Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 103621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 518(@200wpm)___ 414(@250wpm)___ 345(@300wpm)
And also, because you’re a fangirling sex pervert who had a FILTHY dream about her crush/future husband/man she barely knows last night. Which is fine, I guess.
As long as he never figures out your Luvvy Puck, the horniest hockey fan on the internet.
“Not fair,” I whisper to myself. “There are way hornier ones out there.”
There are. No doubt. That’s the truth.
But it’s also the truth that I had a sex dream featuring Grammercy’s big hand over my mouth, muffling the sound of my orgasm so we wouldn’t wake the kids, while he gave me a railing better than anything I’ve ever experienced in real life.
And yes, in the dream, we had four kids. And a dog. And a cat. And two sweet brother gerbils named Gordie and Howe, after our favorite old-school hockey player.
It wasn’t just a sex dream.
It was a family porn dream.
No matter how many times I’ve told myself that I understand this is just a new friend offering a helping hand to a kid in need, some part of me wants more. It wants Grammercy’s love and time and attention and a real-life happily ever after.
It also wants to find out what he’s packing in those sexy suit pants he was wearing the other night…
Maybe I am the horniest hockey fan on the internet.
Last night wasn’t my first steamy dream featuring Grammercy Graves. Nope, the first was three whole years ago, back when he was playing for the Eugene Sasquatch, when he was just a nineteen-year-old kid trying to prove himself worthy of the NHL.
Mimi was barely three, and we’d spent the day at a doctor’s appointment, where she screamed through a round of shots they’d hoped would help with her pain and swelling. Afterward, at the grocery store and still cranky from her shots, she’d had a meltdown for the ages because they were out of the chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs. Once I’d finally gotten her into bed that night, I’d collapsed on our ancient couch with a cup of lukewarm tea and flipped through channels, looking for something to help me forget that I was a twenty-year-old single mom of a newly-diagnosed chronically ill kid, and had no clue how I was going to manage.
I almost scrolled past the hockey game on ESPN+. I’ll watch a WHL game from time to time, but minor league games aren’t must-see TV for me. But the team’s name—the Eugene Sasquatch—made me laugh. Then, they flashed a pic of their mascot, Sebastian the Savage Squatch, on the screen, and I was hooked.
I came for the comedy and stayed for the kid from Louisiana, a boy from New Orleans who skated like he owned the ice and scored like every puck that hit the inside of the net was a gift from the gods.
The joy on his face when he played was infectious.
He wasn’t bad to look at off the ice, either…
I knew that for a fact because I’d instantly googled the man, confirming he was Grant Graves little brother and the kind of hometown boy I loved to root for. Louisiana isn’t a hotbed for creating pro hockey players, so we’re extra proud of the ones we’ve got. I told myself it was just NOLA pride that had me flipping through his headshots to pick out my favorite ones, but the truth was that the crush was instantaneous.
Sitting there in my pajamas, stress-eating leftover mac and cheese straight from the pot, I found myself whispering “Let’s go, NOLA Squatch!” every time he touched the puck.
Within a month, watching Grammercy play had become my escape. I stalked the cable listings, making sure to record every Eugene game ESPN+ broadcast so I could watch them later. As soon as Mimi was in bed, I’d plop down on the couch and get swept away in my fandom. And yes, I ordered a Eugene Squatch Lover T-shirt as a silly birthday gift for myself that year, but I wasn’t a Squatch fan. Not really.
I was a Grammercy Graves fan, this beautiful Southern boy who was making magic happen on ice.
I followed his career in the minors for two years, and no one cheered louder when he was drafted to join the Badgers, his very first NHL team.
And now, that man from the TV screen is going to be my husband.
My actual, for real, but also kind of fake, but still legal husband.
“Stop trying to wrap your head around it,” I whisper to myself. “It’s never not going to be crazy. Just embrace the crazy and…go for it.”
With a bracing breath, I hurry up the last few steps and push through the courthouse doors. The lobby is all marble, old wood, and that particular deep south government building smell of floor cleaner and mothballs they use to keep the bayou rot away.
Very romantic.
But what is romantic is the man standing not far from the information desk, his hair still damp from his after-practice shower…