Puck Yes: A Fake Marriage Hockey Romance (My Hockey Romance Book 2), page 1
CONTENTS
About The Book
Did you know?
My Hockey Romance Book #2
Timeline Note
San Francisco Map
Puck Yes
1. A Pinot Grande
2. Coming In Hot
3. The Good Time Guy
4. I Like Your Dick
5. New Guy, Take Four
6. Mascot Patrol
7. My Life Motto
8. Number18
9. My Favorite Sport
10. Farmer Stefan
11. The Certain Someone
12. No Gentlemen
13. Birthday Suits
14. Officially Fucked
15. Fools Rush In
16. Eyes on Us
17. My Wife
18. Room Service
19. The Sex Lottery
20. Lucky Numbers
21. Untying The Knot
22. It’s Kind of a Funny Story
23. This Fake Marriage Game
24. Foot Meet Mouth
25. An Apology Bouquet
26. A Double Date
27. A New Cocktail
28. A Reward Planner
29. You Can Share It
30. Two Men and A Vibrator
31. Picture That
32. The Ex Ambush
33. The Iceman
34. Not Captain For Nothing
35. Hear Me Roar
36. On Notice
37. The Opposite
38. One of the Guys
39. The Rooftop Game
40. Other Forms of Sharing
41. Her Men
42. Some Patience Please
43. Thought You Might Want to See This
44. Improvisation
45. Let’s Make A Deal
46. The Thing Is
47. Bite Your Face
48. Is That A Zamboni on Your Bucket List or is It Just Me?
49. The Sweetness Of Life
50. Karma Is Two Boyfriends
51. Surprise Shoot
52. Make Her An Offer
53. Tables Turned
54. All The Ways
Epilogue
Another Epilogue
Be A Lovely
Acknowledgments
More Books by Lauren
Contact
PUCK YES
LAUREN BLAKELY
ABOUT THE BOOK
When my ex trades me out for a better model—my boss—I don’t take getting screwed over lying down.
Instead, I get a glow up, not only landing a new job with the hockey team but also scoring the city’s hot new hockey player as my plus one to my ex’s wedding. Then, the sexy team captain starts flirting with me, too.
But one night after a win, I accidentally marry that intense new guy after the captain dares us to say I do. One dare leads to another, and I’m experiencing double the pleasure as I say puck yes to both players sharing me on my wedding night.
In the morning, when hubby and I are on our way to get an annulment, the team owner spots our rings and invites the new it couple to attend her upcoming charity golf tournament.
Looks like I have to fake it as Mrs. Hockey for the hockey season and the wedding season. There’s only one problem.
We’re not just a couple. Both guys want more of me.
And pretty soon I’ve got a bigger problem – I’m falling for my fake husband and my secret boyfriend at the same time.
Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Blakely
Cover Design by Kylie Sek, Interior Illustrations by Grace Martinez with @makeitbookish
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Without in any way limiting the author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train” generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
DID YOU KNOW?
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Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!
To all the girls who got glow ups, are getting them, or will get them. YOU deserve the best!
MY HOCKEY ROMANCE BOOK #2
AN MFM FAKE MARRIAGE SPICY HOCKEY ROM-COM STANDALONE
By Lauren Blakely
TIMELINE NOTE
Hello! I thought you might find it helpful to know this story takes place a few months after the final epilogue in Double Pucked. (If you haven’t read Double Pucked, never fear! You can read Puck Yes since both books are standalones).
But if you’ve read the Double Pucked bonus scene, this story takes place about four months before that scene. Thank you and I hope you enjoy Puck Yes!
SAN FRANCISCO MAP
Ever wonder where all the places in the books are located in my version of San Francisco? @Makeitbookish designed this “town map” for my stories! Enjoy!
PUCK YES
MY HOCKEY ROMANCE BOOK #2
A Fake Marriage MFM Hockey Rom-Com
By Lauren Blakely
1
A PINOT GRANDE
Ivy
Things I didn’t have on my bucket list till right now—watching a hot guy strip naked on a rooftop while watering his eggplant.
It must be my lucky night, though, because my bestie just nudged me and handed over his birdwatching binoculars, whispering: “Free dick.”
Jackson and I are across the street from the show, hanging out on the rooftop patio of our new favorite neighborhood bar, The Great Dane. Usually when I’m here, I enjoy a glass of white and a view of San Francisco. Tonight? I’m enjoying an eyeful of peen with my pinot gris.
