Royally Pucked (The Copper Valley Thrusters Book 2)
Royally Pucked: Chapter 3

Sheep might be my brother Colden’s area of expertise, but I still get irritated when someone steals all of mine.

Which is yet another sign as to how much fun I’m not having while being under royal lock and key. My social time has been reduced to fighting over sheep.

For twenty-three years, my betrothal has been a source of irritation.

Now, it’s a source of damn-near constant bloody panic. I’m beginning to wonder if my father also banished me to the States so as to not have to deal with my increasingly frequent insistence that I’ll not marry Elin.

And my bloody frustration at not being able to encourage a certain dark-haired angel who’s still haunting my every errant thought.

I blow a slow breath out and make sure I’m still smiling, because my focus at the moment needs to be on this bloody game and the sheep.

“You’ll live to regret this,” I say without malice to Duncan Lavoie, right wing for the Thrusters, as the game on my tablet automatically pulls all my sheep resource cards from my hand because of Lavoie’s monopoly card.

Nick Murphy, the Thrusters’ goalie, scowls at Lavoie over his own tablet. “I needed those fucking sheep.”

Across the table from me in the dining room of my penthouse, Ares Berger remains characteristically silent behind his tablet while he inhales half a slice of pizza in a single bite.

Of course he does. Eat and remain silent, to clarify. Not only does he have a two-to-one wood port with a complete monopoly on wood—as he always does, because wood is almost as hilarious as sheep—but he’s also one point from winning the game.

And he rarely uses words unnecessarily.

He rarely uses words period.

We’re on a night off before a home game tomorrow, virtually linked up for a bloody game of Settlers of Catan over a stack of pizzas in my dining room. And by bloody, I mean torturously ugly, with trash-talking and sheep-stealing and the distinct possibility of at least one of us arriving at the rink for practice in the morning with a bloody lip if Lavoie wins again.

Most of the rest of the team are with their wives and families tonight, or out with their favorite personal home cheerleaders, which the North American hockey players like to call puck bunnies.

The four of us?

We have a score to settle after a rather bitter round of Catan on the bus ride home last night.

Also, I’m bloody grounded for the rest of my life. The. Rest. Of. My. Life.

No, I don’t wish to talk about it any further. Thank you for asking.

Lavoie builds a settlement between two of my roads, the bloody fucker—and by bloody this time, I mean the fucking fucker—and smirks at all of us with an evil glint in his game face, because now he’s sitting at nine points as well. Takes ten to win. “Your turn, Your Majesty.”

Oh, the hilarity. A D-man with Philadelphia called me Lord John on the ice last night, and Lavoie flattened him. Here in my apartment with my teammates? I’m fair game.

Just like being at home, but without the pretense of royal duties.

I honestly miss my brothers, but I fucking love life in America.

With a few notable exceptions. Most prominently being how well-trained my guards are, and how often I’ve not been able to get out to a club or a party or anywhere but the arena, my penthouse, and hotels and airplanes for away games.

Thank heavens for guests, a busy schedule, and a secret toy room.

And that one night with a ridiculously sexy, surprisingly adorable woman in a Nashville locker room that will live in my most sacred memories until my dying day.

It’s almost enough to keep a man sane.

Almost.

I roll a six and get myself two wheat cards and an ore, trade Ares three wood for one more ore, and upgrade a settlement to a city.

Nine points myself now.

One more, and I win the game. I’m about to play my development card with two free roads—hello, two points for longest road, my dearest love, and why yes, it is only worth winning if you win big—when Viktor enters quietly from the guards’ private quarters off the penthouse and gives me the Your Highness, a moment nod.

“Needed in the throne room, Prince Happy?” Lavoie says.

Even Ares snickers this time.

“One moment, Viktor.” I play my card and place my roads with a smile. Because I always smile, and it always irritates everyone around me. “And that’s…” Not the game. “Bloody sheep fucker.”

I don’t have longest road.

Because of Lavoie’s damn settlement.

Lavoie guffaws triumphantly.

I foresee cut skate laces in his near future in addition to that bloody lip he’ll be leaving with tonight.

Always something to smile about, even when you’re losing. And you’re damn fucking right I’ve been smiling through it all.

Only thing worse than being irritated is letting anyone know you’re irritated. Want to really get someone’s sheep—ah, goat? Ambivalence, my dear friend.

Ambivalence triumphs every time. There’s nothing more annoying than someone not caring.

I toss a bag of cookies on the table—I’ve developed quite the taste for cinnamon sugar cookies, snickerdoodles, I believe they’re called—and cross past the bank of windows overlooking the lights of the modern buildings of downtown Copper Valley to see what Viktor needs.

And try not to think of Gracie. A feat I’m rarely able to accomplish for more than about three minutes at a time these days, especially when cookies are mentioned.

My royal tutors would say something about man always wanting that which he cannot have. And I currently want the woman who keeps sending me the most randomly amusing texts.

Nice game last night. I think. Winning is good, right? I really don’t know anything about hockey other than that the uniforms aren’t nearly as attractive as football uniforms. Sorry but true.

