Page 19 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

It’s when Wren and I are leaving the restaurant, laughing about the server’s face when we asked for three more of the perfect meat cubes, that Wren spots the paparazzo.

According to her, he’s trailing behind us at a distance, his camera hanging around his neck.

“Maybe someone recognized you in the restaurant,” she says, reaching into her clutch quickly and swiping more lipstick over her lips. How she manages to do it perfectly, and without a mirror, is completely beyond me. “This is great.”

“I don’t think most people would describe being followed by the press as great,” I argue when we get to the crosswalk and have to wait for our light. I’d wanted to get the car and go straight back to the hotel room, but Wren insisted she needed to walk around to help her digest the wagyu.

“Well, it means this night wasn’t a complete waste,” she mutters, glancing over her shoulder subtly, then turning back, looking nearly giddy. “Perfect, come here.”

I’m just in the middle of thinking this night isn’t a waste.

That, secretly, I’ve wanted to try out that restaurant forever, but each time we came to L.A.

, the other guys either wanted to go out to a sports bar or just drink in a hotel suite.

That none of them—especially Callum—would enjoy the experience of trying a bunch of small plates like I would.

And that after a few times of bringing Mandy, trying to make polite conversation, I realized that it would be better not to go at all.

I’m right in the middle of these thoughts when Wren grabs my arm, hefts me to the side, and pulls me into an alleyway.

“Push me against the wall,” she whispers, frantically, eyes darting to the opening of the alleyway.

My heart stutters, then seems to stop in my chest. “What?”

Her face turns back to me, her eyes wide and dark, so many shades of green and gold and blue, lips hypnotic as she says, “Luca—push me against the wall. Quick, before he—”

It’s like my body is tired of my brain being in the way. I step forward, grabbing her by the hips and pinning her against the brick wall. My breath comes quick, and the moment my body presses to hers, our hips lining up, I’m hard.

And I’m certain Wren can feel me against her.

All this, despite the fact that we’re in a filthy alleyway. Despite the fact that under any other circumstance, I would not be turned on right now.

She lets out a little noise at the impact, and when she looks up at me, it’s with this breathless, impossible expression.

Like she wants me to kiss her.

Does Wren want me to kiss her? For the benefit of the paparazzo, who should be coming around the corner any moment now? I should ask her, get clarification, and normally I would…

But nothing about this is normal.

Maybe she moves. Maybe I do—but in the next second, my lips are on hers.

Wren’s warm, and she tastes like champagne from the restaurant.

Like the sugar-coated strawberries they placed on that crystal plate between us, so we could pluck them up and eat them.

Like the whole thing was orchestrated to see how fucking turned on I could get from the sight of her lips stretching around a berry.

What the hell is going on with me?

I’m not this guy—the one who gets hot and bothered from an attractive woman eating.

I’m not the guy who makes out with someone in an alleyway.

Not the guy who wedges his leg between hers, applying pressure and nipping her lip, trailing mine down to her neck when she lets her head fall back against the brick wall.

Wren arches her back, her breasts press into my chest, and her hands rise to grip my shirt, tugging me even closer to her. I work on her neck, scraping my teeth against her collarbone, drowning in the intoxicating scent of her perfume. Smoky, rich.

She tugs on my hair, and I come back to her, our lips meeting again, mouths open. She dips her tongue into mine without pretense or hesitation, and it sends a primal shudder directly up my back.

I have never even really liked that—tongues in mouths. Too sloppy, too messy.

But now, I meet her where she’s at, suddenly wanting to get inside her as far as I can. I want to undo her, unravel her, slide inside and see what she’s like. It’s a sort of ravenous, all-consuming type of hunger I have never experienced before.

And just as it’s ramping up to full strength—just as my fingers start to flit with the hem of her dress, my mind weighing the pros and cons of picking her up and wrapping her legs around my waist—she pulls back.

“That was perfect,” she breathes, a perfectly nonchalant smile on her face. “Did you see the camera flashing?”

I’m still breathing hard, my eyes flitting back down to her lips, brain trying to figure out the quickest path from here to my hotel room. I’m still trying to figure out why in the world we stopped.

“No,” I finally say, clearing my throat and taking a step back from her, glancing to the side. There’s nobody there—nobody taking pictures. And if they were, I wouldn’t have seen them, anyway. “I didn’t.”

“Well, they were!” She’s giddy, a little pep in her step as she fixes her hair and exits the alleyway.

I adjust myself as inconspicuously as I can, following her back out onto the street.

It’s like stepping out into the spotlight after being hidden in the shadows.

Wren is practically twirling, like she’s just delivered the performance of her life.

Maybe she did.

Of course she did—that’s the entire point of this thing. That’s why she told me to push her against that wall, why she was so consumed with whether or not someone was watching us. It was a stunt.

