mean, sometimes. Depends on the person, I guess. And maybe a little on my mood. It’s definitely happened before though, sure.”

I wait until he has the glass to his lips again, and then I ask, “Did it happen with me?”

He doesn’t choke this time. His eyes narrow, and he quickly sets the glass aside, lowering his voice. “Okay, asshole. Fuck you, I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” I reply, taking a bite of the grilled fish. It’s crispy and flaky, with just the right hint of citrus.

Teddy rolls his eyes. “You’re just trying to distract me from thinking about the photographer. Also, I think you’re fishing.”

“Fishing?”

“Yeah, you want me to get all flustered and admit that I think you’re handsome.”

I say nothing.

His eyes flash as he leans across the table. “You want my attention, Henrik? You always have it. And for your information, yes. From the moment I first saw you, I thought you were the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. I then spent one of the most sexually frustrated years of my life pining after you, so lost in lust with your beauty and poise and primary sexual attractants that, I swear to god, I don’t know how I survived.”

I forget to breathe as he holds my gaze, daring me to look away.

“Now that you’re my husband, I spend every day agonizing over my attraction to you—when you press against me in your sleep, when you pant on your little stationary bike, when you step out of the shower, when you stand at the stove in those sleep pants that curve so perfectly to every inch of your ass and thighs. Get some bigger pants, Henrik. They don’t need to be that goddamn formfitting. There. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

I smile as he lowers his gaze to the table, digging furiously into the fish with his fork.

“Hey, Teddy?”

He stills, not looking up at me. “What?”

“I think you’re beautiful too.”