I added those honey cookies to my menu, but I spelled it Nohey Cookies on the board and now that’s what everyone is asking for.

Did you see that video of the puppet fighting the ferret on YouTube? I laughed so hard I gave myself a stomach cramp.

Such easy joy in a few simple sentences.

And it’s my fucking royal duty to be an arsehole in return.

“A lady downstairs here to see you, Your Highness,” Viktor murmurs. “Miss Diamonte.”

I stiffen even as I unwillingly smile brighter. Viktor’s scowl suggests it’s not the Diamonte sister I’d prefer to see. And why would Gracie be in Copper Valley? She’s undoubtedly slaving away in her bakery. Her skin dusted with flour. Cheeks rosy from the heat of the ovens. Her slender arms—

I push away the image, because I’m doing neither of us any favors in continuing any sort of communication or fascination with her.

Besides, it’s actually far more likely Joey would arrive.

Which means she’s either here to see Ares—she’s dating his brutish twin brother—or she’s discovered I laid a finger on her sister and is now here to disembowel me.

“Send her up,” I say cheerfully, because who doesn’t enjoy a good attempted disemboweling?

He hesitates.

I’ve known Viktor for well over a decade. Back home in Stölland, before I was good enough at hockey to join the European league and before my father had fully committed to allowing me to play full-time, Viktor was up before the sheep, the chickens, and sometimes before the northern lights went to bed, in order to hit the ice with me to practice. I know his mum and pappa. I know he’s spent the last six years writing an historical mystery novel in his spare time. And I know he hates hesitating. The man has a scar bisecting his left shoulder blade to demonstrate the dangers of hesitating.

I might not appreciate being held on a leash by my royal guards, but I do appreciate the men beneath the job description.

“She’s rather harmless beneath the blubber,” I reassure him. Because I’ve discovered Joey truly is the lesser danger of the two sisters.

“I rather doubt that, Your Highness.” He stiffly carries himself to the reinforced door leading to the private elevator bank accessible only with the secret handshake combined with a special key, the trick code word, and the blood of a fresh Stöllandic sheep sacrificed under a blue moon.

Fine, fine. There’s no sheep involved.

But there may as well be.

For all the Viking blood in my family’s heritage, my father still believes Americans barbaric and dangerous to my health. It’s rather trying at best, and positively irritating at worst.

Especially when I’m here to shed blood on the ice every night, doomed to return home to a loveless political marriage at the end of the season.

And did I mention that my father married an American woman himself several years back? Because he was granted the luxury of marrying the second time for love, as he’s already produced his heirs and trained Gunnar, my eldest brother, to take over his duties when the time comes.

“Hey, Prince Happy Pants,” Lavoie calls to me from my kitchen, “we’re eating your secret cookies.”

“Help yourself,” I reply.

And yes, I’m still smiling, even though he’s digging into the last cookies I have saved from Gracie. Because I know where he parks his beloved red Charger, and I also know where to get a pile of dirt loaded with worms that would love a new mobile home.

He’ll most likely retaliate by sewing the leg holes of my jeans together or putting Icy Hot in my cup, but it merely means he loves me.

Since Joey Diamonte is on her way up, and since there’s a slim possibility she’ll think I think she’s her sister since Viktor called her Miss Diamonte, I remove my shirt and pop the button on my trousers. Give my hair a good finger-comb to muss it and take a perch against the wall at the back of the foyer.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Murphy says.

A cookie dribbles out of Lavoie’s mouth.

Ares shoves another slice of pizza in his mouth and gives me a look that I’ve come to realize means you’re a dumbass.

Mostly because he’s generally aiming it at Murphy and Lavoie while they’re being the dumbasses.

“Watch and learn, gentlemen,” I say.

Lavoie and Murphy share a look. Both charge across the posh living room, tossing their shirts off as they come. Lavoie’s Thrusters polo lands on the pristine ivory leather couch. Murphy’s red beer shirt drapes over a crystal table lamp and casts a pink glow. The two of them skid to my side and take up matching poses as Viktor opens the door and re-enters from the lift chamber.

He’s not that many years older than I am, but his sigh is that of an old man.

“Miss Diamonte, Your Highness.”

He steps aside, and while I put on my bedroom eyes to make Joey think I’m about to attempt to seduce her sister—

“Gracie.” I snap straight, joy warring with panic, because fuck, she’s pretty, and she’s here, and I will well and truly be fucked if I cannot get this woman off my mind.

“Bonjour and good evening, madame,” Lavoie says. Fucker’s from Calgary, grew up speaking English, but he’s putting on the French-Canadian act that works almost every time.

Murphy rubs his hands down his chest and into the waistband of his trousers, showing off the goods. “Lovely to meet you, Miss Diamonte.”

Gracie’s silent What the hell? look is universal enough for even Ares to understand it. He’s reclining at the table, his this is funny shit look equally universal.

“I thought you were your sister,” I say as I half-heartedly cover my nipples, which serves to do nothing more than make me feel like a royal ninny.

