I Pucking Love You Read online

  I Pucking Love You

  Pippa Grant

  Copyright © 2021

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Editing by Jessica Snyder

  Cover Design by Lori Jackson Designs

  Cover Image copyright © Wander Aguiar

  Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek of Mister McHottie

  Pippa Grant Book List

  About the Author

  Introduction

  I Pucking Love You

  You know those stories where an adorably misunderstood clumsy girl needs a fake date to a wedding so she asks her brother’s best friend and they accidentally fall in love?

  I wish that was the kind of life I lead, but it’s not.

  I don’t need a date to a wedding. I need a date to a funeral.

  Clumsy sometimes fits, but then, that’s true for all of us, right? But adorable? No. Misunderstood? Nope again. I’m just your average girl, standing in front of a funeral invitation, asking it to be a winning lottery ticket instead.

  And I don’t have a brother, or a best friend with a brother available, which means I’m stuck with Tyler Jaeger.

  Sure, he’s a professional hockey player who also knows advanced calculus, but let’s say we’re not compatible and leave it at that. I should know. I am a matchmaker.

  Not a very good one, but that’s beside the point.

  I know a mismatch when I see one.

  Still, Tyler’s what I’ve got, and I am not going to this funeral solo, so he’s what I’ll take.

  After all—what could go wrong at a funeral?

  I Pucking Love You is a hilariously wrong romantic comedy about the world’s worst matchmaker, a hockey player with a problem he doesn’t want to talk about, and an awkward date-of-convenience that everyone would prefer to forget. It comes complete with a cat working his way through his nine lives, all the sexy times, fish and chips, and a swoony happily-ever-after.

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  The Thrusters Hockey Series

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up

  Royally Pucked

  Beauty and the Beefcake

  Charming as Puck

  I Pucking Love You

  Hot Heir (Royally Pucked Spin-Off)

  1

  Tyler Jaeger, aka a dude in total and absolute hell

  Two.

  Chicks.

  There are two chicks in this room. When Sparkle Hair invited me to sneak away from the bunny bar and upstairs to her friend’s apartment, I thought we’d be playing hide-the-salami in the slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am kind of way.

  All the makings of a good night. This should be heaven.

  But Sparkle Hair is smiling a pouty smile and pulling me to the king bed in the bedroom adorned with Thrusters mementos where her friend, let’s call her Super Tits, is reclining on her side and petting the black sheet under the Thrusters comforter while the Rocky theme song plays softly in the background. “Oooh, you found a rough one,” she purrs, pushing her cleavage out.

  I pinch myself, and it hurts.

  Not a dream.

  This is actually happening.

  I thought I was picking up a puck bunny who can quote Aristotle for the night, and instead, I’m getting the Wrigley’s Doublemint package.

  Double the pleasure.

  Double the fun.

  Except for the part where my dick has died and is hanging in my pants like limp roadkill.

  C’mon, Jaeger. Get it up. Get. It. Up.

  “What’s wrong, baby doll?” Sparkle Hair presses her boob to my arm. “Surprised?”

  “In the best way,” I croak out.

  Super Tits climbs across the bed to press her boob against my other arm. “Have you ever had two chicks at once?”

  Work, Wonder-Wood. Please work. “Ladies, all I care about is here and now. And here—” I wiggle my brows at Sparkle Hair “—and now—” I make kissy lips at Super Tits “—is my favorite place to be.”

  Sparkle Hair’s hand drifts up my thigh. “Athena, he knows differential equations.”

  “Oh, god, that’s so hot.” Super Tits slides her knee over mine. “We only double up on the smart guys. Do you know why you should never talk to pi?”

  Dammit. I love the smart bunnies. “Because he’ll go on forever.”

  “Oh my god, I think I just came.” We’re all still clothed. Super Tits—Athena, apparently—is riding my thigh, her head thrown back. Sparkle Hair is doing a thing to my ear that would usually have me hard as marble while she plays with the button on my jeans.

  But my dick yawns and rolls over.

  Fuck.

  I wish I could say it was fear that one of my teammates would catch us and kick my ass for being out past curfew, but let’s be real.

  I’m the youngest of six.

