Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(73)

“Me too, but instead, we’re taking Damon’s advice. He hasn’t steered me wrong yet.”

Even I can’t argue with that. The first person Tripp called when I hung up with Jessica was his agent, and while I might want to be reckless, Damon has been in our corner for this whole thing. He might not have been impressed with me going rogue at the press conference, but he’s the only one who hasn’t made me feel bad for it. I’ve got a string of angry texts from my agent, but I’m ignoring his calls.

“Tripp,” Graham says when he answers.

“You’re on speaker.”

“Of course I am.” He sighs. “This call had better not be that you’ve decided to break up after all. Or that you’ve cheated. Or accidentally adopted a kid.”

“Definitely the last one,” I say.

“You better be joking.”

Tripp shoves me. “Jesus, Dex, you’re going to give him a heart attack.”

“Well, I am due a long vacation after this,” Graham answers.

“This time, it’s nothing bad,” Tripp assures him. “At least not from us.”

“That’s a relief.” There’s the sound of traffic in the background, and I’d guess he’s on his way home.

“It was Fensby,” I say, not wanting to hold his day up any longer. “Jessica called me, and everything that the article said is what she told Fensby.”

Instead of the immediate relief on the other end, there’s silence. “Okay.”

“That’s it?”

There’s a long pause. “The thing is, even if what you’re saying is true, there’s no way to prove it.”

“But—”

“How do we know it wasn’t her who told the press, and now she’s trying to divert the attention away from her?”

I’m about to bite back that it’s obvious, because Fensby is a douchey doucheface, but Tripp grabs my arm and squeezes.

“We get it,” he says. “But isn’t it worth looking into?”

The traffic dies down as it sounds like Graham stops driving. “We can. We can look into it and try to confirm sources, but it’s likely he didn’t give his real name. At this point, all management wants right now is silence. No more scandals, no more drama, no more media attention on anything but hockey. Their focus is on getting back their Stanley Cup finalist team.”

“So they’re still talking about a trade?” I ask. Logically, it makes sense. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“They’re ready to do whatever they have to. This is business. My recommendation? Focus on hockey. Get out there, play your game, and stop worrying about the noise. Whatever happens is going to happen whether you stress about it or not.”

“There’s nothing we can do?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “Hope that there’s a bigger scandal from another team. Until then, lie low.”

And that’s that.

We thank Graham and … try to move on.





It takes a few games to hit my stride, but once I do, it’s like I can breathe again. Things in the locker room are still tense with Fensby being openly hostile, but on the ice, I’ve got my shit together. And the better I play, the worse he gets, until a week into our home games when Coach tells me I’m back on first line.

It takes all of my energy not to turn to Fensby and gloat.

But I will be the bigger person.

Because I have Tripp, and I have hockey.

After a grueling game against Atlanta that we win by a point, Tripp and I stop to sign jerseys for some fans. I hand out two pucks, and we both pose for photos together.

I’ve largely been avoiding social media and the backlash from our press conference, but Graham tells us it’s been mixed. The majority of the fans are supportive of us, but that doesn’t mean I’m not affected by the few who aren’t, even if I’m not seeing what’s actually being said online.

I’ll never understand why people care where I put my dick, but I know what I signed up for.

They can pry my husband away from my cold, dead, pansexual ass, because I’m not giving him up for all the haters in the world.

I smile to myself, like I always do, when the words my husband flit through my brain and catch me off guard.

For the first time since this whole thing happened, they finally feel real.

I lean over and kiss his cheek, well aware of all the phones pointed in our direction.

Tripp laughs as he pulls me down the chute. “You’re such an attention whore.”

“It’s not my fault you’re irresistible. In fact, it’s your fault I can never stop touching you, and you should take pity on me.”

“Why? I’m the one being smothered with attention.”

“Oh, no,” I mock. “My husband loves me.”

“I swear, any excuse for you to use the H word.”

“I know how much you like hearing it.”

“I prefer the L word myself.”

“Loser?”

“Fuck you.”

“Naw.” I ruffle his sweaty red hair. “Look at you being all affectionate.”

Tripp bats my hand away. “You’re bad for my image.”