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Tanner
“True or false?” I lean against the 3P piece of gear in question, doing my best not to smirk. “You drew a dick on my stick.”
Hoss resists the urge to smile with minimal effort and keeps her attention plastered in the direction my teammates are approaching from. “You’re standing too close to me.”
“I am not.”
“You’re in my good light.”
“ Again , I am not.”
“Khurana?” she innocently calls to her cameraman lapdog.
“Snowman, you’re in her good light,” he grunts on command prior to elbowing his way between us, “and in my recording space.”
Rather than remain beside him, I swing around to relocate myself to the other side of her, instantly smirking a second time once I’m there. “ Better? ”
“Better would be you on another team.”
“You’d miss me.”
“I’d practice my slapshot to correct that,” she effortlessly retorts.
There isn’t time to respond courtesy of the main reason the girl of my dreams so openly hates me.
“Hi boyssssss,” coos Audrey Hoss upon her entry into the space beside her cart wielding assistant.
Ah, the princess of fuck bunnies – more formally known as my biggest regret – clad in her white leather mini skirt, boots, half-shirt, and Grinch skinned fuzzy coat, ready to lead any and every poor dick-led soul to their inevitable death like she’s a direct descendant of Morgan le Fay herself.
“ You ready to taste for me? ” She seductively purrs at the same time she pushes her black sunglasses into her long, straight locks.
Hoss’s gagging can barely be heard around the hungry grumbles of the boys.
Hey, they’ve been warned.
By coach.
Cap.
Me.
See, there’s puck bunnies – those that wanna hop into our laps simply for lacing up our skates – and fuck bunnies – those that will fuck up your entire existence if you make the mistake of banging one of them.
Puck Bunnies come and go.
Fuck Bunnies come and refuse to go until they’ve left with what they’re after.
Your salary.
Your semen.
Your bloody soul.
“I can’t wait to get on your lips,” Audrey giggles causing her twin to dry heave louder.
“ Can she hear herself? ” I quietly inquire at a hushed volume to the beauty beside me.
“ I wish I couldn’t hear her, ” Hoss swiftly responds.
“One push of a button would make that possible, aye? ”
The corner of her lip twitches upward.
I don’t know anything about why she wears a hearing aid.
None of the boys do.
I’d ask, but I don’t wanna have to have med call in a surgeon to reattach my testicles when I manage to collect the pair from where she’s thrown them on the ice post ripping them off.
“ I wish I couldn’t see her ,” freely leaves me next. “ I mean, is she product testing coffee or one of her Halloween outfits? ” My claim successfully receives her bright, brown eye stare. “ Honestly, I didn’t even know they made a slutty Oscar the Grouch costume. ”
Snickers slip loose against what I imagine is her own volition.
“ Is that a laugh? ” Lighthearted melodies flutter between us, convincing my pulse to unexpectedly speed up. “ Is that what that sounds like coming from you? ”
“ No. ”
“ You’re lying. ”
“ Maybe… ”
“ Definitely. ”
“ I’m not not lying. ”
“Frosssskkkkyyyy,” summons the female who took advantage of my inebriated state well over a year ago, “you wanna go first?”
“No,” I decline without hesitation, annoyance regarding her purposeful cock blocking undeniably in my tone.
“But I want you to.”
“Double no.”
“But I think you should. ”
“I’ll go,” Kyle Goor – or Goory – Jonathan “Becks” Beckerman’s long lettuce having rookie replacement slyly volunteers with a lift of his tanned glove free hand. “I’m more than happy to pop that cherry for you, baby.”
“I wouldn’t mind bein’ the first to put my lips around somethin’ for you, sweetheart,” Kolby Wahl – aka WonderWahl – one of our defensemen wolfishly offers.
“I like to taste,” Matej “Matty” Horák, our Czech forward, eagerly states. “ Vy zvlá?tě ”
Pretty sure – like our teammates – he’s declaring he wants to taste her rather than whatever she’s about to pour into those cups.
And that would be a bloody horrible idea.
Drinking hemlock – ancient Greek style – would be wiser.
“I think our captain should go first, aye?” Shifting focus over to Igor Alexeyev, our 6’5 half-Russian defenseman, is accompanied by a mischievous, crooked grin. “You know. Lead the boys on and off the ice like the fucking beauty you are.”
He doesn’t hesitate to narrow his glare at me.
Wordlessly remind me of the pounding he will happily deliver on the ice for my selfishness.
