Pucking Wild: A Reverse Age Gap Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 2)
Pucking Wild: Chapter 3

“I’m just saying, don’t you think it’s all a little weird?” Davidson shuffles in front of me as we take our seats.

Is this weird? Of course, it is. It’s our last night in L.A., we’re fresh off another win against the Kings, and instead of crashing asleep in my hotel room, I’m standing in my game day suit in rock legend Hal Price’s Beverly Hills living room, balancing an Old Fashioned in my hand.

I’d say that’s pretty weird.

Oh, and the only reason I’m standing in Hal Price’s living room is because I’m about to watch his daughter—who happens to be my team doctor—marry two of my teammates and my equipment manager.

Again, pretty fucking weird.

We all had our suspicions about her and Compton, but it was never more than gossip. Then, last week, the truth came blasting out. Boom. Compton and Sanford are out as gay. Fucking finally. No surprises there. That news was almost boring in its predictability.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m totally happy for them. Love is love. Give me a flag and douse me in glitter. I’m down to dance at a pride parade. And Sanny and Compton were practically already married. That they’re rushing down the aisle is a surprise to literally no one. I already bought them nine rounds of His & His golf as a wedding present.

But then, boom again. Just as soon as we all settled with the news of their relationship, they flipped the script on us. They’re in love with each other…and Doc Price…and they’ve all been secretly living together practically since the start of the season.

What kills me is that I kind of already knew. When I ran into Tess on the beach, she told me Compton invited her and Doc to stay for the weekend to enjoy the beach. Yeah, she’s a sneaky little liar. Tess knew. Doc was already living there even then.

But that surprise was nothing compared to the final reveal: Kinnunen is with them too.

I won’t lie, Kinnunen intimidates the fuck outta me. The man rarely ever speaks unless he’s barking out orders on the ice. I don’t think he’s exchanged even a full sentence with me since I joined the team. So, to watch him stand up in the middle of a crowded locker room and declare himself engaged to our team doctor…the doctor we only just learned was living with Compton and Sanny…yeah, all our heads pretty much exploded.

Oh, and then they all declared they were changing their names to Price.

How many times can a person’s head metaphorically explode?

They’ve all been tight-lipped about the details, but I get the feeling maybe he’s only with her. Like, that’s a thing, right? He’s marrying her…and they’re marrying her…and each other…but he’s not marrying them? I think that’s what we’re here to witness tonight. Again, details are fuzzy.

I take a sip of my Old Fashioned, dropping into the empty chair next to Davidson. The room buzzes with energy as hockey players mingle with Hollywood elites. I don’t often get starstruck, but I swear to God, if Al Pacino walks into this wedding tonight, I’m gonna pass the fuck out.

Novy slides into our row and sits in the empty chair next to me, a sly grin on his face. “Guys, I just touched a Grammy.”

“What?”

“Hal’s Grammy,” he replies with a jerk of his head. “It’s just over there on the shelf behind the piano. I touched it.”

“You didn’t,” I huff.

Next to me, Davidson cranes his neck, looking to the corner of the room.

“I did,” Novy replies.

“He did,” Morrow adds, dropping into the empty seat next to him. “He made me take a picture.”

Novy grins, flashing me his phone screen.

I gasp. The asshole didn’t just touch Hal Price’s Grammy, he picked it up off the shelf. He’s holding it, smirking like a total douche. “Nov, you can’t just take people’s trophies off the shelf,” I hiss.

“Why not?” He shrugs, slipping his phone in the inside pocket of his suit. “Coley held it too.”

“Asshole,” Morrow grunts, jabbing him with his elbow. “I told you not to tell.”

I just huff again. “You two are idiots.”

They squabble under their breaths, arguing over whose idea it was to pick it up.

“Guys, this is weird, right?” Davidson repeats, leaning across me to loudly whisper at them. “No one else is gonna say it? I’m the only one?”

Novy and Morrow go still, slow turning to look at Davidson. They’re both defensemen, so they each have a few inches on me and, like, thirty pounds of muscle. Novy’s got a jagged pink scar zigzagging up his cheek. It’s still healing from when he took a skate to the face and had to get one hundred and thirty stitches. The man had already perfected the art of the scowl. He’s Russian so they’re born with that, right? It’s like a factory setting. But now when he scowls, he looks like he’s gonna murder you and your dog and uproot your house plants just to be a dick.

“You got a problem with all this, Dave-O?” he says, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

I go still, feeling trapped between them.

“Yeah, if you’ve got a problem being here, there’s the door,” Morrow echoes, his tone just as hard. It’s an odd look for him because, off the ice, Cole Morrow is a super-nice guy. The puck bunnies go crazy for him. His usual charming smile has been replaced with a glare as he waits for Davidson to speak.

“No, I’m cool,” Davidson says at last, sinking back into his chair. “This is totally fine.”

“Damn right it is,” Morrow replies.

“Why don’t you just not speak again tonight, Dave-O,” says Novy, dismissing him.

Davidson bristles but stays silent. He’s only a backup goalie, and he’s having a shitty season so far. He can’t talk back to a starting defenseman, and he knows it. Not unless he wants Novy to make his life hell whenever he gets in the net.

Novy’s an asshole on the best of days, but his defense of our teammates is oddly touching to see. Who would have ever pegged him as such an ally?

“Oh my god,” Morrow gasps. He grips Novy by the shoulder, and then they’re both turning. They morph into a pair of excited squirrels whispering to each other and shoving.

“Langers, look,” Novy hisses, slapping my shoulder.

I turn my head, following their gaze to the corner of the room where Hal Price is standing there laughing, his hand on the shoulder of none other than Al Fucking Pacino.