Irresponsible Puckboy (Puckboys #2)(9)

There was no falling out of love with him, and I hated myself for it.

“Tripp?” Dex’s brown eyes hold the kind of insecurity they usually do when a reporter asks about goal percentages, and he stands there with his lips parted and an “uhhhh” sound coming out his mouth. I swear some of them ask simply to make him look dumb.

“Right. Sorry. Vows.” The urge to run out of here is overwhelming, but I can’t do that to Dex. He’s too precious, and even though this feels real to me, like I’ve been transported into an alternate dimension and Dex is somehow in love with me too, none of it is.

We’re not even going to file the paperwork.

This is an experiment.

A goof.

It’s not real.

But as I say the words “I, Tripp Alexander Mitchell, take you, Dexter James Mitchale, to be my husband, through the good times and bad. Through successes and struggles …” I realize that I mean it all.

This might be fake, but my vows are very real.

And as much as this memory will crush me for years to come, adding layers and layers to the unrequited love suffocating my heart, I can’t walk out on him.

We try to exchange rings and then quickly realize we shouldn’t swap but wear our own. Dex is taller and leaner than I am, so I can barely get his Stanley Cup ring on my fat finger.

I’m bulked out with enough muscle to fill the net but am still toned and flexible enough to move swiftly and protect the goal. Dex is built for speed.

“I now pronounce you married,” our officiant, who’s about eighty years old, says. Hey, at least he’s not an Elvis impersonator. “You may now kiss your husband.”

There’s an awkward pause where Dex’s gaze ping-pongs between the officiant and me. “Only I would’ve forgotten about this part.”

I lean forward and press my lips to his cheek softly. It’s not like we’ve never done that before.

Hell, one time after Dex scored a goal, he skated all the way down the other end to me and planted a kiss on my cheek while I lifted my helmet to get a drink of water.

This kind of affection is normal for us.

I break my lips from him, but Dex doesn’t let me get far. He wraps his arms around my back, and he pulls me against him.

“It’s our wedding, boo. You have to do better than that.” The next minute, his lips are on mine.

A squeak comes from the back of my throat, but then I lean into it.

If this is the only chance I’ll ever get to kiss Dex Mitchale, I’m going to take it.

I expect him to pull away, to keep it short and sweet, but surprising me again, his tongue parts my lips and dives into my mouth. My hands grip his suit jacket as I kiss him back. He kisses me like I’m breakable. It’s slow, sweet, consuming.

I hate it.

It’s the worst thing he’s ever unknowingly done.

Because as we stand at an altar, promising ourselves to each other and sealing it with a kiss, my heart has never experienced such pain.

As soon as our mouths break apart, this will be over, and I will be crushed.

I try to burn the final seconds into my mind, and then with what little self-control I have left, I step back, keeping my head low so he can’t see my glassy eyes.

“Are you … crying?” Dex asks.

Well, fuck. I wipe at my face. “I always cry at weddings.”

“Because they’re so beautiful?”

“No, because every time a couple gets married, a manwhore fairy dies. We just killed someone, and you don’t even care.” I finally risk looking at his face, because I know he’ll be smiling and not so concerned that my eyes are involuntarily leaking.

“A … manwhore fairy.” His brow furrows. “Umm, what exactly is a manwhore fairy?”

“Whenever you have a random hookup, a gay manwhore fairy gets its wings. It’s legend, passed on to all of the baby gays.”

The officiant clears his throat. “Congratulations. Uh, I don’t mean to rush you out, but we do have a 4:30 ceremony, and you still need to sign the certificate.”

We quickly get that out of the way, and then he hands me the piece of paper we’re never going to file. I hand it off to Dex, because the last thing I need is a reminder that today happened.

Then Dex holds out his hand. “Ready, husband?”

I link my arm with his. “Ready.”

“So,” Dex says. “Are you going to take my last name? Or should I take yours?”

I laugh. “We’ve been over this. My spelling is correct, and yours is an abomination. Why do you think everyone uses my spelling when they call us the Mitchell brothers? You should be so lucky to be Mr. Dex Mitchell.”

“No arguments from me.”

Dear God.

We exit the small chapel, where another couple is waiting. They do a double take at Dex in his suit, and me in my … uh, wedding attire. I just act like I’m drunk.

Like I want to be.

It was only a short ceremony, but I’d like to erase the memory with as much alcohol as my body can possibly handle.





I wake with a groan. Back-to-back nights of drinking was not a good idea. Neither was getting wasted to try to forget everything about that ceremony. I still remember every detail.

Every word.

Every vow.

And that stupid kiss that took my breath away.