Pucking Strong: An MM Workplace Hockey Romance (Jacksonville Rays Book 4)

The Uber pulls up in front of the beachside bar. Even before I get out, I hear rock music. It’s not karaoke night, but there’s definitely a party in full swing. I’ve been with the guys in the gym all week, and no one mentioned anything …noveldrama

Entering the busy restaurant, I look around for anyone I know. Tess’s flaming red curls are hard to miss. Man, it’s packed in here. People are clustered by the bar, waiting for tables to open. I don’t see any Rays. Definitely no sign of Henrik.

The hostess perks up as I approach. She’s a pretty Chinese girl with a septum piercing and pink hair in tight space buns. “Hi! Did you have a reservation?”

“Uhh, actually, I’m looking for the hockey team.”

“Yeah, sure. Everyone’s already outside. Are you one of the guests of honor?”

“Guests of what? No, I don’t think so.”

Her smile falls a little. “Oh, well, everyone’s outside. Do you know the way?”

“Yep, all good.” I duck around her stand and head for the double doors. Through the wall of glass, I can see out to the crowded beach bar area. Yeah, it’s definitely the Rays. But I don’t see any actual players. There’s Maribel, Paulie’s Brazilian supermodel wife. Erica Woodson is laughing with DJ Perry’s girlfriend, Jessica. And they’re all wearing matching bedazzled jackets.

Wait, did Tess invite me to a WAG party?

I step outside, and someone instantly yells, “He’s here!”

All the women turn as one, cheering and screaming my name. I swear to god, I jump a foot in the air. “What the fuck—”

“Teddy!”

“You made it!”

“Welcome to the WAGs, Doctor O’Connor!”

My backpack is left at the door as the crowd of women surround me. Very much against my will, I’m led over to the corner booth, where Tess is waiting with Caleb and Mars Price. They stand as I’m hauled forward like some kind of sacrificial tribute. The Price guys are wearing the same jackets as the women. I know exactly what they are, and hell is gonna freeze over before—

“Glad you finally decided to show up,” says a deep voice. I glance over my shoulder to see Colton Morrow standing behind me. Like the others, he’s wearing a sparkly WAG jacket.

“Oh god.” Without hesitation, I wrap my arms around him in a tight hug.

“Oof—” He laughs, patting my back. “Good to see ya, Doc.”

It’s no secret that Colton Morrow is one of my NHL idols. Like me, he was a Black kid just trying to make it in a sport that’s been notoriously hostile towards any efforts at diversity. I may be fighting behind the bench, but our struggles are the same. I got to watch him play with the Rays during my intern year. I watched him come out to the world too, declaring his love for Poppy and Novy. Black and queer in hockey? Just consider us a couple of trailblazers.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” I mutter against his chest.

He pulls away first. “Come on, it’ll be more fun than you think. I promise.”

I take in his flashy jacket. “Not possible.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Poppy leads me away. Man, she must have left the interview quick. And she changed out of her little business suit. Now she’s in jeans and a white T-shirt, stretched tight over her baby bump. She’s also sporting a WAG jacket. Morrow’s jacket has Novy’s number twenty-two on the arms, but Poppy has the number one on the arms and back. And across her shoulders it just reads, “POPPY.”

“What, you didn’t wanna rep Novy at the games?” I tease.

“Oh, I think I rep him just fine,” she says, patting her pregnant belly. “But at the games, I’m usually on the clock too. And there’s only one Poppy St. James.”

“Point taken.” I glance around at all the chaos. “You couldn’t have warned me about this earlier?”

“What, and miss seeing the look on your face? I recorded it, by the way.”

Of course she did.

She leads me to the front of the pack, not stopping until I’m standing before Tess, Caleb, and Mars. A giant Finnish ex-goalie, Mars stands in the middle with his arms crossed in his bedazzled WAG jacket. “Ilmari” is embroidered in a script font over his left chest, with Jake’s number forty-two on both arms. Under his name is what looks like a motorcycle club patch that reads, “PRESIDENT.”

Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.

My gaze darts to Tess’s jacket. Her patch says, “VICE PRESIDENT.” Caleb’s says, “SGT. AT ARMS.”

“Of course,” I mutter. Caleb Price would be an enforcer. Even though the guy played forward for his whole hockey career, he gives off fierce d-man energy. Probably why he ended up married to Jake and Mars.

All the other wives and girlfriends press in behind us, laughing and sipping their fruity cocktails. Someone turns the music down, as all eyes focus on Mars. It feels like the scene in The Lion King where all the animals are waiting for Simba to roar.

“Are we supposed to bow?” I whisper at Poppy.

“Shh. Just wait.”

With a huff, Tess finally elbows him. “Come on, Mars. You know you have to say it.”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. His eyes narrow, then he declares, “As president of the Jacksonville Rays’ Wives and Guys Club, I now call this meeting to order.”

A cheer ripples across the group. Behind me, Maribel raises her martini and shouts in her thickly accented English, “I second the motion!”

“I third it,” chimes Courtney Fields.

I glance down at Poppy with a raised brow. “Wives and Guys?”

She sips her pink mocktail, swirling the cherries with her straw. “Well, we couldn’t very well stay the ‘wives and girlfriends,’ could we? Not with so many handsome men about.” Glancing over her shoulder, she winks at Morrow.

I’m distracted when Tess steps forward, hands on her hips. Her WAG jacket shimmers with the number twenty on each arm. “A new season of the Rays means we have some new members to induct,” she calls to the group. “New members, please step forward.”

Everyone cheers again as two women weave through the crowd. One I recognize as Christian Lindberg’s wife. She’s a white European woman. The other woman, I haven’t met. She’s cute and young, with light brown skin and long black hair. Her perky boobs fill out her top, and she’s paired her WAG jacket with a miniskirt and boots.

Poppy gives me a push. “While we’re young, Teddy, honey.”

With a groan, I step up and take my place next to Lindberg’s wife. Her jacket has the number thirty-eight bedazzled on the back in teal and diamond gemstones. The nickname “LINDY” crosses her shoulders.

“We were thrilled when we found out we’d be inducting, not two, but three new WAGs this season,” Tess calls out to the group. “Astrid and Kelsey, you received your jackets last week.” There’s a smattering of more cheers for them. Then Tess turns her smile on me. “Tonight, we also welcome Doctor Teddy O’Connor. Teddy, as Karlsson’s husband, you are officially the newest member of the Jacksonville Rays Wives and Guys!”

I’m sure I must turn as red as a tomato as the other WAGs go wild for me.

“Yeah, Teddy!”

“Lock him down, Ted!”

Just when I think the worst might be over, Mars steps forward, offering me a large gift bag. Oh god, this is too fucking much. I don’t deserve to be a WAG. I definitely don’t deserve a jacket. Not when this is all a fucking lie. “Please,” I hear myself say. But there’s a lot of commotion. Someone turned the music back up, so I lean in closer to Mars. “Hey, you can stop this, right?”

He raises a brow. “Why would I stop it?”

“Surely there’s, like, a trial period or something, right? Shouldn’t we have to make it past some kind of annulment deadline before I qualify for a jacket?”

“Are you married to a Ray?”

I huff, flapping my arm. “I mean, technically yes.”

“Then technically, this is your jacket.” He tries to hand it off again.

Tess pops up next to Mars, glancing between us. “Something wrong over here, Prez?”

“No. Teddy was just conveying his gratitude.” He holds out the bag for a third time.

Seeing no other choice, I take it.

“Open it,” a wife calls out.

“Yeah, let’s see it, Teddy!”

Tucking the gift bag awkwardly under one arm, I pull out the tissue paper, dropping it to the ground. My fingers brush over the soft plush of the WAG jacket, and it sends a literal chill up my arm. Of all the things I’ve already done in this fake marriage—signing the temporary custody papers, meeting his parents, wearing the damn ring—now this is a bridge too fucking far?

