Page 6 of Her Puck Daddies (Game On Daddies #2)

AVA

I don’t know if all massage therapists for professional sports teams are like this or if it’s because I was hired at the last minute, but two days later during the official start of training, I have to hit the ground running.

Cecille schedules me a full slate of players to be worked on, each at least the size of the men I’m already familiar with.

There is one caveat, however. When I spot the names Sven Hinter, Eric Schwartz, and Levi Corolla on my schedule, my hands shake with nerves. How accepting of this will they be? Will it be strange touching them again, or will I— we —somehow manage to push past it?

And, more importantly… how the hell am I supposed to resist, knowing they were the ones who opened my eyes—and my body—to a whole new world of pleasure? The kind that still lingers in my skin, my muscles, my deepest, most wicked cravings .

My entire first day flies by in a blur of hockey players rotating through the bench the league has provided me.

Forwards who claim they’re centers or wingers—I have no clue what any of it means, or what type of forward Sven is—along with defensemen, who I learn can play left or right, just like forwards.

None of them give me trouble. Some are jokesters, some are all business, but none of them affect me quite like the men I’ve already met.

As the moment approaches and I see the first familiar name on my schedule, I do everything I can to steady myself.

Stay calm. Be professional. Act like seeing him again doesn’t make my core heat.

Or, at the very least, pretend I haven’t spent an embarrassing amount of time working on everyone else while secretly wondering if he still fucks like a god.

By the time of his appointment, I’ve got soft music playing and flameless, unscented candles flickering—much safer than real ones that could burn the place down.

That would definitely make an impression.

.. just not the kind I’m going for. Plus, I use the flameless ones to be considerate of any sensitivities or allergies to certain scents.

But all my preparations are for nothing. Levi stands me up.

I try not to let it annoy me. Maybe something else came up, like an appointment with a trainer or a physical with an M.D.

But I remember with vivid clarity how Levi glared daggers at me when he spotted me on that plane.

If looks could’ve murdered me, I’d be six feet under.

Still, I force myself to stay focused and get through the day, taking care of the other players who actually show up for their appointments.

Even then, I get hit with another curveball.

One of them, a forward named Bowers, gets pulled because he hurt himself during practice and needs an X-ray.

I tell myself this could’ve happened with Levi, too.

But the difference is, I was informed about Bowers' situation. No one—including Eric—saw fit to tell me about Levi’s status.

Not even after his appointment time passed with no word.

I continue with the others, memorizing their injuries and staying sharp.

A left winger named Berlinski has a shoulder that’s been dislocated, so I alter my treatment regimen with him to keep from damaging anything further.

One of the defenseman, Adam Gorsh, is a veteran of over a decade and a half and has a lot of wear and tear.

ACL surgeries on each knee. AC joint separation.

An ankle sprain on the right side. Yet he shows up, and when I start working on him, he actually comments on how my hands feel better than Greg’s .

“You actually know what gentle means,” Adam states, sighing as I palpate his old shoulder injury without causing him any pain. “I appreciate that.”

Adam makes me feel accomplished, like I’m finally making a real impact on these players.

For the first time since I got here, there’s a bounce in my step and a spark of joy in my chest. Helping people feels good, and even though I started this career because it was what Dean did, there’s something deeply satisfying about easing their pain.

I’m on a high, more optimistic and upbeat than I’ve been all day. That is, until four o’clock rolls around and I’m faced with another no-show. The player? Eric Schwartz.

Great . Just what I needed.

Despite my best efforts to stay focused, my mind betrays me, dragging me back to that night—the night his mouth wrecked me in the best fucking way.

I can still feel it, the way I straddled his face, his tongue sliding through my slick heat, lapping up every desperate pulse of arousal like he was starving for it.

He was ruthless, sucking my clit so mercilessly it had me sobbing his name, completely undone.

He was determined to make a mess out of me, and by the time he did, I was trembling, shattered by the most intense orgasm of my life .

But that wasn’t the end—it was just the warm-up. A filthy tease for what was coming next.

Because then came Sven and Levi, and they weren’t about to take it easy on me. They took their time, worked me open, pushed me past every limit I thought I had, breaking me down just to build me back up. By the time they were through, I wasn’t just spent—I was ruined.

Damn.

As the memory lingers and my body hums with unwelcome heat, I roll my eyes at myself for losing control. The idea of working with wet panties for the rest of the day wasn’t part of the plan, and I’m not about to let my traitorous mind take me off course.

Eric is supposed to be my last client of the day. When fifteen full minutes crawl by with no signs of him, I’m left in limbo—stewing in uncertainty, debating whether I should keep waiting like an idiot or take the hint.

Maybe this is the hint.

Now that I think of it, I haven’t laid eyes on Levi, Eric, or Sven since I landed. And honestly? It doesn’t matter.

I clop my way home, kick off my shoes, and collapse onto the futon that came with the apartment. But instead of unwinding, my mind locks onto one thing—their absence. The lack of Levi and Eric today gnaws at me, unsettling and impossible to ignore.

