CONTENTS

  About The Book

  Did you know?

  My Hockey Romance Book #1

  1. The Dog Ate My Underwear

  Two Weeks Later

  2. She Likes Both

  3. Sex Meat

  4. Total Baller Move

  5. Tell Us Everything

  6. Lick Shoot Suck

  7. Orgasm Matchmakers

  8. An Everything Bagel

  9. The Sharing Loophole

  10. Secret up My Sleeves

  11. My Pancake Era

  12. A Housewarming Present

  13. A Visit from the Dragon

  14. A Secret Nerd

  15. The T Word

  16. Boss Babe

  17. Open Wide

  18. Life Kink

  19. A Gift from the Hockey Guys

  20. Good Morning to Me

  21. My Digital Stylist

  22. The Girlfriend Issue

  23. Toys, Toys, Toys

  24. A Rule for a Rule

  25. A New Pact

  26. Morning Wood

  27. The Shirtless Chefs

  28. Flip Flop

  29. The Page-Turner Club

  30. Five Chili Peppers

  31. Our Private Date

  32. Queen Move

  33. How Do You Do

  34. Hook, Line, and Sinker

  35. Bad Luck Charm

  36. Dress Handkerchief

  37. I’m the Dick

  38. Didn’t See That Coming

  39. It’s Complicated

  40. What if it Does?

  41. The Big If

  42. Book Boyfriend Move

  43. The Band’s Back Together Again

  44. At the Same Time?

  Epilogue

  Another Epilogue

  Excerpt - Most Valuable Playboy

  Be A Lovely

  Acknowledgments

  More Books by Lauren

  Contact

  DOUBLE PUCKED

  LAUREN BLAKELY

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  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.

  DID YOU KNOW?

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  Did you know this book is also available in audio and paperback on all major retailers? Go to my website for links!

  To all the girls who dare to dream–big, dirty, filthy, fabulous dreams!

  With gratitude to Dr. Hunter Finn for his Valentine’s Day video.

  MY HOCKEY ROMANCE BOOK #1

  AN MFM ROOMIES-TO-LOVERS SPICY HOCKEY ROM-COM

  By Lauren Blakely

  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.

  I might as well just hold up a sign for his vid that says, The dog likes the way I taste.

  Gross.

  Well, not gross. I’m sure I taste fabulous. But I don’t want to discuss my peach flavor with my dog’s doctor.

  “They usually only eat the panels,” he says, and that’s not totally embarrassing to hear him say even though he delivers this dog truth nugget with a completely straight face. “But I don’t want you to stress, Trina. Dogs eat a lot of non-food items and sometimes they just need their stomach pumped. He’s resting comfortably right now and should be able to go home in about thirty minutes.” He flashes a warm smile, then sets a hand on my arm. “Besides, it was just a thong.”

  “Well, that’s good,” I say, still relieved that Nacho is fine and that we’re no longer talking about the panel of my panties.

  Except.

  Wait.

  Hold the hell on.

  What did he just say? “A thong?” I ask. It comes out thoroughly skeptical because there’s no way my dog ate a thong. I don’t own any thongs.

  Maybe Dr. Lennox is just bad at identifying women’s underwear. I mean, he wouldn’t be the first man who couldn’t tell a bikini from a cheeky or a high-rise from a h
ipster.

  “You just mean that that’s what was left, right? That it looked like a thong? The pink polka-dot pair? I threw the rest of it out at home.”

  Dr. Lennox tilts his head, like I’m the one not making sense. “There was a tiny bit of fabric that was pink, and he vomited that first. But then there was a red lacy bit for the floss. That came out in three pieces, but honestly, it wasn’t that hard to puzzle the words together.”

  “The words?” I ask, feeling like he’s speaking another language.

  The vet has the good grace to look at the counter as he says, “The front had the words bad girl written on it.”

  Somehow he manages to say all this with a straight face. Which tells me that many dogs eat many weird things and that an important skill for a vet is being able to not laugh when he learns what type of underwear you wear.

  And I’m not laughing either.

  Because my dog did not eat my pair.

  My jaw hangs open. My heart doesn’t want to compute what he just said. But my brain has already processed this awful news. And my momentary shock is laced with hurt and chased with a giant ball of anger.

  My boyfriend didn’t only screw another woman.

  That charmed-my-parents, won-over-my-tough-as-nails-sister and obviously-fooled-me-too boyfriend screwed someone else at our apartment.

  To make matters worse, that cheating scumbag of a boyfriend screwed that bad girl in front of my dog.

  Wait.

  Make that soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.

  “I can explain.”

  I seethe as Jasper utters those three awful words. They’re the kiss of death to any relationship. Not that I had much hope that there would be any sort of reasonable excuse for the presence of another woman’s shredded panties in my darling dog’s digestive tract.

  Still, I’m part investigator (and I can tell you which Enneagram types all my friends are too), so I’m damn curious how Jasper’s going to spin this dirty laundry.

