Jingle Devil (Nashville Devils)

by Melissa Ivers

We all know you’re already on the naughty list, yet like to be told you’re a good girl by a man with a deep voice and a penchant for giving hand necklaces. Am I wrong? Didn’t think so. Now turn the page and read your hockey smut. Show me how beautifully you listen.

The Dedication 💕

And at twenty-three, she’s almost half my age. I’m usually not attracted to much younger women, but there’s something about Tessa that’s worked its way under my skin, and it would take all of Santa’s elves to get her out.

The morning wears on and I perfect the lineup for the game tomorrow. It’s not ideal to have a game the day before Christmas, but the NHL rests for no one. Because we’re so close to the holiday, I’ve lightened the practice schedule for the guys, leaving Tessa and me alone in the arena office section today.

I’d like to say I’m not a total loser with a crush on her boss, but I’m not a liar. Older men never really did it for me. Not until Mick Weller. He checks all my boxes, and I’d love nothing more than for him to invade my box with that tool in his pants.

He ignores her, his gaze never leaving mine. “Are you a friend of her dad’s or something? Isn’t Tessa a little old for a babysitter?”

His jab doesn’t go unnoticed but I’m not going to let it affect me or what’s happening between me and Tessa. “She’s welcome to call me Daddy, although it’s not a requirement.”

Tessa chuckles, and the poor guy genuinely looks confused. I lean forward, angling away from Tessa, and whisper, “For when I’m between her legs eating her pussy and destroying her for little boys like you.” I pull away and almost feel bad. He’s opening and closing his mouth over and over like a fish. Flounder does us both a favor, he doesn’t move and no words come out of his gaping pie hole. Refusing to let him have another minute of my time, I grab Tessa’s hand and pull her from the dancefloor.

No smooth-faced boy will ever do it for me again. Once you go stubble, nothing else is worth the trouble.

I need to pull myself together before I start writing full poems to this man’s facial hair. But then he growls. He pushes his mouth to the small scrap of fabric in front of my clit and fucking growls. I’m going to have twelve poems done by morning. “Oh, fuck me,” I moan.

I’m not a religious man by any stretch of the imagination but coming down Tessa’s throat felt like a rare sacred moment; an act that transcended time and space to connect us in a way that bound our souls together, tangled them in a way that can’t be undone. In that moment, we were truly one spirit, one mind, one body. She’s imprinted herself on the core of my very being, completing me with something I didn’t even know I needed.

My mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again as I stand there and stare at him. I may look halfway calm on the outside, but on the inside, my body is short-circuiting. All the little Tessas inside my head are running into each other, throwing piles of papers all over the place, and setting things on fire. It’s chaos up there, and it’s not much better for the poor organ in my chest beating to the rhythm of a very erratic drummer.

“I don’t like casual dating and all the games and bullshit that come along with it. There’s nothing casual about us, Tessa. Or the way I feel about you.”

The little Tessas in my brain have all stopped to swoon and I can’t help but rest a hand over my heart and join them. Mick Weller, Head Coach of the Nashville Devils, and the sexiest hunk of man alive has declared his love for me on Christmas morning—while I’ve got bed head, and I’m in fucking snowflake pajamas. FML.