Page 25 of My Pucking Enemy (The Milwaukee Frost #4)

Luca

We win the next five games in a row.

If it weren’t for the fact that Wren and I are publicly dating, and not one of them wants to cross me, I’m convinced half the team would be in love with her.

Every time she pulls one of them aside and tells them exactly what they need to do to improve their play—to beat their direct opponent in an upcoming game—I can practically see their heart eyes beating for her.

Our strategy sessions continue on as they’ve been going, and every morning when I see her, something lights up in my chest. At night when I’m alone at my house, I wish she was with me. Wonder if I could talk her into coming over.

I wonder what it would be like for her to sit at the breakfast bar while I cook. What it would be like just to know that she was in the other room—that each time I have a thought, I could find her and share it, rather than having to text her.

And one night, when I pick my phone up, thinking about the Penguins and their strong defense, I don’t send her a text.

“Luca McKenzie,” Wren says, and I have the feeling she knows the effect it has on me. “Is this a booty call?”

A shock runs through me, and my cock twitches in excitement.

I didn’t know booty calling was an option. Even though I hate the term, I don’t hate the idea of it. Especially if it would get Wren over here at my place, in my bed.

Hell, I’d give anything to wake up next to her again. She’s been so casual about what happened that night at my parents’ house, and this is just another example of it. Like the sex meant nothing to her.

Maybe it didn’t.

Wren doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who gets attached. The kind who falls in love after a one-night stand.

Was that what happened between us?

“Luca?” she asks now, drawing me out of my thoughts and reminding me that I called her. “Are you there?” She pauses, laughing to herself, “Wait, it’s not a booty call, but a butt dial.”

“Hilarious,” I say, but my mouth is dry. How can she be so casual about this? Without a clear read on the situation, it feels like I’m coming apart at the seams. “It’s not a butt dial. I’m calling you about the Penguins.”

There’s rustling on the other end of the line. “Oh, perfect—just let me grab my notes.”

I picture her—realizing I don’t even know where her apartment is, let alone what it looks like on the inside—grabbing her notes, uncapping her pen, and sticking the end of it in her mouth. No matter how many times I’ve reminded her how disgusting and germy those things are, she does it anyway.

We talk for an hour, and I settle back onto the couch, my fingers laced over my chest, head tipped up to the ceiling, eyes shut.

It’s less about the Penguins and more about the sound of Wren’s voice.

It scratches at something inside me, soothing, like a TV show you’ve seen a million times.

Something so familiar and comfortable that you could fall asleep to it.

Even though we’ve barely known each other for six months, and I was highly suspicious of her for the first one.

“In other news,” she says, veering sharply from a discussion about the strategy they’re going to use on us, “the internet is eating us up. I’ve seen like four TikToks about the whole thing just today.”

“Is that a good thing?” I pause, think. “And isn’t TikTok for teenagers?”

“Oh my god, wait—how old are you?”

“Are you saying you didn’t Google me?”

“Google can be wrong. Are you one of those guys who’s secretly super old and nobody knows it?”

“First, I’m not sure that’s a thing. And second—would I be able to play hockey still if I was super old?”

“Romaine smoothies, apparently.”

“They’re good,” I protest, regretting ever telling her about my smoothie ingredient choices. “And lettuce is scientifically proven to help you sleep.”

“Are you having troubles sleeping? I didn’t notice that at your parents’ house.”

Throughout the conversation, it’s felt like we’ve been slowly dancing our way towards the topic. Now that she’s brought it up, I have two options. I can ignore the in and steer us back toward something safe, like work.

Or I can push us even closer to it.

“You didn’t notice because you were out cold.” I choose to dance right into the fire with her. Did she fall asleep so quickly because of what we’d done together? I have an itch to find out if she always tuckers out after.

As an afterthought, I add, “And clingy.”

Wren laughs, the sound a quick one-two “ha-ha” that rings through the phone and makes me swallow. “Clingy?”

“What?” I roll onto my side, setting the phone on the couch cushion by my head, feeling a little bit like a teenage girl on a TV show, swinging her legs and talking to her crush. “Nobody’s ever told you that you’re very touchy-feely while sleeping?”

“I don’t remember you thinking that was a problem.”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Heat spreads over my body, and I dig my palms into the cushion to sit up, like I can’t handle something like this laying down. From the other end of the line, I can hear Wren start to laugh.

“Relax, Luca. I’m just fucking with you.”

“Right,” I try to stay casual, keep my voice light, but my entire body is hot, and I can’t stop thinking about that night when she was rubbing my cock.

That night, she’d straddled me, her hips moving against me, communicating the implication of another orgasm on the horizon. One that didn’t happen. Or—if it was later, after we left the nursing home—one I wasn’t there for.

And I want to be there next time.

“Well,” she says, yawning loudly, and when I glance at the time on my phone, I realize it’s way too late—hours past my bedtime. All this time on the phone with her, and I didn’t manage to coerce her into coming to my place.