“This is great,” she says, not looking up at me as she pulls her phone from her pocket, already moving on, already texting someone else.

“I promise you, tomorrow morning, those pictures are going to be splashed over every magazine that had the picture of Christie Elle and Mandy. Everything is working out perfectly.”

“Yeah,” I clear my throat, trying to sound as normal as I can despite the way I can’t seem to take my eyes off her. She drifts as she texts, and I slide to the outside of the sidewalk, putting my body between her and the street. “Right.”

***

“Luca.”

I turn, my water bottle in my hand, to find Grayson standing at the edge of the ice in his goalie gear, his eyes serious on me. At first, I think this might be about him—about the kind of stuff he was going through last season. But that’s not it.

“What’s up?” I ask, trying to sound as even as I can. We’re at the end of the first period against the Wild, and my head isn’t all the way in the game.

Which Grayson seems to notice.

“I just wanted to—well, I thought maybe that stuff with Mandy and everything was still getting to you.”

I say nothing, just stare at him as I take another drink of water, trying to figure out how to assure my previously-anxious goalie that I’m totally fine.

I’m totally fine.

I have to be—I’m the team captain. I’m Luca McKenzie.

“If it is,” he plows forward, kind of like a nervous kid coming to his principal.

“You should try to ground yourself. That’s the thing that worked best for me last season.

Like, finding three red things, focusing on your breaths, that kind of thing.

Might help to keep all that shit out of your head. ”

“Thanks, man,” I say, nodding and clapping him on the back. What I really want to say is that he doesn’t have to give me tips—I can handle myself.

But maybe the shit in my head isn’t as hidden as I thought. Callum has been giving me weird looks all night, and even Maverick stopped to give me one of his reassuring little head nods.

We hit the ice. Normally, I’m good at clearing my head.

Normally, the only thing that has ever really mattered to me is hockey, the game.

So it’s never really been that hard for me to stop thinking about whatever else is going on.

Normally, I’d get over the shit with Mandy. With that stupid fucking picture.

But I’m not thinking about Mandy or Christie Elle or the fucking mob of media outside my place.

I’m thinking about Wren.

About the way her body felt against mine, the push of her ribs, the gentle swell of her breasts. Her hips, like living things, in my hands. The sweet sight of that little black dress, and how badly I wanted to peel it off of her.

Obsessively, I’ve thought about what the dress would feel like coming off her body. Last night, I’d tossed and turned, unable to fall asleep. Each time I got close, my brain offered up a tiny little piece of that night—a close-up.

Wren’s breath against my cheek. The sound from her throat when I’d kissed her collarbone. The specific scent of that fucking perfume, haunting me.

The Wild came to play today.

Their line comes at us with an aggressive style, just like Wren said they would. They’re fore-checking roughly, forcing turnovers in our defensive zone. Their center is all over me, stick-checking, bumping, making each connection with the puck a fucking battle.

Maverick calls to me from the blue line as I cycle the puck behind our net, buying time for Cal or Petrov to get open. But when I look up, trying to find an outlet pass, something strange happens to me.

I can’t read the ice.

It only lasts for a split second, but it’s long enough.

The Wild’s winger reads my hesitation perfectly, stepping into the passing lane and picking off my outlet attempt. I scramble back, trying to break up the play before they can get a clean shot.

I only manage to get my stick on the pass at the last second, deflecting it harmlessly into the corner. Vic shouts something from the bench, but I don’t catch it.

I’m being sloppy.

I’m never sloppy.

Hating every fucking minute of it, I take advice from Grayson, focusing on the feel of my skates against the ice. On the cold air filtering into my lungs.

By the start of the third period, we’re tied up. And I decide to lean into the distraction, following the thread of Wren back into what we might say after the game. How she’ll break this down, easily present to me what we could have done better, how we could have picked the Wild apart.

We’re on the defensive with just a minute left in the game. The Wild pull their goalie. The clock ticks down to overtime, and once again, I hear Maverick shout at me.

This time, when my head snaps around toward him, everything is perfectly lined up.

An outlet pass from him, hitting me in stride at center ice.

Nothing but the empty net yawning ahead of me.

When my stick connects with the puck, it’s euphoria. That crisp, flat sensation in the back of my skull, an indication of success.

The puck sails into the goal with thirty-one seconds left on the clock. The buzzer blows, the Wild skate past me with their arms down, pissed off and upset that their play to pull the goalie backfired like this.

Cal slams into me from the left side. “Hell yeah!”

More clapping on my shoulders, more cheering. I try to resist the urge, but it’s like my head is connected to a string, and that string is running straight to Wren Beaumont.

I look up and find her in the stands, on her feet and cheering. When her eyes meet mine, I can’t stop a smile from sliding over my face.