Pucked Read Online Free Page A

anything like Buck, he won’t get the reference.
    “ Butterson would make a crap nun, eh?”
    I swear he’s made an accurate reference to Shakespeare. Stunned, I make direct eye contact. Or I try to. His eyes keep bouncing between my chest and my face, so that’s a challenge.
    Normally, I’d be put out by his blatant ogling, but I’ve asked for it with the sheer shirt and the ostentatious bra.
    I further my own embarrassment and his by cupping my breasts and squeezing. “They’re nice for real ones, huh?”
    His eyes shoot to mine. Busted.
    “ I uh—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”
    This is one of the most entertaining interactions I’ve had with a member of the opposite sex in ages. I make a snicker-snort noise and look away.
    Buck leans against the bar, talking to a girl whose skirt is so short it’s abundantly clear she’s not wearing underwear. I nudge Alex with my elbow. His arm is like a rock. “Check out Buck’s friend.”
    The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Cooter-flasher leans forward and gives our table an even better view.
    “ Is that—am I looking at her beaver?”
    Mid-swig, I choke on the mouthful of beer, sputtering and coughing. After I recover, I ask jokingly, “‘Beaver’? Are you Canadian or something?”
    Those vibrant eyes move to mine. God, he’s awfully pretty. And close. He’s really close. Likes inches away, rock arm brushing mine close. I can even smell his cologne or deodorant—whatever it is, he smells yummy.
    He’s silent for what seems like a long time. Or maybe it’s because I’m staring. Or the question may have stumped him.
    My experiences with Buck—and the one hockey player I dated previously—have led me to the assertion that hockey players aren’t notoriously intelligent. I’m aware this isn’t a universal truth. But Buck certainly reinforces my perceived stereotype: he’s definitely not a rocket scientist. He’s not even a rocket scientist’s assistant. However, I’m almost positive Alex made a literary pun a moment ago. Waters could very well be an unexpected anomaly. I’m intrigued.
    “ Yeah, I’m Canadian.”
    “ Does everyone in Canada call pussies beavers? Like the Brits call them fannies?” I can’t believe I ask him this. I’m barely buzzed; otherwise, I’d blame it on drunkenness.
    He blinks a few times. “Did you say ‘pussy’?”
    It’s possible his helmet wasn’t up to code and he sustained a head injury during the fight. There’s a sweet bruise on the side of his chiseled jaw. His nose is crooked with a decent bump from what I imagine could be multiple breaks. It’s not ugly, though. It’s sexy, in an I-fuck-people-up way.
    “ No, I said ‘pussies,’ plural, as in more than one.” I’m making a complete ass out of myself.
    To avoid saying something worse, I excuse myself so I can pretend to smoke. I grab my bag and sweater and leave the beer. Based on the crap coming out of my mouth, I don’t need to add any fuel to that fire.
    Buck grabs my arm as I pass him. “Hey, what’s with you and Waters?”
    Alex is shrugging into his jacket. Maybe he’s leaving. Too bad; he was fun to talk to and nice to look at.
    I sigh with irritation. “It's common courtesy to strike up a conversation with the person sitting next to you, or did you miss the rules of social etiquette in kindergarten?”
    “ Rules of what?”
    “ Never mind. What else am I supposed to do? Ignore him? I was being polite.” And Alex is entertaining.
    “ Yeah, well, I don’t know these guys that well yet and he’s got a rep. Be careful who you get friendly with.”
    “ I wasn’t giving him a handy under the table. We were talking. I’m going for a smoke.”
    Leaving him with the Beave, I head for the door. The temperature has dropped in the past half hour, so I pull on my sweater. Finding my smokes, I pop one between my lips and search for my lighter. I can’t find it anywhere.
    “ Need a light?” I pull my head out of my purse to find