Overview: Hockey is in my blood—hell, it’s practically my birthright—but when an injury shattered my Olympic dream, I had no choice but to shift my ambitions. Now, instead of being a professional athlete, I work for them. In a world where a person can ruin their reputation in forty characters or less, it’s my job to keep my clients’ phones from being a weapon of mass destruction that decimates their careers.
Enter Luke Valentine, the NHL’s hottest, all-star defenseman, whose colossally stupid mistake has him and his team in hot water. They need me to help rebuild their reputation and I need them to boost my resume credentials for a promotion. I want to climb the corporate ladder, but my scorching hot attraction to Luke is getting in the way. With all eyes on me, I must resist temptation, but not mixing business with pleasure is hard as puck.
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Lucky Pucker by Hilary Rose (Toronto Northmen 1) Book Read Online Chapter One
Frustrations in Public Relations
Holly
I have a love-hate relationship with my job. Well, actually, I love my job and hate my boss. He's a dickhead. A complete chauvinistic, boy's-club-loving, women-belong-in-the-kitchen-or-answering-phones dick. It's no wonder Rick Moran's nickname is "Rick the Dick." At least, that's what Avery, my best friend and I call him, along with several other clever and creative monikers.
"What an asshole," I mutter to myself as I turn to leave his office. In a world where the Me Too Movement makes headlines weekly, he still talks down to me. Not just in a condescending way, but literally down to me. To my tits. It's slightly ridiculous because they're small. Not like bee-sting small, but A-cup small. It's entirely possible he's checking to make sure I have a set.
"What was that, Sparks?" he calls from his desk as I try to make my escape.
SHIT!
I can't believe he heard me. Rick hasn't listened to a word I've said the entire time I've been in his office. We've been discussing my father, another massive dickhead, who played in the NHL once upon a time. For some reason, Rick thinks I have connections to potential high-profile clients through my father. I don't. In fact, Rick talks to my father more than I do.
"Fuck yeah, we're on a roll.” I smile too enthusiastically and fist pump. "Go, team!"
I fist pump the air again for good measure and pretend I didn't just call my boss an asshole. Instead, I feign excitement for landing fictional clients for our firm. JP Lighthouse and Associates is a small, Toronto-based team of pubic relations wizards specializing in working with athletes. In the last few years, the company has re-branded itself, focusing on social media management and helping athletes, coaches, and teams connect with fans on multiple platforms. That's a fancy way of saying we teach athletes not to stay stupid shit on Twitter without thinking first.
The fact that my job even exists exemplifies the beauty of our society today. We can ruin our careers in forty characters or less. You'd be surprised how badly you can screw yourself, or your team, with the click of a button. Last week, we landed a big-time MLS star after he posted a picture of himself motor-boating a nurse while visiting sick children at a hospital. Classy.
Basically, JPL makes money off rich athletes who do stupid things. My job is rarely dull and keeps me connected to the sport's world I love, but sadly, that world is saturated with old, white men. It's time for a little girl power.
After graduating alongside my BFF, Emerson Avery, with a degree in Sports Marketing and Communication, we landed jobs at JPL. Our careers snowballed out the drudgery of internships. We basically kept coming back to the office until they offered us jobs.
We're ninety-nine percent sure our hirings are directly related to our family ties and last names. Sparks, my father's last name, is notorious in the hockey world because he played sixteen seasons in the NHL between Toronto and Boston. He scored a lot on the ice and off it, which is how I came into existence. My mom knocked boots with an NHL superstar and ended up knocked up.
Avery has twin step-brothers who play for the New York Diamonds. Needless to say, when you're directly related to potential clients with loads of money, it doesn't hurt your resume. Not that my connection to my father means anything. He had absolutely nothing to do with my upbringing other than sending a cheque every month after the paternity test confirmed I was his.
My father was non-existent until I started playing hockey and earned a scholarship. Hockey was my ticket to university, and when the Canadian Women’s National Team came knocking, my dear-old dad thought it was a good time to resurface into the spotlight.
Unfortunately—or fortunately—his bragging rights were cut short after I retired early because of an injury. I decided to focus on my degree, and Alec Sparks disappeared. Again. He loved to brag about his superior "Sparks" hockey genes when I was on the ice. As if my success had anything to do with him. My mother is due all the credit. She got up at the ass-crack of dawn to take me to practices and worked overtime to keep me playing. Hockey isn't cheap.
I shouldn't be surprised Rick the Dick and "daddy" have a bromance going on. Like attracts like. Assholes of a feather stick together.