“Try. It. On! Try. It. On!” The ladies all start to chant as I slowly pull the WAG jacket free of the last of the tissue paper.

Poppy takes the gift bag, letting me hold the jacket with both hands. It’s a black, plush bomber-style jacket. They used actual jersey numbers, I think, sewing them onto the black material, then bedazzling them with matching rhinestones. Henrik’s number seventeen flashes on both arms. The front left chest is embroidered with “Dr. O’Connor.” The collar and cuffs are striped and fitted, like something on an old high school letterman jacket.

Honestly, this jacket is fucking awesome. I flip it around, and my breath catches. Henrik’s huge number seventeen covers the back too. And across the shoulders in sparkly block letters it reads, “TEDRIK.”

“Don’t you just love it?” says Poppy, brushing her fingers over the jewels.

God fucking damn it. I do love it.

“What’s Tedrik?” I ask, feeling breathless.

“It’s your ship name,” she explains. “Some of the names work better for it than others. Like Cake and Calilmari over there,” she adds, pointing at Caleb and Mars.

I raise a brow. “Cake?”

“Caleb and Jake,” Caleb replies, hands tucked in the pockets of his sparkly WAG jacket.

Calilmari explains itself. Though, as Mars turned, I saw that the back of his jacket reads, “NO EXIT” above Jake’s number forty-two.

“Put it on,” someone shouts again.

“Fashion show!”

“Show it off, Doctor O’Connor!”

I know this won’t stop until I put the damn jacket on. Whatever, I’m already wearing a wedding ring. I slip my arm into the sleeve, tugging on the jacket. I snake in my other arm and shrug it up my shoulders. It’s a perfect fit.

“Let’s see it, WAGs!”

“Yeah, Kelsey!”

“Lookin’ good, Astrid!”

Camera flashes make me blink as several of the women hold up their phones, taking pictures of us. Astrid puts an arm around me, and all I can do is plaster on a smile. The music is cranked louder, and the crowd starts to disperse over to the bar.

“Come on,” says Astrid, linking her arm in with mine.

I let her lead me over to the bar, where some drink that is teal and garnished with a fruit skewer gets placed in my hand. Everyone is talking all at once. People hug me, offering congratulations. One tipsy girl asks me what it took to turn Henrik gay. She’s quickly pulled away by a friend. Then Heather Walsh is behind me, sipping a margarita. “Did you pick Karlsson’s goal song yet?”

“What?”

“His goal song. It’s a Rays tradition.”

“I’m not familiar.” I take a sip of what I think is a blue hurricane. Fuck, it’s way too sweet.

Bobby Tremblay’s wife, Janna, steps in behind her. “For the first home game of the season, the WAGs get to pick the goal song for their player,” she explains. “If your guy scores and your song plays, you earn a thousand bucks too.”

Well, shit. Doctor O’Connor could use a thousand dollars. I glance between them, taking another sip of my shitty cocktail. “Isn’t there kind of an unfair advantage for the forwards? Don’t they have a better chance at scoring?”

Janna laughs. Like Henrik, her guy, Tremors, is a forward. “That’s kind of the point. If girls like Heather wanted to win, they should have picked a player who knows how to score. Right, Teddy?” She winks at me.

Oh god.

Heather just rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Remind me, Jan. Is Tremors a first-line guy?”

“Eat me,” Janna replies, popping a fried pickle chip into her mouth.

Both women laugh.

Heather makes some response, but I’m distracted by the form sitting on the bar. Most of the WAGs have already filled it out. Apparently, comedy is the name of this game. Janna and Heather both picked Madonna songs for their guys. If Langley scores tomorrow night, the whole arena is gonna cheer to the chorus of “Who Let the Dogs Out.”

Smiling, I set my hurricane down on the bar. I slip my phone from my pocket and pull up my workout playlist, scrolling with my thumb. This shouldn’t make me so giddy, right? But teasing Henrik with Karro has quickly become one of my new favorite hobbies. Spotting a strong contender, I smile and pick up the pen.

This is one fake husband task I’m more than happy to do.