Page 60 of The Big Puck

They cut back to the studio analysts.

“That’s what I call the Spencer Logan version of the mic drop,” one analyst says, and the other one, a former player, laughs.

“You can expect more of that sarcasm from him. Spencer—Coach Logan is famous for not giving—worrying about sugar coating reality. But he was fiercely loyal as a player and looks like he’s a fiercely loyal coach, not about to complain about his team in public.”

This is a good time to switch the channel to the local news while I check the team’s social media.

Every social media app I check shows the clip with #PortsmouthWhalers and some with #NHL. It has over a million views on Barstool’s twitter account and shows up in all the sports outlets social media, trending on twitter and going viral on TikTok.

This is nuts.

Apparently, it’s not my imagination that Spencer Hall has more charisma than a boatload of swashbuckling pirates.

Chapter 22

SPENCER

Arriving home to the scent of peanut butter cookies and a note from Lainey set against a plate stacked with cookies makes me frown and does little to lift my mood after the loss. However, when my traitorous mouth literally waters, I snatch a cookie from the pile, not bothering to muster the energy needed to resist the treat. It’s the very least I can do and not nearly enough to relieve the need in me for something…more.

The game and the media commentary afterwards fired up my belly to an inferno of voracious hunter to win, to correct every single thing that went wrong, every missed pass and especially every missed save by Windy, aka Windham Breck our former Vesna award-winning goalie stolen from Colorado. He was horrible tonight—not that he was the only problem.

As I chew the crunchy cookie blindly, not tasting a thing because apparently hellfire and brimstone level anger numbs the taste buds so I can’t even get solace from a simple cookie, my eyes graze past the note. I snatch it up and read it.

Spence,

I know the cookies won’t help, but I had to do something. I wonder what’s wrong with Windy? He didn’t play like his usual self. Hope you put this loss behind you, but then I’ve never known such a consummate professional as you, and I’m certain you’ll turn the loss into a positive and let it fuel your drive to win the long game.

Sweet dreams,

Lainey

There’s nothing that she could have written or said that would crack open that well of desire I have for her wider than a note with commentary about the game, and one that sizes me up perfectly for the way I respond.

Glancing up the back stair case as I clutch the note, a picture of her in her transparent nightshirt springs to mind. I have a moment of hesitation while I actually contemplate going up to her room—not a real intention. Fuck no. Of course not. Only a tempting thought. I drop her note onto the table like it’s made of poison. More like it’s medusa’s eyes turning me to rock—at least that one persistently stupid part of my gets rock hard.

Marching through the living room, I pass by the TV and the lure of game clips, heading straight for the front stairs—the ones that do not lead up to the third-floor turret room where she sleeps. Barely resisting slamming my door with pent-up frustration—from the loss and from unspent lust—I collapse onto my bed.

My phone tweaks, and I slip it from my pocket. Yet another social media alert. I’m about to shut the thing down when my thumb hits the photo icon and scrolls the pictures, one after another of Krissy. And Lainey. My thumb—about to join my dick in the contest of stupid body parts—stops short at a pic of Lainey—the one of her in that strapless red dress. The dress that shows off her creamy cleavage and her wide red lips that shout fuck me to my starved dick.

I let out a groan. And then, rising from the bed, I head for the shower in my en suite to do something I haven’t done since I was a goddamn teenager.

Lainey’s red lips smiling flash vividly behind my lids as I imagine them wrapped around my dick. Water sprays my body with lukewarm droplets that slide in rivulets down my body as I grip the base of my cock with one hand. Reaching for the soap, I lather my shaft and wish to fuck I could lather Lainey’s world-class ass and hold it in my hands and press my stiff dick against the deep crack I saw outlined through her night shirt. The soap slips to the shower floor, and I wrap my other hand around my slick shaft, squeezing the tip and giving it a swift pump up and down.

“Shit. Lainey,” I gasp, letting go of my frustration, allowing myself the honest feelings, the weakness, the fucking distraction. Because I wish to fuck I could fuck her, wish that she wasn’t so sweet and so young and so wrong for me, just so I could have her. Once. That’s all I’d need.

My hand chokes up on my length and jackhammers up and down, squeezing and twisting as I remember the taste of her mouth, her breathiness when I kissed her, the feel of her perfect young perky breasts plastered against my chest.

“God almighty,” I groan as I come, spurting in waves against the shower tiles and cursing myself. As I empty myself and my ragged breathing slows down, I turn off the water and lean against the cold tiles. If I thought relieving myself would bring me any relief or an end to the frustration of wanting Lainey Hall, it turns out I was tragically wrong.

When I hit my bed this time, I sleep, but it’s a disturbed sleep, fractured by dreams of Lainey in my bed, wanting me, touching me, and then being ripped away.

Chapter 23

SPENCER

I carry Krissy into the doctor’s office, and Lainey stays close, my nerves on edge, though God only knows why. It’s a routine check-up. The minute we walk into the crowded reception area, we draw stares, and I don’t know if it’s my newfound notoriety or Lainey they’re staring at because she looks like a fucking magazine centerfold in the tight pink sweater and black leather pants that look painted on.

We approach the reception window, and the young woman stares at me, mouth dropping open. Shit. She recognizes me. I should be getting used to this, but I don’t have it in me for a fan encounter response—aka a smile.