I plop down at my desk, which is conveniently beside Avery's. She insists everyone call her Avery because she thinks last-name-first-names are stupid. I suppose it’s ironic that she now uses her last name as her first name. Emerson is her mother's maiden name and I've only ever heard her mom call her that, and she hates it.
I look at my phone. Only an hour to go before home time! TGIF! The weather forecast predicts a lovely weekend, and Avery and I suffer from cabin fever. We're overdue to enjoy a patio or pub somewhere.
It's late August, which means hockey season is right around the corner, and work will be a lot busier once the NHL pre-season starts. Most of the firm's clients are hockey players, but we've been adding a few MLB, NBA, and even MLS players into the fold. Any athlete can do idiotic things when they have stupid amounts of money at their disposal and a smartphone in their hand.
"What did Mr. Moran want?" Avery asks, nodding her head towards his office.
"You mean other than to have a chat with my chest?"
"At least he doesn't discriminate.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her Diet Coke. "Big, small, he talks to them all."
Avery is right. You could put any sized pair of breasts in front of The Dick, and it's like his eyes turn into lasers burning holes through blouses.
In all honestly, even I have to admit Avery has a pretty nice pair. My breasts fall into the cute and perky category. Hers are just plain sexy and natural to boot. If I didn't love Avery so much, I'd hate her guts. We've been besties since forever. Our moms were friends growing up, so we were besties from conception. It was destiny.
Avery is every man's fantasy. She has long, straight blonde hair, endless legs, all the right curves and killer whiskey-coloured eyes. She could be a model. I, on the other hand, am more cute than sexy. I'm about five-six and thin but muscular, which may be why my boobs haven't grown in. I have an athletic build from years of playing and training for hockey. My hair is a dark, chestnut-colour that reaches my shoulders and curls slightly. It frizzes out if it's not washed daily. But, I inherited my mom's deep blue eyes. Thank God. My dad's eyes are dark brown, probably because he's so full of shit.
We were an odd pair in university. Avery is a serial dater who chews men up and spits them out like gum that's lost its flavour. She's a knockout who draws so much male attention she could be a circus attraction. Since dumping her high school sweetheart before university, Avery has been notorious for dating and dropping men like flies. I have long held the suspicion she's never stopped loving her ex, Ryan Gunner, but she vehemently denies it. Ryan went off to play in the NHL, brokenhearted after Avery cut him loose. To this day, I have no clue what lead to their breakup.
I am the polar opposite. I've had precisely zero boyfriends. Nothing turns a girl off faster than a guy who is more interested in their father than them. Dating was, and is, a nightmare for me. I attract members of the opposite sex who erroneously think I could be a candidate for a sugar momma because my father made millions on the ice, or they hope I can score them a try-out with an NHL team.
Idiots.
As much as I would love to be swimming in hundred-dollar bills, the closest I've ever been to being loaded is drinking way too many Tom Collins—that was a messy night. Avery and I share a condo owned by her brothers. We just moved in and get away with paying insanely low rent because Avery doesn't mind enjoying the benefits of having two brothers who have more money than they can spend. I, however, would rather eat my hand before taking money from my father, not that he ever gives handouts.
Contrary to popular myth, I have no connections to any NHL organization strong enough to pull strings. But, I may have let on that I'm closer to my father than I am to land this job. I'm not above using my last name to get a foot in the door. Hopefully, I will be able to use that foot to step right over The Dick and show John-Peter—the JP in JPL—my awesomeness.
JP Leighton is the cutest old man ever, who is all but retired. I think he's around sixty-five and still owns a fifty-one percent share in his company. His wife owns the other forty-nine. The Dick is the day-to-day boss and is probably looking to Darth Vader his way to the top once JP steps down and only stays on as a figurehead. He doesn’t have any kids to pass the torch to, so I think he's looking to pass the torch internally and have someone buy into the company.
I've zoned out. I do that a lot. Avery is looking at me expectantly. I've not heard a word she said and unlike The Dick, it's not because I was staring at her boobs. I'm debating whether I should nod and pretend I know what she asked or just come clean. I choose the latter.
"What?"
"What did The Dick want? Other than boob-oogle? A boogle?" I chuckle. Avery and I are famous for making up our own words and sayings.
“Nothing." I roll my eyes and log on to my Mac. Time to creep some profiles and see if anyone significant has done anything stupid today. I like to think we are proactive, fishing for clients. "He wanted to ask about my dad. You would think by now, the Moron would know I have zero sway with 'daddy.' JPL already takes care of Alec's social media and PR. It's not like I am going to talk him into getting all his NHL buddies to sign up with the company."
