Page 5 of Pucking Sweet

Sure, forhimshe coos like an angel.

He gives a nervous laugh. “Right. I’ll remember one of these days.”

“AmIallowed to call you Poppy?” I ask.

She turns back to me, her every feature sharpening. Fuck, it’s terrifying how she can just turn it on and off like that. “That remains to be seen. Shall we?” She gestures with her free hand, daring me to walk ahead of her toward some private location. But I’ve seen this all before. This is the moment in the horror movie where the jock boy- friend named Jason goes down into the cellar alone. No way. I’m not dying like that.

“I’m good right here,” I dare to say, crossing my tattooed arms. I lean my hip against the massage table. “There’s nothing you could say to me that you can’t say in front of my good friend Teddy.”

Poor Teddy glances between us, looking like he’d rather follow Langers out the nearest exit. At Poppy’s shoulder, Wednesday smirks.

Fuck.

I see the flash in Poppy’s eyes as she steps forward, pressing right up in my space. “Alright then. Here it is.” She plops her heavy bag down on the empty massage table and turns her back on Teddy, glaring fiercely up at me. It’s so cute how she has to craneher neck. I’m at least a foot taller, even when she’s in her heels. “Stow the smile, Lukas. This isn’t a courtesy call. It’s a formal reprimand.”

Am I smiling? I think I must be. I clear my throat, wiping the smile from my face as I drop my arms to my sides. “Of course. Give me a second to warm up first, yeah?” I bounce on the balls of my feet and roll my shoulders. “Right. I’m ready. Lay into me. Just not the face, okay? Gotta look pretty for my roster pictures later.”

“Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it? You can’t take anything seriously—not your career, not your reputation, certainly not the reputation of this team.”

I stiffen, my good mood souring. “I’d argue that you don’t know

me—”

“Oh, I know you, Lukas Novikov. I’ve known cocky showboats like you my entire life. You think I haven’t been following your career— on and off the ice? You think I didn’t do extensive research on every player on this team, every member of the support staff? I have a dossier on you back in my office. You want to know what the top page says?”

“Enlighten me.”

She squares her shoulders, ready to fire her sharpest arrow. “It’s a personal note from your last PR manager that says, ‘he’s your problem now.’”

Shit. Not gonna lie, that fucking hurts. It shouldn’t. The Bruins PR team were a bunch of no-fun Nancys. But hearing Poppy say the words feels like taking a cross check to the chest with no protective pads.

“Is that what you’re going to be, Lukas? Are you determined to be my problem? Because I have to tell you here and now that if that’s what you want, you will be sorely disappointed.”

Something dark and heavy roils in my gut. “Before you tear me a new asshole, why don’t you back up a step and start by telling me what great sin I committed?”

She raises a brow, obliging me by backing away. “Fine. Claribel?”

Wednesday steps in on her left, flashing me her phone screen. She swipes with her thumb, and I see pic after pic of me from the party last night. Gotta be honest, the details are a bit fuzzy. All I remember was being bored at home around nine o’clock and callingsome of the guys out to that rooftop bar. None of the married guys came, of course. It was just me and some rookies who all quickly got shit-faced and left me with the bill.

All around, it was a pretty shitty night.

I laugh. “Seriously? That’s what you’re so mad about? It was just a private party—”

“That every single bunny in attendance photographed to kingdom come,” Poppy cries with a dramatic wave of her hand. “And posted all over every social site and fan group. Now the city is calling you all a bunch of playboys and party animals.”

“Wow.” I drag a hand through my short hair. “I didn’t take this team’s management for a bunch of prudes. You know we’re allowed to have a little pre-season fun, right? We’re allowed to have private lives too—or is that banned in the contract I signed?”

“Private implies just that,” she counters. “You think I care that you flounce around from bunny to bunny every night?”

“Hey, I don’t flounce. I wouldn’t even know how to flounce—”

“You think it bothers me one iota that you drink and party and otherwise waste away all your free time in the dark corners of seedy bars and clubs? I don’t care, Lukas. It’s your life. Do what you want with it. Just keep it off the front pages of the gossip rags and fan sites.”

“What do you want me to do? I can’t stop the bunnies from taking pictures—”

“Yes, youcan,” she insists. “This is simple PR. You want to throw a private rooftop party? Fine. But make itprivate. Have security at the stairs and confiscate phones. They can’t post the pictures they don’t take. As for your constant dalliances, all this ‘take a number’ like you’re a one-man deli counter has to stop. There’s this nifty little device called an NDA. Have all your lady friends sign them—preferablybeforethe miniskirts come off. If your lawyer doesn’t have a template ready, I can provide one my clients have used in the past.”

I blink down at her, my anger fizzling. “Wait—what are you doing?”