Page 42 of Puck Love

“And what am I supposed to say on TV?”

“That camping together was an enlightening experience or that it was all about the kids. I’ll work on some verbiage and make it easy. But listen, that’s only one of the reasons I need you in LA.” McD cleared his throat, his excitement bubbling through a cellular connection. “The Kings are interested.”

“In what?”

“In my Aunt Martha’s quilt collection,” he snarked. “You, Milligan. They’re interested in you. They’re losing a star forward next season. Phillips is retiring, and they want a big name. You fit the bill. I know you don’t want to leave Boston, but here’s where I remind you that this is all part of the negotiation process. So pack your bag. I’ll have my secretary book you on a private jet tomorrow.”

“That’s…too soon. I can’t do that.” I scrambled to my feet. “Vinnie needs?—”

“Vinnie will do a flipping cartwheel. Just let him know you’ll be pimping Elmwood with your new best friend, Trinsky. I have business in Atlanta, so I won’t make it to the taping, but I’ll be there for our meeting with the Kings. See you in La-La Land, Milligan.”

I slipped my cell into my pocket, my heart hammering as I watched Dad and Smitty laughing uproariously at the kids chasing the dogs who’d stolen their swim noodles.

This was chaos. The fun kind of life-affirming sweetness that left you with a warm heart and good feels.

A week in LA with at least one day that included my “new best friend” was chaotic chaos or evil chaos—something unsteady, uncertain, and…dangerous.

Trinsky and I hadn’t left on bad terms, but I’d been counting on at least four weeks of calm in Elmwood before he arrived for his yearly coaching stint. I’d even thought about taking those last two weeks off to go on a real vacation—maybe a trip to Europe or the Bahamas or…anywhere that he wasn’t.

But apparently, evil chaos had won this round.

13

TRINSKY

My navy sport coat was so tight at the shoulders, I was in danger of busting at the seams. I couldn’t decide if I needed to lay off the Doritos or ask the wardrobe guy if I could borrow a spare jacket. Or go without.

“You’re fab as is,” the willowy assistant assured me.

I tugged at the sleeves awkwardly. “Are you sure? It feels a little snug.”

“Snug as a bug in a rug with a jug of jalapeño margaritas,” he chirped. “That’s a good thing. Now let’s get you to makeup. This way, sugar.”

This was painful. Not the jacket, but the whole…Hollywood “You look like someone I should know” vibe. Not my scene at all. If there was one consolation, Milligan seemed even more uncomfortable. I’d tilted my chin at him in greeting in the studio lobby, ignoring the jumble of nerves in my stomach. I swore it was the whole live-audience TV thing and not my model-handsome nemesis standing a few feet away, smelling of woodsy cologne and expensive leather.

Jake wore a plaid suit coat with a white oxford shirt, no tie. His dark-blond hair was artfully mussed. He was the picture ofcasual elegance with his stupid blue eyes and friendly demeanor, and…I couldn’t curb the visual of him above me, his arms shaking when I’d gripped his cock.

That had happened. And almost two weeks later, I wasn’t sure how I felt about it.

Okay, untrue.

I felt very good about orgasms as a rule. I didn’t feel so great about Jake, but I honestly had no regrets. If anything, I owed him a huge thank-you for opening my horizons along with my zipper. I’d gotten off with a dude and it had been…amazing.

I was curious enough to want more but aware that it couldn’t happen…unlessit was with Jake.

Again, not a great option. He hated me. To his credit, he was trying to be civil today. He’d shaken my hand and said something about how weird this was, and I’d agreed. Now, here we were, waiting for a PA to call us into the studio for the live taping with orange powdery shit on our faces that was supposed to even out our features. Whatever the fuck that meant.

“Did they give you a script?” Jake asked in a low tone, his gaze locked on the sparkly hosts with giant smiles grinning at the audience.

“A script? No. I think we’re just supposed to answer a couple of inane questions and try to keep it entertaining.”

“You’ll have to do the entertaining. I’m too nervous.”

“You?” I could have admitted that I was too, but I was hardwired to needle him. “Why? You’re on TV all the time.”

Jake nibbled his bottom lip anxiously. “Not like this. These people don’t care about hockey.”

“Well, then make them care. I don’t want to carry this whole two-minute segment myself. I mean, yeah, I’d probably kill it. In a good way. That’s not a brag. I’m just good on my feet and?—”