Foolish Puckboy (Puckboys, #4)

by Eden Finley

Aleks, now planted in his chair, turns and looks up at me with big eyes. “I’d have your babies.” And I’m assuming that was meant to be quiet, but he fucking shouts it.

“You’ve been missing out.” He shoves me toward Aleks. “You take your future husband.”

The sun is up, and I don’t know how long I was sleeping for, how long I was dreaming of that hunk of man who wasn’t a figment of my imagination but someone I completely made a fool of myself in front of last night. By screaming at him that I want his babies. Which is absurd, considering I don’t want kids.

“Aww, no Aleksander Emerson and Gabe Crosby babies? I’m disappointed,” Sanden says, but I get stuck on the last name.

“Crosby? Your last name is Crosby? Are you any relation to Sidney?”

“You’re telling me,” I mutter. “Is it a sports ball person? Because no. Not related.” “And now I’m so heartbroken I really will have to revoke the babies offer.” “Damn,” Gabe deadpans. “Because I was so close to taking you up on that offer.”

Sanden says, “Fuck yes,” while Gabe says, “No, thanks. Don’t like hockey.” And now Gabe has taken the same fuck-with-hockey-players lesson Sanden has. “Don’t … hockey?” Ezra asks. “I don’t understand,” Oskar echoes. “He also has the surname Crosby and doesn’t know who Sid is,” I tell them.

Then I type in, who is Sidney Crosby? When the results come up, it’s easy to see why those hockey players went wild over my name. Turns out the guy is kinda a big deal.

“I gotta go. You better watch me.” “Why the fuck do you think I’m here?”

“Did I see the firemen guys in the stands?” he asks. “Yep.” “Ah. Is that why you’re playing so shit? Because your future husband is watching?” “Excuse me, it’s future father of my babies. I’m never getting married again. Get it right.”

I shove him. “Don’t mention marriage. Joke all you want about us ending up together, having babies, whatever, but I’m trying to get laid here, okay? Hell, not even full-on sex. I could really go for a blowjob.”

“I want to. It’s just … I’m in my head about it all. It’s been so. Fucking. Long. I don’t really even know how to flirt anymore. I’m sure I want to have your babies is not something you’re supposed to yell at hot people.”

One kiss from him was enough to rearrange gravity, and it kinda sucks to know I couldn’t do that for him.

hate it because when he fucks with me again, it’s gonna hurt. But watch me walk right into the fire anyway.

“I’m trying, but how can you hate hockey? It’s the greatest sport of all time.” “What makes it the greatest?” “Dude. Huge men. Hard hits. Tiny puck. And we play on fucking blades on ice.”

Your bank account doesn’t impress me, baby.

“Not my boyfriend,” I clarify. “A guy I’m kinda, sorta, trying to date, but hockey and firefighting keep getting in the way.”

“Your concern for me is heartwarming. Truly.” “I guess this means once we’re married with all those hypothetical babies, we won’t be getting them a cat.”

“How did that beautiful man’s face get so messed up?” “Cats. Also, you think he’s beautiful?” “I have eyes. Even as a straight man, I can appreciate a hunk.” Give me things baby bisexuals say for five hundred!

More of him. More of us. I just want … more.

so obsessed with them

Sure, there are the outliers who are still playing into their forties, but it’s rare. When a player hits thirty, it’s kind of a ‘how much longer do I have in this game’ kind of moment.

Then I’m looking up into the murderous face of my boyfriend. He pounds the glass again, then points at Madden. “Don’t you dare!” The side of his fist hits the glass, and after a moment, he turns his stare on me. “Touch my boyfriend and see what happens!”

“Someone’s happy to see me,” he says when I finally let him up for air. “Someone told me he’d give up hockey for me, and have my babies, and love me. Then left me for hours. Someone needs to get driving.”