The Pucking Wrong Rookie (Pucking Wrong #5)

by C.R. Jane

To my red flag renegades who know it was always about more than the red flags with these men…

And maybe, just maybe, being his feels so wrong that it’s the only thing that’s ever been right.

“Half the game is mental; the other half is being mental.” —Jim McKenny

The bedroom door opened, and I didn’t bother to glance up. I was tired. Tired of moving from house to house. Tired of keeping my things in a plastic sack because no one had bothered to buy me a suitcase after my duffel bag had been stolen at my first foster home. Tired of being treated like I was a burden.

I was tired of lingering stares and unwanted touches and never getting enough to eat because my foster parents didn’t want to spend their government funds on food for us when they could spend it on themselves.

I was tired. So very tired. At this point, I couldn’t remember a tim...

Everything seemed too good to be real. And I forgot an important lesson that I should have already learned. That sometimes, when everything feels too perfect, like a dream you’re afraid to wake from, it’s because the cracks were hidden just beneath the surface, waiting to remind you that nothing that good ever comes without a cost.

It was as if the core of who I was had turned to glass—fragile, empty—and with every breath, more of it slipped away, leaving me hollow. The person I used to be was gone, lost in the quiet where there had once been life. Now, there was only the ghost of who I had been, the power Everett had mentioned, nowhere to be found. Maybe I hadn’t taken matters into my own hands and saved myself. Maybe I’d destroyed myself instead. But I’d chosen this…and there was no going back now.

It was as if I’d taken the original image and dunked it in anguish, letting it drown in the emotions I was careful not to let myself feel.

Anger was dangerous. Feeling was dangerous. I couldn’t afford to let either one in. Not now. Not ever.

What I wouldn’t give to have told myself that first day, as I’d wandered through my closet in Everett’s mansion, that those tags and those fancy clothes, they were just a trap. That I should have been happy in that run-down apartment with my dying mother. That those foster homes had actually been havens. Because they were so much better than anything I would have after that.

I was twenty-two, and I’d lost track of all their faces. Their touches haunted my nights, though. And I never felt clean.

I lived in an expensive penthouse. I drove a black Mercedes, and the account to pay for my life was full of money. And I would give every single bit of it up.

I had work to do. And whatever I felt—it didn’t matter. Because my life wasn’t mine, and it never would be. But as I always reminded myself when my thoughts got too dark. I’d chosen this.

I was a tough motherfucker ninety-nine percent of the time, but when it came to my father…well, he was excellent at reducing me to feeling like a sniveling little kid again.

I mentally added a “King” to the front of Lincoln’s name. Not that I was ever going to tell a single soul that I did that. Wouldn’t want to be labeled “a simp.” The team already had one too many of those. *Cough* Walker Davis *Cough*.

Okay then. So she had really bad taste in men. I’d just have to fix that for her.

I needed to focus. I would find her later. I would keep her later.

Sinking under the water, I tried to drown out my thoughts. I wasn’t allowed to want anything. That wasn’t part of the deal I’d made that night. But I couldn’t stop thinking about him. And how for the first time since my eighteenth birthday…I felt alive.

I couldn’t stop the feeling creeping up inside me. I wanted him. And that was terrifying.

“Are your pickup lines always this bad?” “Not always,” I said, shrugging. “But I figured I’d start slow. Give you time to fall in love with me.”

If she wouldn’t date me, I would hire her. I’d pay whatever it took to make sure she didn’t have time for any other clients. For as long as it took… Until she fell in love with me.

Warm-ups were supposed to be routine—stretch, skate, shoot, get loose. Miller…was making them look incredibly difficult. He was barely moving, his face gray and sweaty under his helmet. Every stride looked like it was taking everything he had, and he leaned over and gagged at one point. It was delightful.