I hate calling my dad "dad," so I usually just call him Alec. Dad is more of a sarcastic term than an endearing one for me.
"Same here.” Avery sighs. She's monitoring her brothers’ Instagram accounts and posting some crap about off-season training. Last week she had to delete an entire weekend's worth of Ollie and Ozzy's (her bros Oliver and Oscar) Twitter feed. The twins posted a bunch of booze cruise pics with what looked like Victoria's Secret models in bunny ears and cute, little poofy tails. You've got to love puck bunnies. "The Dick wants me to ask Ollie and Ozzy if any of the Diamonds want to jump ship and join the dark side."
"TGIF!" I thumbs-up Avery. We are so going to find the bottom of several bottles of white wine this weekend. We may even go super classy and buy boxed wine.
"God, we need some action this weekend.” She grins, making obscene gestures towards my lady bits. "You need to pop that thing already."
I shush Avery hoping no one else has heard her. It's only the eleventy-billionth time she has said some variation of this in a highly public place. Avery knows all my secrets. The biggest is that I still have my V-Card at twenty-five. Like I said, dating has been non-existent for me, and I'm not a one-night-stand kind of girl.
And, although she may talk a big game, I don't think Avery's into hookups either. I am about ninety-nine percent positive she hasn't slept with anyone since Ryan, and that relationship ended almost seven years ago. I have an excuse. Avery lost her v-card to the love of her teenage life, whereas I have never done the dirty because I've never met someone I've wanted badly enough to see naked. I'm starting to worry that I am asexual. Maybe I'll never get the butterflies or be as hot and bothered as people in romance novels. But I want those things. I want the all-consuming, let-me-rip-your-clothes-off-and-lick-you attraction. I just seem to be waiting an exceedingly long time for it. And now, the situation has gotten out of control. My virginity is an official "Situation."
I don't see what the big deal is. I mean, Avery may as well be a born-again virgin. None of her conquests make it past the first date. Every time I breach this topic, she shuts me down. She insists she wants to be free to do who and what she wants. Avery doesn't want to be tied down, or so she says. She's all about being an independent woman.
It's the supposed reason she broke it off with Ryan. They were all but ready for forever when Avery suddenly changed her mind and decided she wanted to live the single life. I guess she equates single with being celibate.
It's weird. Avery and I used to talk about growing up, falling in love—that beautiful, unrealistic fairytale young girls have as tweens—and then, one day, at eighteen, it was like someone flicked a switch, and Avery was all about being unattached.
I've known Avery my entire life, and she was born to become Mrs. Ryan Gunner. They were the perfect romantic trope. He was her brothers' teammate and best friend, but there was always something between them. It was like they were two planets in the same orbit with a magnetic pulse, always drawn together. She loved him to distraction, and we talked about it all the time. I don't understand what happened, and she's never opened up on the subject.
But, at least she knows what sex is like, and not just plain old sex. Good sex.
I feel like a weird, exotic species: a twenty-something female who's never touched a dick.
I had a physical last week, and my doctor asked me why I've never had a pap smear, which, by the way, is an utterly disgusting term. I replied awkwardly, "because I've never needed one." Mortification ensued when I explained I wasn't sexually active and never have been. I feel like, after twenty, it's assumed you've had sex, and when you haven't, you need to come with a thesis paper about why not.
The "Pap Incident" wasn't as unfortunate as the time I went for "The Ultrasound from Hell." I went to have my lower abdomen looked at because of my irregular monthly friend—friend, bitch, whatever. The technician did the whole gel on my belly and moved the ultrasound thing around, looking for god knows what. She asked if I had ever had an ultrasound done before, and I've had several ultrasounds done of various parts of my body, so I said, "Yes." When she asked me to take my panties off, I felt like I was in the mother fucking Twilight Zone, but no, my life is just a series of ridiculously embarrassing events.
I hadn't realized she meant an internal ultrasound, which I definitely have never had done before.
When the tech pulled out the huge probe and lubed it up, I burst out, "Holy shit! Where are you going to put that?" I think she may have been as equally embarrassed as me after realizing we both misunderstood what was going down. I didn't want my first time to be with a female medical professional wielding an ultrasound dildo. Fucking nightmare!
Avery thought the entire story was hilarious. Looking back, it is pretty funny.
I'm halfway through my twenties and still a virgin. I don't want to subject myself to more awkward conversations with people, let alone a potential lover! It's like the elephant in the room, except the elephant is my hymen, which is still intact. Probably. Maybe. I don’t know.