  I’m back home now, facing off against the man I was sure I’d been falling for. As I clutch my drugged dog, who’s still woozy from the meds, I sweep out my free arm, inviting the stinking, no-good cheater to present his case—right here in the living room. His favorite room, since it’s got that damn symbol of his real love. The TV that blasts every freaking hockey game.

  “Have at it,” I bite out. “And bear in mind I’ve read about five thousand romance novels so I’ve heard pretty much all the excuses. But by all means, you take the floor.”

  I’ve got the evidence though and I confronted him with it when I walked in the door two minutes ago, wagging a ziplock bag and asking him coolly, calmly, “Any idea why another woman’s panties were in my dog’s belly?” Because damn straight I took that evidence from Dr. Lennox. “I would really, really like to know what the explanation for this is.”

  Jasper backs up against his living room wall, right next to the framed tickets of the first ever hockey game his dad took him to. Hair from his man bun falls loose, framing his guilty face. He gulps so visibly it’s like a bullfrog just crawled up his throat.

  “I was d-doing laundry,” he begins. “The other day. Down in the basement of the building.” In case I don’t know where the washer and dryer are, I presume. “And our neighbor—you know the redhead from the second floor?”

  I growl. The one whose ass I caught him staring at the other week when she walked up the steps in front of us, asking how Nacho’s weave-pole classes were going. Gah. I’d been bamboozled by dog talk. “Delilah,” I supply, anger lacing my tone, but I’m angry with myself. Why didn’t I realize that his ogling of her was a sign? “Continue.”

  With a rough swallow, he soldiers on. “All the machines were full so I said that she could wash her clothes with ours.”

  “How noble.”

  He breathes a clear sigh of relief, missing my sarcasm. “Right? I just wanted to help her, Trina,” he says.

  “Naturally. Sharing a washing machine is neighborly.”

  He hazards a smile. “I’m glad you agree.”

  This guy. He thinks he’s getting away with fooling me. But actually…I think for a few seconds. Yes, maybe this’ll work. Yeah, I’ll let him think I believe him.

  I adopt a warmer expression, like I’m buying this bill of goods he’s selling. “So, you opened your washing machine to her. Let her share in a full spin cycle.”

  “Exactly,” he says, a bigger smile lighting up his handsome face. What a stupidly handsome face. It tricked me.

  But he’s not tricking me now. I’m feeling all kinds of Law & Order. “So the dog got the undies from the clean laundry then?” I ask, innocently, leading the witness.

  Jasper’s smile is so damn bright. “Exactly. I did her laundry. And her underwear must have fallen into our laundry basket at the end,” he says, letting out a laugh. Like, can you believe the laundry room shenanigans? Right, right. Those panties had a mind of their own just jumping into our basket. “Then I brought it back upstairs and the dog got it.”

  I breathe in deeply. I can work with his song-and-dance routine. “So you’re a Good Samaritan,” I say, affecting my best thank god my guy isn’t a cheater grin before I sling an inquisitive, “Not a fabulist?”

  He blinks, scrunching his brow. “What?”

  “Here’s a hint. It doesn’t mean fabulous. It comes from the word fable, and it means you’re spinning stories.”

  Jasper holds up his hands, lip trembling. “I swear she just needed to do her laundry. I was doing her a solid.”

  “Doing her is right,” I say.

  He shakes his head, whipping it back and forth. The denial is strong in this one. “I accidentally put it away with your stuff. So then Nacho just went into your drawer and got it out. You know what he’s like. He’s totally into underwear.”

  “I do know what he’s like. I know exactly what he’s like,” I say, my anger masking all my hurt. I advance toward Jasper, crossing the living room and setting my sweetheart safely down in his cuddle cup. “And I know beyond a reasonable doubt that you’re a liar. Want to know how?”

  “How?” He wobbles.

  Deep breath. “Nacho only eats dirty underwear.”

  Jasper’s face falls. He gulps visibly, and then the great backtracking begins. “It only happened one time. You were running a signing at the bookstore. We watched a hockey game together. She’s a hockey fan too. It won’t happen again.” He presses his palms together in prayer. “Please forgive me. I just love you so much.”

  A sob threatens to climb up my throat. It threatens to make me believe him. That it was a one-time thing, that it was no big deal, that it was a transgression.

  But that sob comes from my broken heart, not my head.

  When my eyes stray to the framed tickets behind him, to his precious hockey paraphernalia, my head takes over, saying hold my beer to my dumb heart. “I’ll consider it,” I say carefully, evenly. “But I need a few hours alone.” I push out my lower lip, letting it quiver. “Can you do that for me, baby?”

  He nods immediately, clearly ready to grovel, giving me puppy-dog eyes. “I just don’t want you to move out. I mean, we’re doing such a great job, making rent together. Life plan and all, babe.”

  Our life plan did not involve your dick in another woman and her panties in my dog’s belly.