  Pissing people off by doing what I want is what I do best. If I want to screw around with two bunnies when I’m supposed to be heading home after a game, I’m gonna screw around with two bunnies.

  Curfew doesn’t help my game. Breaking it doesn’t hurt my game.

  Ergo, on a normal night, when my junk works, staying with the bunnies is what I should do.

  “Why don’t mathematicians ever throw keggers?” Sparkle Hair purrs in my ear.

  “Because you shouldn’t drink and derive,” I reply.

  “Touch my pussy, you sexy beast.” She rips my pants open, which is hot as hell, except for the part where Mr. Lazy Ass Disappointment in my jockeys has completely disconnected from reality.

  Two chicks.

  Two smart chicks who like math jokes and know what to do with their hands and I need a
urologist, because there is zero movement happening south of the border, which—

  “Oh.”

  “Hm.”

  Yeah.

  Which they’re both noticing.

  Right now.

  Sparkle Tits pulls my boxer briefs back, peers inside, and then both women scurry off me while I try to find words to convince them that what they’re seeing isn’t what they’re seeing and that I’m into this.

  That I am so into this.

  “Sorry, Tyler,” Sparkle Hair stutters. “We thought—”

  “We don’t take advantage of guys,” Super Tits finishes.

  “We can take no.”

  “We really can. No harm, no foul.”

  “When you came up here with me, I thought—”

  “I mean, that’s half of what you guys come to our bar for, right?”

  “But if you’re not into it, we get it.”

  “Totally.”

  “Completely.”

  “Two women at once is intimidating sometimes.”

  “Do you want one of us to leave? Or are you…?”

  “No!” Shit. I drop my head in my hands. The weight of reality about the state of my lack of woody is making my head hurt, and I almost wish one of my teammates would come looking for me. “You didn’t—I’m not—I want—”

  I want my damn dick to work again like it used to.

  “Too many hits to the head,” I mutter.

  “Oh, poor boo.” Super Tits appears on the floor in front of me, looking up so I can’t avoid her gaze without looking like a total asshole, and no, having a woman kneeling in front of me is still doing nothing in the crotch area. “Did it start after your concussion? That’s not uncommon.”

  “No! That was—No. No, it didn’t start after the concussion.” Jesus. Am I really discussing this with these two?

  And the concussion was eighteen months ago. Not yesterday.

  I need a wingman.

  I need a wingman more than I need my dick to roar to life.

  Possibly an exaggeration, except for the part where I don’t know exactly what would happen to my dick if he did roar to life, since it’s been…

  Let’s call it a while and leave it at that, okay?

  “So you could get it up right after your injury?” she presses.

  “I was fine.”

  “Can you masturbate?”

  I can’t keep track of which one of them is talking and firing off all the questions, but that last one has me glaring at Sparkle Hair.

  Because no.

  No, actually, I can’t fucking masturbate.

  “Oh.”

  “Hm.”

  “Wow.”

  “That’s…”

  “Maybe one of us could rub it for you?”

  “Yes! Either one. You pick. Bodies respond differently to self-touch than they do to being touched by a different person.”

  “I’d suck on you for a while if you thought that would help.”

  “Me too. For sure.”

  “Do your teammates know?”

  I shove up off the bed and stuff myself back in my pants before all three of us start inspecting my limp, pathetic, broken weenie again. “No, they don’t know. And I don’t—I don’t need help. Thank you. Just—just forget this ever happened, okay?”

  They share a look, then both nod emphatically. “Yes!”

  “Of course.”

  “I wasn’t here.”

  “Neither was I.”

  “We don’t know a thing.”

  “Never met you.”

  “Nope. Never at all. Though if you want to talk to someone, the doctors where I’m doing my internship are all excellent.”

  “Oh my gosh, they really are. Dr. Jelani helped me work through my anxiety over taking tests, and now I’m on track to graduate with my microbiology degree next spring.”

  They won’t stop talking.

  It’s like being in a room with my sisters, which is impressive, because I have four sisters, yet there are only two very, very smart bunnies here.

  “I think we’re overwhelming him, Cassadee,” Super Tits whispers.

  “He’s had a rough night,” Cassadee whispers back.

  “Clearly,” they say together.

  “We fucking won,” I grumble.

