Page 33 of Tricky Puck

“What’s yours?”

Her eyes widen. Shit. I need to kill the New York attitude.

“I mean—Delaney. Collins. What’s yours?”

She smiles. “Emery…Whittier. I’m still getting used to my married name.” She blushes prettily.

“Newlywed. Congrats.” I look at the other two women and realize the redhead’s belly is at least eight months big as she rubs a hand over it absently.

“I’m Cherry Dumas. I have no trouble remembering my new married name. This baby here is a big reminder.”

“Let’s not talk about that story and scare the poor girl,” the third woman says. She has dark hair, a pert nose, and is shorter than the others. “I’m not married. Not even dating, if I’m honest.”

The other two women give her looks of sympathy.

Cherry says, “She’s the owner of the team⁠—”

My eyes pop.

“Stop it,” the petite lady says. “I only have a very minority stake in the team, thanks to my late father, may he rest in peace—if that’s even possible.”

“Don’t ask,” Emery whispers.

“So you and Link…?” Cherry asks. “Anything serious?”

And here it comes, impulse number three. “Yes—and no.”

“Explain, please, and I might just believe you,” Cherry says, “though I’m good friends with Link—he’s besties with my husband—and he’s never mentioned anything serious—except…” She quirks her head. “Tell us your story.” She folds her arms in front of her giant breasts and waits. And I thought I was stacked.

The impulse to share with these women, who are complete strangers but familiar with the team and Link, is fading. But I have to say something, and the only fallback I have is the truth.

“I’m moving in with him.”

“You are?” Emery says in polite surprise. “That’s fantastic.” There’s no mistaking the sincerity of her smile. I like her.

I nod.

“Why don’t we know about this?” the owner, whose name I still don’t know, asks. “I’m good friends with Jason Hall, and he’s also besties with Link, so I would’ve heard something about this.”

I shrug. “It was sudden.” Now, my New York instinct to clam up comes out in spades. I’m saved from having to elaborate when a hot young man dressed in a dark suit and tie comes over to us with a big smile and lands a kiss on Emery’s lips.

“And who do we have here?” He smiles at me.

“Delaney, this is my husband, Chase Whittier. Delaney’s here to see Link.”

His eyebrows shoot up like twin rockets, and his expression would be comical if it weren’t for the fact that it means I’m totally unexpected—at least by one of his teammates.

“Wow—”

Emery glares at him, and he clears his throat.

“I’m sorry—I meant I hadn’t heard you would be here. He mentioned you… We’re friends…”

“Never mind him,” Emery says. “Is Link almost ready? He’s usually quicker than this.”

“Yeah. He’s caught up with some media in the locker room. They got him on camera with his shirt off, and the reporter is⁠—”

“We get the picture,” Emery says.