Apparently my pedigree does not, in fact, protect me from occasional bouts of dumbass-ness myself.

She blinks quickly. Looks at me. At Lavoie and Murphy. Over to Ares, who’s angling for his phone as though he’s going to snap a picture and send it to Zeus, who will undoubtedly share it with Joey, and the next game we play against New York—Zeus’s new team after a pre-season trade—will be a bloody mess.

“Why would you be stripping for Joey?” Gracie says.

She punctuates the statement with a small hiccup that makes her grimace, and I realize she’s on the pale side.

“Ah—” I start.

“And why would Joey be coming to visit you?” she continues as she rubs her sternum beneath a fitted T-shirt that would be perfectly at home in Ares’s closet. Goat’s Tit High, it says, with the printed cartoon of—I tilt my head.

Unless I’m mistaken—which we’ve established I’m likely to be tonight—that’s a wild boar in a Viking helmet.

But even concentrating on her odd choice of clothing is doing little to distract from the motion of her hand between her lovely breasts. And my cock not only notices, he offers to help if there’s any place her fingers are unable to reach. Blood surges from my brain to my Viking staff.

She taps her foot.

I replace my voice, along with sending a more information next time glare at Viktor. “She seemed the more likely Miss Diamonte to drop in unannounced, and I had so hoped to horrify her. Naturally.”

I angle in front of Lavoie and block Murphy to sweep an arm toward the living room. “Please. Join us. These two were just leaving.”

“No, we—oomph,” Lavoie says as my elbow replaces its way to his gut.

“I’d never mistake you for your sister,” Murphy gets out before I can silence him as well.

It truly is identical to being home with my brothers.

The good, the bad, and the ugly.

“Gentlemen, could you please excuse us?” Gracie says to my teammates. Her Southern accent is generally subtle, but she plays it to her full advantage when she wants to.

It’s bloody adorable.

She needs to fucking leave.

“Not sure we can trust this guy alone with you,” Murphy says.

“Wouldn’t want him to impugn your honor,” Lavoie agrees.

Ares snickers.

Gracie winces and hiccups once more.

“Get out,” I say cheerfully, because cheerful is what’s expected despite me wanting to rub my own breastbone at the sight of this woman.

She’s traveled here to see me. As a surprise.

I sincerely hope this is the kind of surprise that comes with a happy ending, because I’m inordinately happy to see her.

Far happier than royal duty allows me to be.

Which reminds me that I’m not at liberty of wishing that this visit comes with a happy ending.

Bloody hell.

I need to hit something.

“I can’t leave. I’m half-naked.” Lavoie puffs out his pecs, which prompts Murphy to flex his biceps.

“Me too,” Murphy agrees.

“We could make you all-naked before I toss you,” I offer.

They share a look and both explode in jolly laughter as though the idea of me out-muscling them is bloody hilarious.

I’m about to demonstrate just how hilarious the situation is when Ares shakes his head and rises. “Hard way.”

Could I remove these puckleheads?

Yes. We’re decently matched, and I have motivation on my side.

But why waste the energy when Ares is willing to do it for me?

Murphy and Lavoie are still giggling and preening when he grabs them each by a belt loop and lifts.

Ares Berger is a tank. He’s closer to seven feet tall than he is to six. His neck is thicker than a normal man’s thigh. Two days after I offered him a place to crash until he could replace an apartment of his own when he was unexpectedly traded to the Thrusters in the preseason, I found him bench-pressing my refrigerator.

Which isn’t all that scary until you consider there are two of him, because his twin brother Zeus is just as much of a beast.

Though somewhat louder.

While Lavoie and Murphy screech like little boys at being carried out of the penthouse by their trousers, Gracie finally accepts my invitation and leaves the foyer to step delicately into the expansive living area. Her shoes today are sparkly green high-tops with mermaids printed on the side, which clash horrifically with the red Persian rug.

“Care for a spot of coffee?” I offer pleasantly. “Wine? Cookies?” Another go at my royal member? Please? If we both promise not to tell?

The door slams shut behind Ares. She eyeballs Viktor, who discreetly disappears into his quarters beside the front entrance.

Undoubtedly watching from the security cameras, which means I need to keep my trousers zipped. Viktor’s loyalty to me only goes so far.

“No, thank you.” She visibly squelches another hiccup, her cheeks puffing out and her eyes squeezing together as she sinks to the edge of my sofa.

“An antacid then?” My brain says to keep my distance, because she’s lovely as ever even in that abomination of a T-shirt and her loose gray sweatpants. Gracie Diamonte is physically incapable of not being lovely.

And I’m physically incapable of not noticing.

“Can you sit?” she says.

“Quite well most days.”

“Now.”

“Rather enjoying the view from here. What brings you to Copper Valley on this fine Wednesday?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit?”

I smile my favorite placating smile—the one that would most likely prompt her sister to punch me in the throat for having the audacity to placate anything—and settle obediently into the furthest chair from the sofa.

And am promptly glad I have.

Because had I not, her words would have undoubtedly knocked my feet from beneath me.

“I’m pregnant. Congratulations. We’re having a baby.”