I once read in Cosmo some girls have their hymen broken in weird ways, like horseback riding or while on a bike. WTF. How does that even happen? Naturally, like all people seeking answers to life's mysteries, I Googled it. Apparently, hymens are like snowflakes: they are all unique. They come in all shapes and sizes, thicknesses, and some lucky bitches don't have one at all. Google is excellent for all sorts of things, like giving yourself a purity test. But, even with a mirror and an awkward stretch, I'm still not sure what I'm packing down there.
I don't get what the big deal is with sex. There are other ways of achieving an orgasm that don't involve another person.
So what if I touch myself? Any woman who says they don't shine their pearl, roll their marble, click their mouse, or whatever euphemism you prefer to adopt, is lying. Life is too stressful not to take a few minutes out of each day to orgasm. Us singletons just have to do it manually, sans the help of the male or female variety. My sexual experience may be limited to the extreme, like first-base extreme, but I'm not dead down there.
"Holly? Are you even listening?"
No.
"Yes. Kind of. Not really," I admit. "I was just thinking."
"About getting it on with someone this weekend?"
Yes.
"No." Okay, add liar to my list of personal information. Of course, I've thought about having a D in my V. I just haven't found the right D to insert into said V.
Realizing that my conversational skills are limited to one-syllable responses at the moment, Avery rolls back over to her desk and begins trolling Twitter and Insta.
I should at least pretend to be somewhat productive, so I do the same. Rumour has it that a senior position is opening up soon at JPL, another indicator that JP is heading for full retirement. In reality, no one deserves that position more than Avery or me. Unfortunately, when you work with a bobblehead named Candy Kane—seriously, that's her real fucking name—with tits like perky cantaloupes and perfectly plump cupid’s bow lips, the competition is stiff. Okay, I may be exaggerating, but seriously! Add The Dick to the equation, and I may get cock-sucked out of a job. Candy isn't a terrible person. I will admit, she's pretty, but she either plays stupid amazingly well, or she's dumb as a stump. She's only been here for a couple of months and gets outrageous preferential treatment from Rick.
"Holy fuck!" Now that gets my attention.
I push off my desk and roll over to Avery's to hover over her shoulder and see what is on her computer screen.
My eyes widen at a picture of a silver trophy hugged by a pair of the biggest monster tits I've ever seen. They're so fake.
"Is that the Norris Trophy?" I ask, slack-jawed. Every season, the James Norris Trophy is awarded to the NHL's top defenseman. Last month, at the NHL awards in Toronto, Luke "Lucky" Valentine, the Toronto Northmen's stud blue-liner, took home the hardware. I guess his nickname is appropriate, as it appears he is about to get lucky with a chick with atom bombs strapped to her chest and hot pink, fuck-me heels.
Luke Valentine is also hot as balls.
He has ridiculous emerald green eyes. I wonder if he wears contacts or if they're photoshopped. His hair is roguishly long, tousled, and looks like McDreamy's hair, except dark blonde. He has a tan from the summer, and he's ripped—like most NHLers. No one should be that good-looking. It's not fair. He doesn't even have to try. I mean, when he walks into a room, you can probably hear all the panties dropping. Whoosh!
He's also, apparently, stupid as fuck.
"Why would he post that?" It's a rhetorical question, but I ask it anyway. Valentine is making our job almost too easy. And, if I had to guess, he wasn't the poster in this instance. Bunnies in Toronto tend to post anything and everything they can when trying to hook up with players to grab their fifteen minutes of fame.
"Um, because that chick is smoking hot, and he's as rich as Croesus. He can pretty much get away with murder, Holly. What's the team going to do? Trade him?"
She makes a good point. There's not a snowball's chance in hell the team will trade their captain, no matter how stupid he is or how big the tits are being rubbed all over one of hockey's most prestigious trophies. He is so getting fined for this. Even if he gets slapped with a twenty-five thousand dollar fine from the league, it's chump change to him. He makes about eleven million a year. But I'm sure the team doesn't want this image for their captain.
It's one thing to be a rumoured man-whore, flirt, and puck bunny magnet. It's another to advertise it online for the world to see. Lucky is fucked. Literally and figuratively.
"Not our problem...yet," I say. It's a Monday morning problem, not a Friday night, five-minutes-before-we-leave-for-a-wine-whine weekend problem.
"I'll cheers to that.” Avery salutes me with her Diet Coke. "Lucky Valentine, get ready to say 'Hello,' to JPL! Your ass is as good as ours!" We laugh and collect our things before leaving the office, doing our best to duck out and avoid The Dick. I would bet my entire life's savings Captain Valentine will require our services by the end of the weekend.
You're as good as mine, Valentine.
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