  “Oh, honey, I know you did.” Sparkle Hair—Cassadee, apparently—whips her phone out of her back pocket. “Listen, I’m going to send you my number, and Athena’s number, and the number for Dr. Jelani. If you ever want to talk, we’re here for you, okay?”

  Athena—Super Tits—nods again. “There’s no shame in working through your problems.”

  “Especially if it ensures this doesn’t interfere with your game.”

  “We seriously love watching you play.”

  “Do you know how many people could’ve stepped into Ares Berger’s skates when he got injured two years ago?”

  “Like, no one else. Seriously. No one else. You’re a god, Tyler.”

  “And we’d hate for this to be the reason you can’t play.”

  “I can compartmentalize.” Jesus. What if this interferes with my game?

  Staying out late? No problem.

  Having a broken dick that all the bunnies know about?

  This could seriously mess with my confidence.

  I blow out a breath and picture my sisters’ faces where Athena’s and Cassadee’s are, and that helps.

  Not with the soft dick situation, obviously, but definitely with the being-henpecked-by-bunnies situation.

  My sisters would be doing the exact same thing.

  “Can I ask the last time you got it up?”

  Dammit. I forgot which one was which, and I don’t know who asked that.

  But I know that glaring at her like she’s chirping shit at me on the ice makes me feel better.

  Thinking back to the last time I got it up does not.

  I know exactly when that was.

  The welcome back to hockey party. September. Bunny bar. Walk-in fridge.

  Brown hair. Fast words. Bright eyes. Curves. So many curves.

  The woman who haunted my dreams for months. Teasing me simply by breathing.

  Getting under my skin while staying a hair’s breadth out of reach.

  Until that night.

  I’d tell you how many times I used to jack off to fantasies of her, but I refuse to admit how high that number is.

  And my junk hasn’t worked ever since.

  “Hm,” Athena says. Or maybe that’s Cassadee.

  The other one pats my arm. “Probably need to work through that.”

  “We weren’t here.”

  “But I AirDropped you all the numbers. We’re really good listeners.”

  “And we love the Thrusters. All of you.”

  “Happy to help.”

  “Anytime.”

  “With anything.”

  “But we know when to give you space too.”

  “Totally.”

  “Completely.”

  “Yeah. We’re giving you space.”

  “Right now.”

  “Call us later!”

  “Lock up when you’re done!”

  The two of them hustle out of the room. I want to kick something.

  Punch something.

  Maybe myself. In the junk.

  That’ll make it work again, right?

  Fuck.

  Just fuck.

  2

  Tyler

  I wait ten minutes after Athena and Cassadee have left the apartment, then slink downstairs to the bar.

  If we go out as a team after a game, we hit Chester Green’s sports bar by the arena. But for curfew busting parties?

  Bunny bar. All the way.

  Getting in here is like getting into a secret society. The door’s unmarked. If you can find the door, you still need the password to get in. If you break the rules, the password changes, and you’re shit out of luck.

  Not that there are many rules.

  It’s m
ostly no means no, pay for your food and booze, and no fighting.

  The bunnies run their own brewery in the basement, they stock top-shelf liquor behind the bar, and they don’t hand out menus since their kitchen is usually stocked to provide nearly anything the clientele here might want, and if they don’t have it, they have ways of getting it.

  I don’t ask. No one tells.

  It’s another rule.

  The décor is silver, pink, and black, with lots of glitter, lots of feathers, fuzz, and fluff, and chairs and loungers built for their comfort. A massive flag with the bunnies’ adopted sorority letters, Iota Feta Eta Pi, hangs on a wall that’s been coated with black glitter, and every time I see it, I think of a cheese pie, and then I get confused.

  Feta isn’t a real Greek letter.

  I don’t always understand the bunnies, but I’m sure they know what they’re doing.

  Connor Klein, our backup goaltender, and Rooster Applebottom, a defenseman the Thrusters acquired late last season from Oklahoma, are both breaking curfew too.

  Rooster has a bunny on each arm at the bar, and Klein’s sucking face with a bottle of whiskey on a couch. He started tonight, which means he most likely won’t play again for a week or two unless something happens to Murphy, our first-string goalie.