Poetry On Ice (Totally Pucked, #1)

by Jesse H. Reign

Bodie and I came up together. He’s a solid defenseman. Damn solid. Taller now but still stocky. A brick wall with a big smile and the temperament of a dog with a bone. Not a wild dog or anything like that. A family pet that really likes bones.

He looks me up and down in such a disparaging way that, for a second, I consider tackling him onto the bed, yanking one of his slutty socks off one of his feet, and stuffing it into his mouth to stop him from speaking. It takes so much effort to suppress the urge that my left eye starts twitching.

Not to sock shame anyone, but if you insist on walking around hotel rooms in nothing but boxer briefs and the sluttiest socks known to man, this is the kind of shit that happens.

I’m so wired. I make a mental note to schedule an appointment to see a veterinarian first thing tomorrow. I need sedation. A horse tranquilizer, that’s what I need.

I stare at my screen in horror for a few minutes, and when he doesn’t reply, I get up, go to the bathroom, and search my medicine cabinet top to bottom for a horse tranquilizer. Sadly, if not unsurprisingly, I come up empty. Out of pure desperation, I take a multivitamin and down it with a full glass of water.

I got butterflies when I heard the doorbell.” My stupid belly erupts in a flutter of its own. They’re not my butterflies, okay? They’re his. I’m having sympathetic butterflies, for fuck’s sake. It’s a thing. I’m sure it is.

“Thanks for bringing me here.” The way he says it is so sweet and sincere. I honestly can’t tell if he’s a mastermind with a talent for freaking me out or if he’s so delusional he really does think this is a date.

I’m not sure where I’m headed with this comment, but I don’t like my tone. It’s conversational and friendly.

“This isn’t a date!” he booms when I get to the bottom of the stairs. He’s living in the land of Delulu, poor thing, but he’s had a big day, so I let it go.