I Pucking Love You (The Copper Valley Thrusters #5) - Pippa Grant Page 0,2

Seriously. No one else. You’re a god, Tyler.”

“And we’d hate for this to be the reason you can’t play.”

“I can compartmentalize.” Jesus. What if this interferes with my game?

Staying out late? No problem.

Having a broken dick that all the bunnies know about?

This could seriously mess with my confidence.

I blow out a breath and picture my sisters’ faces where Athena’s and Cassadee’s are, and that helps.

Not with the soft dick situation, obviously, but definitely with the being-henpecked-by-bunnies situation.

My sisters would be doing the exact same thing.

“Can I ask the last time you got it up?”

Dammit. I forgot which one was which, and I don’t know who asked that.

But I know that glaring at her like she’s chirping shit at me on the ice makes me feel better.

Thinking back to the last time I got it up does not.

I know exactly when that was.

The welcome back to hockey party. September. Bunny bar. Walk-in fridge.

Brown hair. Fast words. Bright eyes. Curves. So many curves.

The woman who haunted my dreams for months. Teasing me simply by breathing.

Getting under my skin while staying a hair’s breadth out of reach.

Until that night.

I’d tell you how many times I used to jack off to fantasies of her, but I refuse to admit how high that number is.

And my junk hasn’t worked ever since.

“Hm,” Athena says. Or maybe that’s Cassadee.

The other one pats my arm. “Probably need to work through that.”

“We weren’t here.”

“But I AirDropped you all the numbers. We’re really good listeners.”

“And we love the Thrusters. All of you.”

“Happy to help.”

“Anytime.”

“With anything.”

“But we know when to give you space too.”

“Totally.”

“Completely.”

“Yeah. We’re giving you space.”

“Right now.”

“Call us later!”

“Lock up when you’re done!”

The two of them hustle out of the room. I want to kick something.

Punch something.

Maybe myself. In the junk.

That’ll make it work again, right?

Fuck.

Just fuck.

2

Tyler

I wait ten minutes after Athena and Cassadee have left the apartment, then slink downstairs to the bar.

If we go out as a team after a game, we hit Chester Green’s sports bar by the arena. But for curfew busting parties?

Bunny bar. All the way.

Getting in here is like getting into a secret society. The door’s unmarked. If you can find the door, you still need the password to get in. If you break the rules, the password changes, and you’re shit out of luck.

Not that there are many rules.

It’s mostly no means no, pay for your food and booze, and no fighting.

The bunnies run their own brewery in the basement, they stock top-shelf liquor behind the bar, and they don’t hand out menus since their kitchen is usually stocked to provide nearly anything the clientele here might want, and if they don’t have it, they have ways of getting it.

I don’t ask. No one tells.

It’s another rule.

The décor is silver, pink, and black, with lots of glitter, lots of feathers, fuzz, and fluff, and chairs and loungers built for their comfort. A massive flag with the bunnies’ adopted sorority letters, Iota Feta Eta Pi, hangs on a wall that’s been coated with black glitter, and every time I see it, I think of a cheese pie, and then I get confused.

Feta isn’t a real Greek letter.

I don’t always understand the bunnies, but I’m sure they know what they’re doing.

Connor Klein, our backup goaltender, and Rooster Applebottom, a defenseman the Thrusters acquired late last season from Oklahoma, are both breaking curfew too.

Rooster has a bunny on each arm at the bar, and Klein’s sucking face with a bottle of whiskey on a couch. He started tonight, which means he most likely won’t play again for a week or two unless something happens to Murphy, our first-string goalie.

“Jaegs! Whaddup, sucka?” Klein grins at me and salutes me with his bottle. “Coach’s gonn’ kick our ashes t’morrow.”

Yep.

Probably will.

“Worth it,” I grunt.

It’s the party line. Gotta use it, or they’ll figure out there’s something wrong with me.

Rooster and his bunnies amble over. “You can buy energy drinks, but you can’t buy memories.” He thrusts his hips, wiggles his brows and then jerks his head toward the stairwell to the apartment I just vacated. “You boys wanna watch and see how it’s done, you know where to find us.”

Rooster Applebottom is the teammate we love to hate. All ego. All athlete.

The first to pay for everyone’s meal and leave a three-hundred percent tip, and the first to throw himself in front of a puck to deflect it before it gets to Murphy or Klein at the net.

Also the first to announce he has the biggest dick of