Once, Wren playfully told me that I’d coasted through relationships on my good looks alone. I was telling her about dating in college, how girls asked me out and came to my hockey games, and she said that my “game” came down to looking the way I did.

A positive puff for my ego, even with the insult woven in. She said that ugly guys have better game because they actually have to be charming. Flirt well. And I’d never learned about the push and pull because women just fell into my lap.

But I don’t want a push and pull. I want to be straightforward, just tell Wren what I want from her.

Before I can figure out what that is and communicate it, Wren says, her voice soft, “Good night, Luca.”

Disappointment courses through me, but I stamp it down, closing my eyes and thinking of her.

“Good night, Wren.”

I put my phone on the charger and go through my bedtime routine. First vitamins, then brushing my teeth. While washing my face, I think about Wren’s hair between my fingers.

I massage hair serum onto my scalp and think about her hips in my hands.

When it’s all done, I force myself not to return to my phone. Even though she might have texted me, I don’t need to look. I can answer her in the morning.

I climb into bed, and I’ve barely pulled the comforter up to my chin before my hand is drifting toward the waistband of my pajama pants.

***

The Frost take out the Penguins without a hitch.

Despite the fact that our “strategy” phone call quickly deviated from the actual conversation, we still come out strong and follow Wren’s plan, pumping Maverick and the other D-men up to attach their offense full-force. The Penguins’ weak point.

It’s not the most elaborate strategy we’ve ever come up with, but with the skill and talent on this team, strategy is just extra. We’ve hit our stride with everyone on the same page.

Or, as Wren puts it, in alignment.

I’m just walking out of the locker room, trying to figure out if there’s a way I can get Wren alone—or even to come over to my place tonight—when an arm hooks through mine.

“You ready, man?” Cal asks, tugging me in the opposite direction of the employee parking lot. I follow him, but only because he’s caught me by surprise.

This can’t be good, and when we hit the door leading out to the lot, icy snow glistening just through the doors, I ask, “Ready for what?”

He grins. “Wren asked me to get you all ready—it’s a surprise.”

Cal knows exactly how I feel about surprises.

He walks me over to his car and urges me to get in, and twenty minutes later we’re at my place, Cal insisting I change into something a “little nicer.”

“Wren didn’t say anything about this to me.” I poke my head out the bathroom door and glare at Cal. Why would she set up a surprise without talking to me? She knows perfectly well how much I hate surprises, and that’s probably the primary motivation behind her cooking this up.

Whatever this is.

“Dude,” he laughs, “did you forget what the word surprise means?”

When I’m out of my sweats and into a nicer outfit, wearing cologne and with product in my hair, Cal ushers me back out of the house and into his car again to head downtown.

And the moment we pull up, I see the others standing outside on the street, bouncing on their heels, clearly eager to go inside.

Grayson stands with his arm around Astrid, and Ruby and Maverick are shoulder-to-shoulder, staring down at a phone together.

There are a couple of other guys from the team and a few girls I don’t recognize, all jostling around to keep warm.

When we park and walk up to the door, the crowd shifts, and I see Wren right in the middle of them, wearing nowhere near enough clothing for the temperature out here.

“What are you doing?” I ask when I’m close enough that she can hear me. “It’s freezing out here. You need—here—”

“Aw, what a good boyfriend,” Sloane drawls, then she turns and whispers something to Astrid that sounds like, “He never gave his jacket to Mandy.”

“Keep it,” Wren says, laughing and pushing my jacket back toward me, “we’re going inside, you goof ball.”

It’s when I’m folding and tucking my jacket over my arm that I really see her. Wearing a tight little black dress, a leather jacket, and a pair of tall leather boots laced halfway up her calves. Her hair is different than normal, puffy and crimped, and her eyes are lined with thick eyeliner.

“Are you trying out a new look?” I whisper, leaning down and basically pressing my lips to her ear as we’re shuffled through the door. Cal holds up his phone, scanning something for entry.

“Why?” Wren asks, reaching up and grabbing my shirt to peck me on the cheek, her eyes shining up at me. “You like it?”

I don’t have a chance to tell her I do, because then we’re stepping through the tight entryway and a huge warehouse opens up in front of us.

“What is this?” I breathe. I drop my hand from her shoulder and try to take it all in—rows and rows of vendors, layered food smells, laughter and talking echoing throughout the space.

“Milwaukee Fine Dining Fair,” Wren says, spinning around and fixing her eyes on me. Something runs the full course of me—from the very top of my brain all the way down to the soles of my feet, like I’ve been struck by lightning. Maybe she can see the effect she has on me, or maybe she can’t.

She just smiles and says, “Sorry, it’s a really late Christmas gift.”

“Didn’t know you were into this kind of stuff,” Cal says, slinging his arm around my neck. “But this looks like fun, man.”