That One Night: A Pucking Around Prequel Novella
Emily Rath
For all the thirsty bitches who love
a dirty-talking golden retriever boy.
Eat your hearts out.
TROPES, TAGS, & CONTENT WARNINGS
TROPES
One-night stand, instalove, hockey romance
TAGS
MF, one-night stand, Seattle, cosmic connection, dirty-talking golden retriever boy, angry sad doctor girl, too much sex, it’s a twin thing, no names, fuck me all better
CONTENT WARNINGS
This novella contains detailed sex scenes that include elements of choking, light impact play, praise, and dirty talk.
1
“Have you ever been to a yacht race, beautiful?”
The Chad McBoatface hogging all the air next to me hasn’t stopped talking for ten minutes. This walking Patagonia model must not be able to read, because I’ve got ‘FUCK OFF’ all but stamped across my forehead.
God, I just want to be alone to wallow in self-pity. Is that too much to ask?
I swirl what’s left of the ice in my Old Fashioned, watching the cherry spin at the bottom of the glass. I’m sitting alone in this swanky hotel bar…well, I wish I was alone. It’s all dark-paneled walls with a sophisticated nautical theme. Perfect for Chad. I snort into my glass. He doesn’t notice. Am I being too hard on him?
Oh god, definitely not.
Chad’s the kind of guy that talks at you, not to you. Sure, he’s got the smile and the blonde curls you could run your fingers through, but he also keeps checking over his shoulder, winking at the rest of his group. They’re sitting over in the corner, a great view of the Seattle skyline framed behind them. It’s nearly three o’clock, and their late brunch is almost finished. They keep flashing us jeering smiles.
Wasn’t he one stool over like two minutes ago? Damn it, I’m gonna have to take this pity party back to my room.
I drop my gaze to my phone and click on my inbox, tapping the top email. I must have a degradation kink, because I’ve reread the first three lines of this email fifty times in the last hour. It’s the reason I left my own brunch early.
It’s a form email, because of course. I wasted a year of my life applying to something and getting my hopes up, only to get a form email where the bot can’t even spell my fucking name right.
Dear Dr. Rachum Price,
Thank you for your interest in the Barkley Fellowship, the nation’s premiere partner in advanced sports medicine. We were overwhelmed by the number of truly exceptional candidates this year. The selection committee has given careful consideration to your application. Unfortunately—
I don’t keep reading. I click the side of my phone and the screen turns black.
That’s why I’m stuck here with Chad and not at my brother’s wedding brunch. Call me selfish, but I couldn’t bear to lose it in front of Harrison and his new husband and the whole extended family. So I slipped away, ordered a taxi, and came back here to wallow.
It’s not like I’m missing the actual wedding. That was yesterday. The brunch today is just for those people who didn’t have early flights out. I played my part all weekend long, smiling through all the events. I gave my proud sister speech at the rehearsal dinner, and danced like a loon at the reception last night.
I’m happy for him, really. He and Somchai are the definition of persevering love. But I’m sad for me too. Harrison will understand; it’s a twin thing.
My flight home leaves first thing tomorrow morning. Knowing Som, he’ll martial a small army of Thai aunties to bring me food for the next week to try and cheer me up. He’s not even from Cincinnati, but he has connections everywhere. He and Harrison are both big-name chefs, slowly building out their empire. I can’t complain when it means my fridge is always bursting with amazing free food.
Losing out on this fellowship sucks, but life moves on. For now, I need to go home. I’ll let myself wallow for a day or two. My roommate will cry with me. She’s basically an empath. Tess cries when actors on TV cry. She cries when cartoon animals cry. Meanwhile, I’m an emotionally unavailable, closed-off clam （her words, not mine）。
So, I guess I’ll give crying a try. But then I need a plan. I need to start phase two. I need—
Fucking hell.
I need Chad to scoot the fuck back right the fuck now!
He’s leaning in my space, batting those blonde lashes at me. Is this his smolder? Am I meant to be swooning? How can one man fail to read every single sign a woman is giving him? I’m falling off my stool as he leans in even closer, giving my hair an exaggerated sniff.
I freeze.
“Mmm, you smell good,” he murmurs. “Is that Chanel No. 9?”
Yeah, this is my absolute limit. It’s time to yeet Chad back to his table. I take a deep breath, shoving Dragon Rachel back inside her cage. There’s no reason to make a scene. I’ll just turn him down with my big girl words.
But then the fucker dares to reach out and brush his fingers down my spine. This jumpsuit is backless, so he’s grazing my bare skin.
I smack my drink onto the bar, and swivel on my stool, breaking our contact. “Get your hands off me,” I hiss. “It’s time to go.”
Chad dares to look all wide-eyed at me as he stands. “Whoa—hey, easy. What’s with the attitude? We’re just having a nice chat.”
My nostrils flare. “Nice chat?” I say, utterly incredulous.
He huffs a laugh. “Listen—”
“Amy!” a deep voice calls. “Amy, what the hell?”
Chad glances over my shoulder, eyes narrowed towards the voice.
“I’ve been waiting for you for like twenty minutes. I thought we were meeting downstairs.”
I spin on my stool to see a man striding towards the bar.
Holy shit, do they put something in the water here?
This guy is gorgeous too. His chocolate brown hair sweeps down over his brow as he hooks me with those hazel eyes. He’s got the perfect amount of stubble covering that chiseled jaw. Not to mention the way his chest and arms fill out his too-tight t-shirt.
He’s a pro athlete, I’d bet money on it. I’ve spent too long in the industry not to know a player when I see one. I’m guessing football. Defense. It’s not just the body, it’s the confidence, the look of luxury, the sucks-all-the-air-out-of-the-room effortless swagger.
Oh, and he’s swaggering now, right up to Chad. He’s got easily five inches on him and fifty pounds of muscle. “Is this guy bothering you, Amy? Are you bothering my sister, asshole?”
I suck in a breath. Sister? Am I that drunk? This isn’t Harrison, I—ohhh, we’re acting. He’s offering me an out. I slip into character. “It’s fine. He was just—”
“I wasn’t doing anything.” Chad confidently squares off against his new competition.
New guy folds his arms across his broad chest. “Well, from over there it looked like you were touching my sister, and she didn’t seem to like it. You want a broken hand?”
“No—”
“Cause no one touches my sister unless she asks for it first,” he growls.
I reflexively reach out, putting a hand on his arm. “I can take care of myself,” I warn. “And he was just leaving.” I stare daggers at Chad. “Weren’t you?”