Eh.
Worth it if Hoss finally begins to believe me about having no interest in her sister.
Because I don’t.
I didn’t when we hooked up, and I damn sure don’t now, and I’m pretty sure the reason all these fucking plugs are even remotely interested is because we collectively told them not to be.
“Not a bad call, Snowman,” our social media instructor surprisingly concurs. “Let’s do this.” Her firm finger point causes her loose fitted, cropped, Dalvegan jacket to dramatically cascade down her slender shoulder, flashing me more skin on her than I’m typically allowed to see, a point my dick would happily make known if it weren’t for my gear. “Let’s pose Audrey behind the cart like she just pushed in it herself, have Cap walking towards the ice like he’s leading the boys to pracky, and we’ll angle the shot so that warmie laps can be used as the backdrop, really capturing that early pre-season essence fans are itching for.”
Fuck, I love when she’s in her element.
Truth bombskie?
Not sure our following would love us off the ice as much as they do if it weren’t for her creative magic.
“How was that little fire crotch that auditioned to be an ice girl this season, Snowman?” Luka Lagunas, Goonie Tune number one, playfully pokes. “She pass her audition with you ?”
Luke Lagunas, Goonie Tune number two, adds to the gibing, “She scratch your itch?”
“We know you like ‘em bendy,” the trouble making pair chirp in tandem.
Chuckles spread throughout the group prompting Hoss to roll her eyes.
Forfuckssake… this is the last shit I needed to add into the mix.
I didn’t sleep with that girl.
In fact, the only actual contact I had with her was picking up her towel that she dropped when I passed by on my way to the weight room.
How or why this is suddenly a rumor or speculation is unknown.
Defense swiftly darts through my tone, “Mate, we didn’t-”
“ Remember , boys, ” Hoss loudly interrupts, “the camera is not here, so just be natural.” They easily settle back down for her. “It’s just you, the LMC representative, and me.”
“Who looks exactly like you,” Jazon Hedgecomb, our starting right wing, needlessly points out.
“Meaning you should be twice as relaxed, Hedgie,” Hoss sasses in a snarky nature. “Can you count that high?”
Laughter effortlessly rolls around the area further proving the other thing that sets her apart from her Chanel wearing clone.
She’s one of the boys.
She gives us shit.
We give her shit.
And we protect her from anyone who isn’t us from treating her like shit.
Teammates aren’t just the ones who lace up with you to hit the ice.
They’re also the ones that have your back on dryland.
The boys – self excluded – pile up in the distant area as instructed while Audrey submissively follows her sister’s instructions regarding which way to shift her figure, the best angles to capture the product as well as the company’s logo, and the best phrasing for keeping the boys relaxed rather than tightened up – a habit most of them fall victim to when speaking on camera versus playing.
Again.
Self-excluded.
Why?
Because unlike most of them, I pracky that shit.
I was raised to believe pracky makes presentable , not perfect.
And presentable is achievable unlike perfection.
Stick taps to my professor father.
“I didn’t sleep with her,” offhandedly leaves me the instant there’s an open opportunity for it to. “I don’t even know her name.”
“Yeah, like you’ve never banged a broadskie whose name you didn’t know.”
“I haven’t.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Well, you’re not telling the truth.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I know hockey players ,” she sourly argues, “I’ve dated a hockey player, and I know your infamous for doing both things.”
“Wait…” curiosity carves itself into my glare, convincing me to lean in a bit closer, “you said the other night you do not date hockey players.”
“ I don’t. ” She cuts me an unhappy glare. “ Because I did. ”
“Shouldn’t you join the rest of the team ?” the cinnamon skinned male on the other side of Hoss grunts at me, severing our conversation. “You know. Over there. ” He kicks his goatee covered chin in the direction of my team. “ Wayyyyy over there. ”
I cockily lean against my stick. “Nope.”
Khurana less than quietly grumbles his displeasure, an action that simply encourages me to grin wider.
Yes.
I’m full fishbowl aware that he wants Hoss like I do.
That he’s always wanted her like I do.
Too bad for him she’s basically The Cup.
Something he’ll never even get to compete for.
Hoss returns her attention forward, flips away one of the dangling strands that’s near her eyes and motions to Khurana to begin filming. Once she gets confirmation, he’s begun, she waves over Cap with two fingers, who awkwardly clomps across the distance.
God, it’s like watching a drunk horse blooper from Spartacus.
