Page 2 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

LEVI

J ockeying forward, I drop to my knees next to this woman I’ve succeeded in freaking out so much that she’s literally lost consciousness. She’d stood there like a deer in headlights—appropriate, since she has big brown doe eyes. Not that those eyes are visible now. Thanks to me.

A male flight attendant in a crisp uniform had managed to catch her from behind before she could hit the floor, preventing what could’ve been an even bigger disaster. Now, he kneels beside her, waving a hand over her face as if that’ll somehow help. “Miss? Miss, can you hear me?”

I might have overreacted to her being on the flight.

Okay, I totally did. And now I feel like such a shit for it.

Sure, Sven, Eric, and I have had our share of puck bunnies who’ve joined us in bed just for the bragging rights.

We’ve each had to deal with threats of our bare asses showing up on fan blogs, chatrooms, and basically every form of social media that exists .

Eric was even blackmailed once. She tried to claim she was pregnant with his love child until the publicists and attorneys got involved. A demand for a paternity test proved that he wasn’t, and after that, her story went the way of the dodo.

But the terror on this particular woman’s face tells me she didn’t expect us to be here, and that’s not how someone looking for a quick payday acts.

So, I might have made a false accusation.

Also, watching her go down like that took at least ten years off my life.

“Miss?” The flight attendant keeps trying, his voice calm but persistent. “Wake up, hon.”

“Is she breathing?” Sven asks. He’s the only one of us with CPR training, taking his captain duties extra seriously. “Does she have a pulse?”

The flight attendant must have training as well because he presses two fingers to the carotid artery at her neck. “Yes, and it looks like her airways are clear.”

“Maybe she just fainted,” Sven suggests, and I hope he’s right.

I exhale slowly, my fingers working at the leather wristband wrapped snug around my wrist. I twist it, roll the edge under my thumb, press it between my fingertips—anything to keep from completely unraveling in front of everyone.

This is exactly why I’m not cut out to be around women in the absence of my buddies.

I’m terrible at interactions outside my immediate circle that don’t involve a simple, no-strings hookup.

Long-term relationships? Not my thing. For whatever reason, I’m missing that gene that allows most people to be social without acting like some lunatic psycho, especially when something goes off the rails.

The scent of the flight attendant’s fabric softener and cologne drifts over us, and right on cue, Eric sneezes. Hard.

That’s the problem with him—he might be one of the highest-scoring, toughest motherfuckers of a defenseman on the ice, but he’s allergic to damn near everything. And now he’s stuck in a sneezing fit, his record being eleven in a row.

Hottie coughs, her eyelids fluttering. “Wha…” Cough, cough. “What’s going on?”

I heave a thundering sigh of relief, fingers still fidgeting with my wristband.

Shit like this is why I don’t do emotions.

I observe, I analyze, I stay skeptical—both on and off the ice.

It comes with being a goalie. I’m wired to read angles, anticipate plays, and block whatever’s coming at me.

The problem is, I don’t know how to turn that off when it comes to people.

Everyone has an agenda, and I can’t always tell the difference between a pass and a setup. I just know that I have to stay ready.

"You passed out. Do you have any medical conditions we should know about?" the flight attendant asks.

Hottie shakes her head—then immediately winces, grabbing onto her skull like that simple motion just sent a jackhammer through it.

"No." She sits up, blinking hard, still looking woozy. "No… I don’t."

She glances first at the flight attendant, then at the three of us looming nearby, her eyes bouncing between us like she’s trying to piece together how the hell she ended up in this situation.

She sounds about as convincing as Sven that time he tore his ACL and swore up and down he could walk to the locker room, despite limping so hard I thought he might faceplant any second.

Then, as if we’re not all standing right here, she groans dramatically and mutters, “Why do I have to make a fool of myself in front of these beautiful men? Why?”

Wait. What?

Did she seriously just say that? Out loud ?

Maybe she’s sick. Or high. Or drunk. Our night with her involved plenty of social lubrication. But as I study her, I can’t help but notice how out of it she seems. Maybe she didn’t mean to say it. Maybe she doesn’t even realize she did.

Or maybe I’m not the only one who gets weird in crowded situations. It’s one thing when I can hip-check a guy into the boards and take control of the play. But being jammed into a space like this, surrounded by people, nowhere to go? Yeah, that shit unnerves me too.

“You going to tell us if you’re all right?” I ask, my voice coming out rougher than I intended.

Sven immediately jabs me in the ribs with his elbow. I scowl at him. “What?”

“Jesus, do you have to bark at her like a goddamn dog, Levi?”

Was I? Must’ve been. But Hottie either doesn’t notice or is too out of it to care.

“I’ve been better,” she mutters, wincing as she grips her head and tries to sit up. My stomach clenches. Did she hit it? Could she have a concussion? A fractured skull?