What if this isn’t a one-off? What if they keep this up?

Won’t Coach eventually check in on each player’s progress? And when he does, what the hell am I supposed to tell him?

What if Sven ghosts me, too?

Am I supposed to say that three of his star players have suddenly stopped showing up? That it has nothing to do with injury and everything to do with the fact that we spent one filthy, unforgettable night together before I even knew how famous they were?

Not that I’d ever admit that. I’ve made my share of mistakes—some impulsive, some regrettable—but I refuse to be the reason all four of our careers go up in flames.

I spend most of the night staring at the ceiling, tossing and turning, unable to shake the uneasy feeling curling in my stomach. And it’s not the shitty futon cushion keeping me up.

It’s the what-ifs .

What if I wrecked any chance at professionalism before I even started? What if I hadn’t walked into that bar in Newark? If I could rewrite the past, maybe I would. Maybe I wouldn’t.

But what makes my chest tight with frustration isn’t just regret—it’s the fact that they’re acting like this is all my fault.

By the time morning rolls around, I do what I do best. I fake it.

A bright, chipper smile, an upbeat good morning as I step into work, and a grateful acceptance of the surprisingly decent breakroom coffee like it’s a lifeline.

God knows I need it. My sustenance lately has been laughable—chips, single-serving microwave meals, bottled water.

It’ll do until I get paid. I stir in some half-and-half, adding a few packets of sugar, letting the motion distract me. A breath. A moment of calm. And then—

A familiar voice.

I stiffen before I even look.

Sven.

He moves through the room like he owns it, his presence effortless, his voice smooth and unbothered. And then Cecille introduces us.

I brace myself, pulse kicking up .

And just like that, he looks at me—cool, composed, unreadable—and does a damn good job of pretending he doesn’t know me.

Especially not biblically.

“Nice to make your acquaintance, but I better get on the ice.”

Regardless, I fully expect a repeat of what happened with his teammates. If Levi and Eric didn’t bother to show, there’s no reason to think Sven will, either. I even consider shuffling my schedule around, adjusting my roster of players just to avoid dealing with another empty appointment slot.

Good thing I don’t. Because when the clock ticks over to 10:00 AM, the captain himself saunters right through my door like he owns the place.

I’m so shocked that initially, I stand there as frozen as Blucifer. The only difference? At least my reputation isn’t nearly as infamous.

He closes the door behind him before he speaks.

“Hey, Ava. Where do you want me?”

I gesture toward my table. “Go ahead and get undressed and cover yourself with the blanket facing down, and I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. ”

He nods.

I return to find him lying down as instructed. I rub some massage oil over my hands before I begin.

“Are you having any pain?” Sven’s records indicate that he has an ACL tear on his left side along with the typical bumps and bruises that come with the sport. Seems no one gets out of playing hockey without damage.

“Not today.”

“Pressure okay?” I ask, as I start at the cervical curve of his spine and work downward.

“Pressure’s great.”

I continue, and after that initial hesitation, I’m able to work myself into a routine pattern with him.

Maybe due to Sven’s features not being visible, it’s easy to pretend he’s just another player who I don’t really know.

At least until it’s time for him to flip from a prone position into a supine one.

“Okay. Can you turn face up for me?”

He does, and I carefully readjust his blanket, making sure nothing is exposed.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve seen it all before, felt it before.

That I’ve had him stretching me open, filling me in a way that left me breathless.

I don’t need the reminder, so keeping the impressive size of his kibbles and bits concealed is absolutely necessary.

I swallow as soon as he stills, my gaze skittering away from his face. But even avoiding direct eye contact doesn’t help, because he’s still there—all golden hair and defined lines, impossible to ignore even in my peripheral vision.

By the time I get to his knees, my attention catches on the scarring—an inch and a half of raised tissue from the surgery he had to endure. A wound that wouldn’t heal by any other method. It should be what holds my focus, what keeps me grounded in professionalism.

And yet, my mind strays.

Regardless of the circumstances now, I still remember.

Too well. The heat of his skin against mine, the way every ridge and vein of his cock stretched me just right, filling me to the edge of delicious torment.

I remember the sharp gasp that tore from my lips when he slammed into me from behind, his length so deep I could feel it in my lower belly.

The way he claimed me inch by inch, relentless, unyielding.

It was that perfect balance of pain and pleasure—enough to leave me clawing at the sheets, begging for more, for harder , until he fucked me into complete submission.

But I shove that recollection aside .

Because this? This is just an appointment. A routine session with an athlete like any other. And as long as we don’t address the past, we can both pretend that nothing between us ever happened.

Even if my body remembers every single second of it.

I lift the corners of my mouth in a slight smile. “All finished.”

“What, seriously?”

I raise a brow at him. “Yes, seriously. It’s been 50 minutes.”

“You mean, you’re not going to give me a happy ending?”

And just like that, all the blood drains from my face.