“Taste test time with LMC, Cap,” Hoss manages to announce with a straight face. “You up for the challenge?”
“ Da ,” he grunts in tandem with shrugging one shoulder.
“Tell us what you’ve got, Audrey,” she professionally insists.
“Today,” her sister theatrically begins with an eyeroll worthy pout to the camera, “you’ll be testing one of the limited-edition, specialty fall flavors, we’re rolling out in select cities this year, but globally next.” She unnaturally purses her lips again and pours a tiny splash of light brown liquid into one of the cups. “It’s a praline pecan latte.”
He downs the shot only to immediately gag.
Horror doesn’t hesitate to hop onto Audrey’s face as she cowers away from the sight.
“Not a fan, Cap?” Hoss lightly laughs unlike her twin.
“ Nyet. ”
“What is your favorite fall drink?” she asks at the same time he crunches the empty cup.
“ Sbiten ,” he effortlessly answers prior to throwing away the object and resuming his trek to the ice.
“Traditional Russian drink,” I quietly inform the woman in charge of the situation.
Hoss motions for the next player to come up, which is Thayne Groff our best tendy. The instant he’s in camera range, she good-naturedly goads, “Groffee, the one and only king of coffee!”
“I’m like Folgers, snipe. I know what belongs in your cup.”
He’s so fucking weird.
I think it’s a tendy thing.
Every goalie I’ve ever met always is.
Her smile naturally widens for him, and it’s impossible not to grunt in jealousy. “And what’s your favorite fall drink?”
“Caramel apple iced- coffee,” he joyfully exclaims. “French press me, baby!”
“Did not see that ‘ish coming.”
“Nah, that’s my job,” our goalie flirtatiously winks.
He can fuck right off with that shit.
He’s not her type.
Or…at least…I don’t think he is.
I don’t really know.
I’ve never seen her with anyone.
Or trying to get with anyone.
Huh.
Wonder why that is.
“And what do you think of the latte?”
Groffee politely nods at Audrey in gratitude upon taking the offering, chugs back the shot, and loudly smacks. “Not bad.” He licks the remains off his lips. “I’d let Matty buy me a cup.”
Laughter over a pracky incident from last season becomes his exit and another player’s entrance.
It doesn’t take long for the process to find smooth pacing. One by one, each player arrives at the table, casually talks to or jokes with Hoss, drops their opinion on the drink, and hits the ice.
There’s no resistance on their part.
There never is.
Again.
Being around her is like being around the boys.
You feel at ease.
Accepted.
I can’t speak for them, but I know that’s the type of shit I’m always after.
“Your turn, Snowman,” Hoss declares, smile – to my surprise – still lingering. “Get into the game.”
“I will, if you will,” I suggest with a crooked grin and waggle of the eyebrows.
“How often does that line actually work for you, bud?”
“Come on, Hoss,” a gentle nudge with my elbow is executed, “you know what The Great One said about taking shots.”
Yet again to my surprise, she continues to beam. “You referencing his most famous quote or his less famous one?”
“Whichever one keeps you looking at me like that.”
Redness faintly hits her cheeks at the same time her teeth sink into her bottom lip.
Well, fuckme .
Is Gretzky unknowingly giving me an assist?!
“ Fine ,” Hoss casually caves.
Holy shit, he did!
He really is the greatest player of all time.
Only he could be providing an apple and not even be in the fucking barn to do it.
Strolling into frame prompts Audrey to not only pour me a drink but move closer.
Uncomfortably close.
The level of uncomfortable close that swaps her twin’s smile for a sneer.
“Looks like we’ve saved the best for last,” states the underdressed female on the other side of the cart.
“We certainly did,” I effortlessly reply while extending the beverage to the woman I anxiously want to stop hating me. “There is no better taste tester than, Hoss. She’s effing fearless, aye?”
Hoss firmly presses her lips together to prevent her smile from returning.
“What else do you call a woman willing to try Scotch bonnet chili peppers on her poutine?”
Snickers over the food challenge most of the boys failed last spring during playoffs are immediate.
And more importantly, louder than their predecessors.
“ Daft ,” Audrey retorts in a blatant effort to kill the moment.
“Quit trying to sound like someone you’re not,” Hoss viciously bites back. “I already get enough of that in my life thanks to Snowman pretending to be British.”
“I’m not pretending to be British.” Picking up the tiny paper cup barely precedes the claim, “However, I actually am Doctenn.”
