 by Lauren Blakely.jpg)
Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 362(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
When I discover my boyfriend is cheating on me, I move out right away taking what I love most – my dog. As I fly out the door, I make sure to swipe the thing my ex loves best. The VIP tickets he won to a hockey game, complete with the chance to spend an evening with the city’s two biggest NHL stars. I can’t wait to snap selfies with my ex’s idols and rub it in his face. Except, when I head out with the two hockey studs, they have something else in mind besides sweet revenge. Would I like to spend the night…with both of them? Talk about the VIP experience. That’s what I get for one knee-weakening, sheet-grabbing night. In the morning, I plan to return to my bestie’s house to crash on her couch with my dog. But when they learn what happened with my awful ex, they ask me to be their temporary roomie for the week. Oh, and one of them needs my help with his grumpy reputation. The other? Well, he wants me to be his fake date at an upcoming wedding. Looks like I’m about to get double pucked. Again.
Double Pucked is a roomies to lovers, fake dating, image makeover, super spicy hockey rom com with a guaranteed why-choose style HEA! No swords cross. The two guys are all about HER all throughout! This story is perfect for fans of Lily Gold and Emily Rath!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
1
THE DOG ATE MY UNDERWEAR
Trina
Let me state for the record—I love my dog madly. This little stinker of a Min Pin mix is my baby, with his three legs, slobbery kisses, and burrow-under-my-covers-and-snuggle-all-night soul.
But there’s one thing I don’t love about my dog, Nacho. He eats my underwear.
You’d think a four-foot-high hamper with a lid that shuts would deter him. You’d be dead wrong.
As a hockey game blasts on the TV next to him, the twenty pounds of trouble lounges in his cuddler cup, licking his naughty lips without an ounce of remorse, the spoils of our lingerie war in his paws. Again.
“Seriously? Did you have to make them crotchless?” I ask as I bend down to grab the panty leftovers.
He doesn’t even have the decency to look guilty. Just wags his tail. Too adorably.
Gingerly, I pluck the remains of my pink polka-dot boy shorts from his pervy paws while my boyfriend Jasper shouts at the TV, “Are you kidding me? That was cross-checking.”
With an outrage only known to the species of rabid sports fans who wear jerseys of other men, Jasper jumps up from the couch, barking at the refs, telling them they’re blind, he’s going to give them a piece of his mind when he goes to the game later this month, and blah, blah, blah.
It’s just hockey. Who cares? Well, besides Jasper, though caring is an understatement to describe how he feels about hockey. Come to think of it, so is the word obsessed. With the half-eaten undies in hand, I walk behind the couch, not in front of it, so I don’t block his view as I head to the trash bin. I don’t dare disturb him during a hockey bout. Or match. Or whatever it is the guys on screen are doing with sticks and ice and stuff.
“Guess I’ll be shopping for new panties later today,” I say to myself as I drop the remains of my dignity in the garbage bin.
“What, babe?” Jasper calls out, and that must mean there’s a cross-checking time-out. Is that a thing? Who knows?
As a jingle about chicken wings with burn-your-tongue-off hot sauce plays from the TV, I answer him, “The dog ate my panties again. I’m going to go shopping for new ones. He went on a tear this week.”
“Oh, could you get thongs this time? Those are hot.”
That’d be a hard no. “I don’t want to floss my ass all day long at the bookstore.”
“But you’d look so good in them,” he says in his sexy baby pretty please voice. “You could wear one when we use those VIP tix later this month.”
Ugh. Don’t remind me. One of my life goals is to avoid ever going to a sporting event. Naturally, I had to fall for a sports junkie. But I’ll make the game fun by turning it into a gift that keeps on giving. I bought Jasper some jerseys for each team, and some pucks, and I’m going to get them all signed by the athletes as a surprise for him.
“Let me get this straight,” I call out as I grab my phone from the counter. “You want me to wear a thong and nothing else to the VIP thingie?”
He wiggles his eyebrows my way. “A thong and a short dress and those hot glasses. Yowzers.”
Well, I wear the glasses everywhere. But I don’t point that out. “Sounds perfect for a game played on ice,” I tease, stuffing my phone in my pocket, then grabbing my purse and keys. But on the way to the front door of our apartment in the Mission District, a terrifying sound catches my attention. A dry heave, then a wheezing hack, and then a horrible gasp of air.
Oh no! My baby!
I spin around. Nacho is puking up panty parts like a priest is conducting a lingerie exorcism of his esophagus.
My heart rockets with worry. I fly over to my darling, scoop him up, and race off to the vet around the corner as Jasper yells obscenities at the screen.
“He’s going to be fine.”
I can breathe again.
I press my palms together in gratitude. “Thank you so much, Doctor Lennox. I can’t thank you enough.” Then I wince, filled with worry. “But what do I do if Nacho does it again? I honestly didn’t think he ate that much. I mean, how much underwear is too much underwear? He’s done this before but he usually only eats—”
I stop myself before I say the next thing out loud. The panel. Seriously. How gross is that? My dog eats the panel of my panties after I take them off and I’m telling the story to the guy who’s known online as The Hot Vet, since he shoots helpful tips for pet owners. No wonder my older sister thinks I’m the family hot mess.
In this moment, she’s not wrong.