“Stay still,” both the flight attendant and Sven order at the same time, their synchronized concern making me even more antsy .

“Are you nauseous at all, hon?” the flight attendant asks, his voice gentle but firm.

“No.”

“Are you seeing double?” Eric pipes up from behind me.

I roll my eyes. Our defenseman doesn’t have a single ounce of medical training, but that’s never stopped him from inserting himself into conversations like he’s the leading expert.

Sven once told me he thinks Eric just hates being left out.

I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know it annoys the hell out of me.

“No,” Hottie says, her tone a little stronger this time. “I have a headache, but I had it before. I don’t think it’s related.”

Still, I don’t like how unsteady she looks. Or how easily she went down in the first place.

I’ve seen guys with head injuries before, and if she has one, it doesn’t seem as severe as those. Not that I’m any kind of specialist. But the color’s back in her complexion now, and if anything, those red spots high on her cheeks stand out.

Hottie is very attractive, but sexy women are around us all the time.

Once, as I came off the ice, a puck bunny literally flashed her tits at me—just flopped them right out and smashed them against the plexiglass for everyone to see.

Back when I first started, I was dumb enough to be shocked by that kind of stunt.

And yeah, I took what they offered way more times than I’d like to admit.

But now? I’m onto their game.

Some women will do anything to get our attention, share our limelight, or have us spend money on them. And that’s not even mentioning the ones who go full-blown stalker mode.

This one, though—she doesn’t give off that vibe. Not at the bar. Not during our night in that hotel suite.

But now? Now I’m wondering how the hell she ended up on our flight. It’s too convenient. And the longer I stare at her, the more it smells fishy.

Were we wrong about her?

Could she be a gold digger? A puck bunny with an elaborate scheme? Someone looking to screw us over?

I cross my arms. "Interesting how we went from sharing a room a couple days ago to sitting on the exact same flight. Care to explain why you're flying from Newark to Denver?"

"Dude… keep your voice down before passengers start pulling out their cameras," Eric warns, smacking my arm. I shift uncomfortably, hating that he’s right. Thankfully, this isn’t a full flight .

I still need answers. What is she hiding?

If she’s not a gold digger, is she a reporter willing to sleep with the three of us for an exclusive exposé? A member of the paparazzi? Some scandal-hunting opportunist looking to stir up shit?

Because if the hockey world caught wind of our off-ice activities, it wouldn’t just be a minor controversy. It would be a fucking disaster.

Sven, Eric, and I? We aren’t exactly vanilla in the bedroom.

“You don’t have the right to interrogate her,” Sven says, throwing me a glare.

I could throttle him for taking the same tone as Eric. They’re being so na?ve.

Not just any woman would willingly head up to a hotel room with three guys built like us. But she was different. There was something about her, something that set her apart from the rest.

And yet, my gut twists with panic.

Did we just make the biggest mistake of our careers?

Sven must sense my spiraling, because he grips my shoulder, and Eric does the same on the other side. Like they’re trying to keep me from charging .

Meanwhile, the flight attendant helps Hottie to her feet. She’s stable enough, though the movement wracks her chest with coughs. Eric sneezes again.

That flight attendant needs to chill with the disinfectant spray, or whatever it is.

Then, she speaks—hoarse, but steady. “You might not believe me, but I’m heading to Denver for the same reason you are.”

I frown. That makes zero sense.

The only reason we were in Newark was for a charity event—a scrimmage with the Devils to raise money for kids with disabilities.

It’s something I’m genuinely passionate about.

Kids deserve all the support they can get, and if I can use my platform for good, then I’m all in.

But that’s not the issue here. The issue is that Hottie’s claim is driving me up a wall.

The photos and story from the event won’t even hit the press until tomorrow, so unless she’s some kind of media plant looking for more scoop about the piece, what the hell could she possibly mean?

Eric gives her a puzzled look. “Huh?”

She draws in a breath, like she’s about to drop a bomb. “We have the same employer.”

The words slam into me like a body check .

The confusion and anger start to take over, and I feel myself bristling. “What the hell are you talking about?” My voice is tight, controlled, but sharp—like a blade. And this time, neither Sven nor Eric steps in to shut me up. I guess they’re finally on the same page as me.

I’ve got enough on my plate already, with my parents in a senior center losing their memory day after day, and my older sister in Florida who could care less about helping them or me out. I can’t even begin to process this new chaos right now. Hottie? The same employer? What?

“The morning after I… met you,” she says carefully, “I got a job offer from Cecille Chiang.”

Cecille. Our office manager. The one who hires staff for the team.

Hottie lifts her chin. “I’m the Colorado Avalanche’s new massage therapist.”

Bomb dropped.