“Not a real country.”
“It is a real country.” It’s impossible not to let mirth skate across my expression. “And you know that.”
“Of course she knows that,” interjects Audrey. “Our company has several locations all across it.”
“Your company?” The lukewarm beverage stops mid soar to my lips. “What do you mean your company?” This time she successfully receives all my attention. “Are you not simply an LMC representative?”
She slowly shakes her entire body. “We are LMC.”
“What?!”
“It’s our family’s company,” Audrey continues to explain. “Publicly catered-”
“ Traded. ”
“-but our family started it and still owns the vast majority of shares and makes all the cooperation-”
“ Corporate. ”
“-decisions.”
My face instantly snaps back to Hoss. “ You’re our team’s biggest sponsor?!”
“I wanted to be the team’s owner – so I could fire you – but Hennington wasn’t willing to sell.”
Uncertainty regarding whether or not she’s joking is easy to glide past in order to ask, “Does she know who you are?”
“Of course.”
“Did you?!” I toss my question to her lackey. “ Before now? ”
“Yup,” he smugly answers.
“Do the boys?!”
“ No. ” All of a sudden, her voice dips to an uncomfortably meek tone. “And I don’t want them to know.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t want them to treat me any differently.”
“They wouldn’t.”
“They would , just like they did Peck the second they realized it’s his family’s company that basically supplies the entire league with equipment.”
Yeah.
Having your rookie’s name basically on all your shit is fucking strange.
Like right under your tendy wearing neon suspenders strange.
However, we got past it.
We can get past this.
“It’s been hard enough gettin’ everyone to forget the fact that I’ve got tits instead of testies and that the thing in my ear is an aid and not a cuff.” Her headshake is small yet painful. “I don’t need more reasons to stick out like a fucking bender.”
“ You’re a fucking beauty, Hoss. ”
Her mouth immediately cracks open in silent objection.
“ And fuck the boys if they can’t see that. ”
For the first time – ever – I see the shit I’ve been working so hard to fucking see.
Belief.
Ignoring the snow that shit kicks up in the pit of my stomach takes a Bench Boss in the sky miracle only made easier by her quiet pleading, “I’m trusting you to keep your mouth shut about this, Tanner.”
“I will if you keep calling me Tanner.”
The twitched glare is sprinkled with a bit of amusement.
“When the boys aren’t around,” I slyly add, wanting something else that’s just between us.
Something that can be just ours.
“When it’s just us. ”
“It’s never just us.”
“When it’s practically just us.”
“Fine.”
“ And if you let me call you Arden.”
“Too much,” she swiftly surrenders and prepares to storm away. “I’ll just take the L and tell ‘em myself.”
“ Wait.Wait.Wait.Wait.Wait, ” clumsily comes out of my mouth, cutting off her movements. “Just the Tanner thing is plenty.”
Hoss victoriously smirks and lifts her cup towards mine for clinking. “Deal.”
“Deal.” I tap mine against hers and quickly down the mixture to assist in hiding my grin.
Because I wanna fucking grin.
And gloat.
And stick tap myself for the major gino.
Getting anywhere with Arden Hoss is like being dubbed top of the conference, which is why getting everywhere with her will feel like winning the fucking Cup.
And I’ve never wanted anything this bad in my life.
Not even the actual cup.
“ Well? ” purrs Audrey too close to my ear. “ Is it for you? ”
Rather than reply to her I keep my gaze locked with the twin I’ve always been after. “I wouldn’t mind drinking it with my one and only first thing in the morning.”
There’s a clear urge to smirk that she undeniably fights by biting her bottom lip. “And um…” she flicks the strands away from her eyes once more, “what’s your favorite fall drink, Frosky?”
“Wanna know?” Knowing I’ve got her full attention effortlessly leads to me needing to keep it, so I look directly into the camera and cockily wink. “ Gotta watch my show. ”
“Stick taps for the segue, Snowman.”
“That hurt, Hoss?” The corner of my lips kick up even higher at the same time I begin to retreat towards the ice. “Saying something genuinely nice to me?”
“Definitely hurt.” It’s her turn to faintly beam. “ But not injured. ”
GordieHowegivemestrength to not royally fuck this up.
“Those are synonyms ,” criticizes Audrey in obvious irritation.
“Not in hockey,” I offhandedly correct while maintaining unbreakable eye contact with Hoss. “ And not to the woman I wanna see wearing my number by the end of the season. ”