Oh, excuse me. Let me revise that drink. “Did I actually order a Pinot Grande tonight?”
“Full-bodied, no less,” Jackson says as I peer at the sight unfolding on the top of the building at the end of the block, where Jackson and I share an apartment. And where, on the penthouse roof, the gardening stud of my dreams has whisked off his gym shorts.
Hello, new neighbor.
The side view leaves little to the imagination. The strapping man is dressed in nothing but big-ass headphones, sunglasses, and slides, and he’s sporting a very nice hose to go with his hose. “Gotta love his commitment to gardening,” I say approvingly, getting a kick out of the show.
Then, the naked gardener turns our way, and all the air escapes my lungs.
He’s going full-frontal fiesta in the sunset, strumming an epic chord using the green hose as his guitar. “This is not a drill. This is a sign that tomorrow I’m getting that promotion,” I whisper. Since I’m nothing if not a good friend, I thrust the binoculars back at Jackson. “Don’t ever say I don’t love you.”
“You love me madly.” Jackson jams them against his eyes while whistling a happy tune. After a few seconds, he lowers the binoculars with a satisfied sigh. “Show’s over. He went inside. Aubrey is so going to curse her bladder for having missed this,” he says, nodding at the hallway leading to the restroom.
“She is.” I lean against the stone railing, gazing at the pink and lavender sky. “Also, I apologize for ever mocking you for carrying pocket binoculars.”
Jackson gives a stately nod, conferring his royal pardon. “You’re forgiven. It’s your night.” He sips his mocktail. “I can practically taste the promotion you’re getting in the morning. That gardening striptease was like your pre-ward for it.”
No one celebrates things that haven’t yet happened better than Jackson, and I’m all in with this pre-ward evening out. After three shitty post-break-up months—cheating exes who insult you can suck it—and late nights busting my ass for Simone, my fashion influencer boss, I have a good feeling about tomorrow morning’s meeting. I’ve been angling for my own channel under her online fashion umbrella, and she’s been dropping hints that she has something big to share with me tomorrow.
My fingers are crossed.
I’m lifting my glass when the quick click of heels on the concrete heralds Aubrey’s return. She charges at us, waggling her phone, nostrils flared, auburn hair flying.
“Your ex,” she hisses when she reaches us.
Prickles of worry slide down my spine. What the hell could that philanderer have done while Aubrey was in the little girls’ room?
“What about Xander?” I ask, not quite alarmed but definitely concerned.
&nb sp; Aubrey shoves the phone at me, her face a cocktail of anger and empathy. It’s open to a pic on her social feed. Grabbing the phone, I squint at the picture, hold it close, hold it far, and then show it to Jackson for a second opinion on everything wrong with this picture. My heart pounds and races, and my blood goes from a simmer to a boil.
He recoils. “Why is your boss blowing your ex?”
“That’s a very good question.” I’m shaking with…is this shock? Rage? Betrayal? Actually, it’s all of the above.
“Well, at least it’s a mock BJ,” Aubrey points out. The photo is clearly staged. My ex—also a fashion influencer, The (self-proclaimed) Dapper Man—is decked out in a pastel blue ruffled suit and posing against a redwood tree as he gets his knob polished. The woman in the punk rock bridal dress, kneeling on the mossy floor, is the same one I’m meeting for breakfast tomorrow morning.
The same one who consoled me and took me out for mojitos the night Xander broke it off. He’d told me he’d fallen for someone who was more popular online, thus better future-wife material.
I guess better future wives suck dick in the forest.
Fine, Xander’s dick isn’t technically in Simone’s mouth in this shot. You can’t even see his schlong, since he’s wearing pastel blue briefs with that pastel tux jacket. But—and I can’t believe I have to say this, even in my head—faux fellatio is hardly better than real fellatio.
I grip the phone until my thumb cramps, reading the caption. Xander Arlo and Simone Vega have been blown away with a whirlwind courtship and will be tying the knot in two months. Hold the date—our wedding is going to be a blowout bash.
I nearly blow a fuse. “My ex cheated on me with…” I stop, take a deep breath, then hiss, “my boss, and he’s marrying her.”
“So when he infamously told you he was upgrading,” Aubrey spits out, “he meant to the woman who signs your paychecks.”
I nod, slow-mo, then turn to Jackson. “Simone always updates her look books on Sunday night. Can you drive me to the office?”
“Say less.”
We’re out of there in seconds.
