Page 7 of Pucking Sweet

Wednesday looks like she’d rather be torn apart by wild dogs. “I already have a job, boss. And I don’t do charity work.”

“Yeah, and she sorta scares the shit out of me. No offense,” I add.

“It’s fine,” Wednesday deadpans. “Actually, I take it as a compliment.”

Now it’s Poppy’s turn to huff in frustration, juggling her bag and her still-buzzing phone. Our new PR director is clearly in high demand. “Heavens—fine. Lukas, I suppose I’ll just have to deal withyou myself.”

Dealwith me? Why am I perking up at this? I should definitely still be annoyed, right? Affronted even. And she’d clearly rather sky- dive into a volcano than waste more of her precious time talking to me.

That’s probably why I’m excited . . . God, I’m such an ass.

I smirk. “You’re gonna be my new sexual sensei? You’ll teach me the art of hush-hush hookups? Why, Ms. St. James, you surprise me. They reallyaregonna take away your pearls—”

“I already said to stow the sass, Lukas.” She slings her heavy bag on her shoulder, nearly hitting me with it, her eyes locked on her phone. “Be in my office Monday morning at ten o’clock.”

“I have a better idea,” I tease, my mood brightening at the thought of wasting her time. “Let’s make this an evening affair and say we meet at seven o’clock over at Neptune Beach. I’m thinking the fish camp. Candles on every table. Very intimate . . . and delicious. Are you a raw oyster kind of girl?”

She lowers her phone and glares at me. That little pointed nose of hers looks so cute when she’s annoyed. “This is not a date, Lukas. This is business. Be in my office Monday morning, or Iwillassign you to Claribel and watch as she runs you over with the Zamboni.”

I flash her my most asshole-ish smile. “It’s a date.”

3

“Ugh, that man is infuriating! Everything is a joke to him. Nothing is serious. You’d think he didn’t even care that this kind of behavior could get him traded…again.” I march down the fourth-floor hallway back toward my office, heels clicking. “He’s nothing but a big…a big butt!”

At my side, Claribel snorts. “A butt? Is that the best you can do?”

“Hey, don’t laugh,” I say, eyes on my phone as I shoot off another text to the ticket office manager. “If you grew up with my Nana, you’d be afraid to curse too.”

“Were you looking at his butt, boss?”

“Of course not.”

“There’s no shame if you were,” she teases. “Hockey butts are some of the best butts around. I think it’s all the squats they do. And the lunging. They lunge a lot—have you noticed that?”

I release a weary sigh. “Claribel,pleasestop trying to make me picture the players’ butts. These men are our work associates now. They are hard-working professionals. We are to treat them with respect, and not ogle their…”

“Juicy hams?”

I pause, frowning at her.

“I was just trying to fill in your blank,” she says, raising a hand in surrender. “Gluteus maximus? Is that better? More technical…sounds sportier, right?”

I turn on my heel and keep walking. We have to duck around a painting crew doing touch ups to the fancy new wall mural, sidestepping their buckets and trays.

Mark Talbot spared no expense in designing this new facility, but it’s taken a couple acts of god—and more than a few extra checks—tohave it ready on time. I’m still without internet or a working phone in my office. And the overhead lights keep flickering… something to do with glitching backup generators. But so long as the ice stays frozen for the team to practice, the rest of us are expected to just suffer through these initial growing pains.

This is fine. I love running a public relations department from my cell phone…incurring roaming charges because of the terrible reception inside this bunker of a building…while I sit alone in the dark. It’s all going to be just fine.

I can hear my old Division 1 track coach’s voice inside my head.Mind over matter, Poppy. Winners never quit.

Paint cans rattle as the workmen shuffle out of our way.

“Boss, I can’t make the ten o’clock,” says Claribel, both thumbs feverishly tapping out a message on her phone. “Dale is having some kind of crisis down at warm-up. I need to get down there.”

I pause again. “Wait—what’s at ten o’clock?”

“The meeting with the new Barkley Fellow. You wanted me to get some content for the socials. ‘New Doc on the Block’ and all that—”