Joey

Hockey doesn’t come naturally to me. I grew up in a place where three snowflakes would shut down the entire state. The extent of my experience with hockey was chasing a tennis ball down the street with a broken broom.

But I’m so fucking pissed that his royal cheerfulness just cock-blocked me that I’m going to mop the ice with his face.

I think.

Probably.

Just as soon as I come down off this happy cloud Zeus’s fingers put me on.

Holy shit.

I came so hard, I thought my vagina was going to flip inside out.

He sets me down on the ice, where my rubbery legs almost give out on me. He catches me under the armpits with a grin that nearly fries my motherboard. “You got this, Fireball.”

Know what he has?

He has a bulge in his pants that can probably be seen from the International Space Station.

And it’s making my very satisfied pussy pop another lady boner.

Zeus Berger is more than hot air.

It’s been a long time since I’ve cared if a man ever pops my cherry, but if I leave this town without screwing that man’s brains out, I’m going to be a bitch to live with.

And I’m already a bitch to live with.

I lean around Zeus and point to Manning, who’s accompanied by Ares, Jett, and Ambrosia. “I get the Bergers. You get the leftovers.”

“Hardly sporting,” he says with that shit-eating grin.

“Fuck sporting.”

“Tough chicks on my team,” Ares says.

“I’m gonna eat you for breakfast,” Ambrosia tells Jett.

He smirks in a way that suggests she already did.

They pile onto the ice, every last one of them steady in their skates.

“Don’t you dare fucking miss another goal,” I growl at Zeus.

He adjusts himself and grins at me again. He’s pushing six-nine, broad as a house, but when he smiles—I shiver.

That smile packs the punch of a hundred men.

Because Zeus Berger doesn’t do anything small.

He pushes away from me with a grace impossible to ignore. His Predators T-shirt is stretched to its limits over his thick arms and barrel chest, and his skin’s hot despite the cool temperature in the rink.

And his fingers—I shiver again.

He might’ve just ruined me for dildos.

He retrieves both our sticks while Ares collects the pucks, eyeing each like he’s considering taking a bite.

Jett and Ambrosia circle each other, flirting and laughing. Manning checks the goals.

All of them are clearly in their element on the ice.

I’m going to land on my ass before this game’s even started.

Zeus turns back and watches me as I once again get my bearings. He’s a leopard in the rink, just as likely to pounce and play as he is to pounce and eat. His feet aren’t still—I suspect the only time this man is still is when he’s asleep, and maybe not even then—and his eyes are locked on me as though he knows I’m thinking about him.

Or possibly as though he knows I’m going to bruise my tailbone and probably get squished by my own teammates and land in the wrong goal before the next fifteen minutes are over.

I’m bad at a few things.

Knitting. Baking. Putting up with bullshit. Driving. Yeah, I’ve got a lead foot and I can’t park for shit. Shut up. I can make your ass puke in an airplane too.

Point is, I know where I’m good and where I’m bad.

And those three goals aside, I’m going to suck eggs on this hockey rink.

Doesn’t mean I’m not going to try though.

I’ll own sucking before I whine my way through not trying.

Zeus skids to an easy stop next to me. “Four on two isn’t very fair,” he says.

“He looked at my sister wrong,” I say, because hell if I’ll admit to knowing I’m going to suck. Also, I need the rage—which I’m struggling to actually locate in this post-orgasmic bliss still making my legs wobbly—to fuel my game.

I punctuate my statement with another slip on the ice. He steadies me, heat shoots from my armpits to my love muffin, and I grip his arm.

I don’t want to play hockey.

Not ice hockey. Tonsil hockey, probably. I could go for a score.

He’s grinning again like he knows it. “Fireball, we’ve got a problem.”

“Too many clothes and an audience,” I grunt in agreement.

He snickers, my pussy tingles, and my nipples point out they haven’t gotten any attention at all.

It’s official.

Zeus Berger has finally made me the equal to every man pilot in the world. I, too, want to fly, eat, sleep, and screw.

Not necessarily in that order.

Fine. Definitely not in that order.

“The problem,” he says, “is that you suck on the ice. And I’m not losing to that royal fucker today.”

I straighten my spine, my skates slip, but he’s still holding me up. “I’m not sitting this out. So you’re just going to have to make up for my suckage for once.”

His gaze drops to my lips.

I manage to not let my feet get away from me this time, but hoooo, doggie, my legs haven’t wobbled this much since my first check ride in pilot training.

“Think I got a solution,” he says, his voice low and rumbly.

“We break their kneecaps?”

That thing I mentioned about him not doing anything small?

Yeah. He goes big with the admiration too. His eyes are so lit up with it, they’re practically smoking.

Or maybe I’m getting my A-words confused.

Because anyone else might call that affection.

He pulls me away from the wall. “Something much easier.”

“Clunk their heads together?”

“Nope. We get my head back between your legs.”

My pussy leaps in agreement. My nipples strain against my bra. And before I can count backwards from Sunday, he spins me out, sneaks behind me, sticks his head between my knees, and stands until I’m sitting on his shoulders.

I shriek—dammit, I hate when I do that—and grab a fistful of his hair to steady myself. He tucks my calves behind his arms. “Quit squirming or we’re both going down,” he says easily, as though it’s no big deal to add another half of his body weight and three more feet of height while he’s on ice skates.

“Yo, Ares,” he calls. “You bring the rubber chicken?”

Ares pulls a rubber chicken out of the front of his pants.

“Swear to God, I am not related to you two,” Ambrosia declares.

Zeus zips us both closer to her while Ares drops the chicken and smacks it with his stick. “Are too,” he taunts his sister.

“Saw you born,” Ares calls.

“Better you than me,” Jett calls as he tries to steal the chicken, Manning rushing up behind him to help.

Zeus easily claims the chicken—the pucken?—and suddenly we’re flying around the ice, him pushing a rubber chicken with his stick, me hanging on for dear life.

And laughing.

Because oh my god.

I’m flying.

Flying.

On Zeus’s shoulders.

While rubber chicken hockey rages below.

This is one for the books.