I fume as I thrust framed photos of my family into the standard I’m quitting box, then stuff in my collection of Kindly Fuck Off and Eat a Bag of Dicks mugs I won at book club. Finally, I drop my hot pink New Day planner on top. This planner is too good to have even visited this office. I add my favorite pens with a loud huff.
Oblivious to my ire, Simone sings under her breath at her nearby desk. Pretty sure that tune is Tiffany’s “I Think We’re Alone Now,” and what used to be quirky and fun to me—Simone’s love of eighties tunes—is beyond cloying in this moment.
“Hey, girl,” she calls out. She’s one of those hey girl people. Every woman beneath her is a hey girl. “Can you grab those samples from Charlotte Everly? I want to do a whole vid on retro meets chic.”
“Oh, so sorry. I’m fresh out of fucks,” I say dryly as I jam a succulent in the box.
Missing the sarcasm, she says, “Okey-dokey. I’ll do it myself.”
What the hell is wrong with her? Does she think it’s okay to diddle my ex-boyfriend while telling me what a social-climbing jackass he was for leaving me on account of his “girlfriend upgrade?” What happened to the sister solidarity she espoused? The we girls have to stick together mantra she spewed when Xander said he wouldn’t settle for me?
I stuff another plant in the box then scan my workspace. There’s nothing left to pack, so I march to Simone’s desk, where she’s twirling a strand of her bright blonde hair that’s held back in a Rosie the Riveter-style bandana.
“Hey, girl,” I say, faux upbeat.
She looks up with a grin, still clueless to my mood, and wiggles her fingers at me. “Hey, girl to you too.”
She is too much. They both are too much. A blowout bash? Please.
But when her big, Barbie-blue eyes linger on me, I see her put two and two together. Her smile falters and she points to the box. “What’s going on?”
I don’t have a job, don’t have a plan, and don’t have a parachute. But I still have one thing—my pride. “I have exciting news, and it’s all thanks to you.”
“It is?”
“Absolutely. You’ve been such a great mentor. I’ve looked up to you so much and truly relished the chance to write for your social channels,” I say, winging it. “And since you were always so encouraging of my work, I finally decided to start my own channel and newsletter.”
I mean, technically I’m rage-quitting, but I don’t need to spell out everything for her.
“Oh, is it fashion for average girls?” she asks, like that’s not fucking insulting. She’s five ten to my…well, not five ten at all.
“It’s everything,” I say. I have no clue what my schtick will be, but I know this—regular girls rock.
“And you’re doing it so soon?” She sounds devastated.
“Well, the timing seemed…fortuitous,” I say, swallowing all the how could yous that I want to unleash.
But I won’t. My deadbeat father was wrong about most things, but he imparted one useful life lesson—don’t let anyone know they hurt you. If I tell Simone why I’m really leaving, she’ll think I’m a wounded little bird. She doesn’t get to enjoy that privilege.
Her lips part in an O, followed by a long, “Oops.”
This is an oops situation? Like oops, she just accidentally sat on his dick for three months while commiserating with me over the most insulting breakup ever?
I can’t even speak, but I don’t need to. Simone grabs her phone. Her fingers scroll-fly over the screen, then she winces. “Shoot. I’m so bad with social, Ivy, and you’re so good with it. I meant to post that engagement shot tomorrow morning at six a.m., not at six tonight.”
“AM and PM can be hard,” I say with fake sympathy.
“Right?” She pops up from her chair, smoothing a hand over her rockabilly dress patterned with red roses that match the tattoos snaking down her bare arms. “And listen, I planned to tell you at breakfast tomorrow. I figured I’d soften the blow with avocado toast.” She grins sheepishly. “Your fave, right?”
Oh god, that’s a pity smile. A worse realization hits me right in the gut. Tomorrow was a sympathy breakfast. She wasn’t going to promote me. She was going to tell me about her upcoming wedding, letting me down gently with the avocado-and-chia-seed special.
“Yeah. It’s, um, great,” I say, trying to figure out what the hell my next move is.
“I’m sure it must be hard for you,” Simone says with a too-kind smile. “So I totally get why you’d need to move on and do your own thing. And you know I’ve always supported you.” Oh, there’s the sisters in solidarity bullshit that was missing when she was on her knees giving my ex a faux blow job.
Then, her eyes widen, her lashes blink and her lips round in an exaggerated O. I know that look—it’s her light bulb moment face. “I just need one tiny thing from you before you go,” she says.