“I hired you because you wouldn’t go out with me. And the thought of anyone else touching you made me want to kill someone. This is my solution.” His voice softened, but the intensity was still there. “But make no mistake, sweetheart, the last thing I think of you is that you’re a whore. I’ll get you flowers every week for the rest of our lives, just so you know who you are.”

“I meant what I said…the fact that money is involved is only to make sure that no one else touches you while I make you fall in love with me.” He let my neck go before taking my hand and leading me toward the door like he’d simply complimented my dress. I pulled on his hand, and we came to a stop at the door as he looked back at me questioningly. “You’re not actually serious about all this, right? This can’t go on forever…and there will be other clients.” He didn’t blink. “If another man touches you, I’ll kill him.”

I only knew one thing as we walked down the hall, my hand clasped firmly in his. Logan could ruin everything. And I might be all right with that.

“Well, I can’t wait to see something you’ve painted. We can hang them all over our house.”

And for a second, I forgot how strange this all was. I forgot the rules, the walls…the constant need to be on guard. In that moment, with his eyes shining as he stared at me like he’d found everything he’d been looking for in life, it felt like maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a trap.

But then again, in my experience, things that felt too good to be true always were.

“There you go again,” she whispered. “Acting crazy.” I grinned and kissed the top of her head. “Get used to it.”

I didn’t move. I just sat there, watching her breathe, listening to the soft rise and fall of her chest…trying to make excuses for why I’d turned into a raging psychopath since I’d seen her.

Was that what love was? Absolute lunacy, where nothing you did made sense?

love, though. It felt darker. It was a need thrumming through my insides, blocking out all rational thought. It was a need to own her, to devour her, to carve her into my skin… Into my soul, maybe.

Sloane Calloway was mine.

But all of Logan’s attention was teaching me that somehow…there was something inside me still fragile enough to be broken. Some part of me that was still dreaming of a happily-ever-after…

Why was I doing this? That was the question of the day. When I could be stalking my new obsession, I was meeting up with the man who hadn’t deigned to come watch me play in my first Stanley Cup until the fourth game. But only because he had a media event he’d been invited to.

So again, why was I doing this? Probably because for some reason the inner kid inside me was still waiting for the day when my only living relative woke up…and thought I was worth something.

“We’ve all been there, girl,” Blake said as Lincoln faced off across a Tampa player. “Been where?” I asked, frowning. “Trying to pretend we’re not completely obsessed with a Knight,”

“I’m not—” I started, but the words died in my throat as Logan glanced up from the ice. His gaze swept across the stands, until it landed on me. His lips quirked into a grin, and my heart flipped. Olivia raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Right. Not obsessed at all.”

It was time to show Sloane Calloway that she was…mine.

I was pretty sure that Logan York was the most charming man I’d ever met.

“Maybe we’re the ones actually writing the greatest love story ever told. Maybe those other stories are missing crucial elements,”

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. “Like what?” he breathed, his voice low and thick. “Like…” I faltered, heat creeping up my neck. “Like you’re in awe or something.” Logan’s lips curved into the smallest of smiles, and my stomach flipped. “Because I am.”

“You’re the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” he said quietly, his voice steady, like it was a fact.

I couldn’t do feelings. But I could do sex. If he meant everything he was saying—which was highly doubtful—I’d never be able to give him any words like that back. But I could give him the best orgasm he’d ever experienced.

I had the sudden urge to cry because I’d never had a man ask me something like that. It had always been assumed.

“Well, hopefully the reality of me lives up to the one in your head, Mr. York,”

Sloane was stretched out on my sheets like some kind of goddess,

“You know, you could’ve warned me,” I said finally, my voice rougher than I intended. Her lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile, the kind that made me forget every coherent thought in my head. “Warned you about what?” “That you were about to ruin me,” I said, shaking my head like I was trying to snap myself out of whatever spell she’d cast. It didn’t work. Nothing would’ve worked.

“Remind me to buy you a hundred more pairs of these,” I growled, before I ripped them off her body, revealing a pussy that I was going to worship until my dying day.