Dirty Pucker (Denver Bashers #2)

2. Ingrid

Chapter 2

Ingrid

M y phone buzzes with a text as I walk into Spanky’s.

I step to the side so I’m not in the way and read the message from my cousin Theo.

Hey, running like 10 min late from practice, be there soon.

I type out a quick response.

No worries! I’ll grab a drink and a table. Take your time!

I walk up to the bar, careful to step over part of the carpeted floor that dips suddenly.

I smile and shake my head. This place is the definition of a dive bar.

I glance around at the dingy wood paneling along the walls and the brass light fixtures that hang from the ceiling. There’s a layer of dust on all of the glass fixtures, making the actual light they offer pretty dim. Two of the flatscreen TVs that hang over the bar work; one doesn’t. That’s an improvement though. Just a few months ago only one TV worked.

This is the place my hockey pro cousin and his teammates like to go to unwind after a game or practice. The drinks are strong and cheap, and the staff doesn’t bug them like at other places whenever they see pro athletes in the vicinity.

There are a couple of people ahead of me at the bar waiting to order from the bartender, so I check my work email on my phone to make sure I haven’t missed anything important.

I see an email from HR about the new player the Bashers just acquired in a last-minute trade. Del Richards.

I’m just a few weeks into this job and know zero about hockey, so I have no idea who he is. I’ve never met him and don’t even know what he looks like.

All I know is that Theo and his good friend and teammate, Xander, hate him. The rest of the guys on the Bashers hate him too. They told me Del is an asshole who’s known in the league for doling out cheap shots and picking fights constantly. He’s racked up the most penalty time of anyone in the NHL. Both Theo and Xander have been in nasty fights with the guy multiple times. None of the Bashers players are happy to have him on the team.

Del is also the older brother of my new friend Dakota. She’s complained about him being annoyingly overprotective her whole life.

I sigh, already nervous about working with him. Is he going to be combative with me too when I try to film him for social media?

I try not to freak myself out. I haven’t even met the guy yet.

I make a mental note to read that HR email as soon as I get home so I’m prepared when I meet Del tomorrow morning. Then I pull up the Bashers TikTok account that I started a few weeks ago when I was hired as the social media coordinator for the team. Fifty thousand followers already. I smile to myself, proud that I’ve been able to help them gain that many followers so quickly.

I check on how our latest post is doing. It’s a video I filmed of the team a couple of days ago as they boarded the team plane for an away game. All the guys were dressed in suits, so I filmed them on my phone. Then I posted a cheeky caption about well-dressed men, chose one of the top trending songs on TikTok to play over the clip, and then posted it.

It already has one hundred thousand views.

I smile, happy with how well it’s performing and all the positive comments from fans.

But a second later, nerves crackle in my stomach.

I’m doing a good job so far. But I’ve only been the team’s social media coordinator for not even a month. There’s still a lot of time for me to mess up…

That crackling feeling intensifies when I think about how different this job is from every other job I’ve ever had.

If you can even call those actual jobs.

A familiar stab of insecurity hits. It’s no secret I’m the dictionary definition of a spoiled rich girl. Theo and I are Thompsons—the Thompson Industries Thompsons, to be exact. Our family owns a ton of luxury hotels and properties all over the world, in addition to several other businesses.

From the day we were born, we never had to worry about money. Everything we could ever want has always been provided to us by our families.

I never had to stress about studying hard so I could land a job to support myself, or working long hours to pay the bills, like so many other people. I started out doing PR for my family’s hotels and resorts when I graduated college, and then I eventually started my own social media accounts and made a name for myself as a lifestyle influencer.

That’s how I made a living for the past several years. Brands paid me to post photos of myself on my social media accounts using their makeup or wearing their clothes or visiting their luxury properties.

It was a blast, I won’t lie.

But then I got an offer from the Bashers public relations team a few months ago, after I helped them with a fundraiser. They loved my work and thought my social media influence could help the team gain more popularity.

I immediately said yes—even though I don’t care about sports and know nothing about hockey, other than whatever my cousin Theo tells me when we hang out.

But I wanted to. Because I wanted to see if I could venture out of my comfort zone.

I think about how Theo broke the mold when he embarked on his pro hockey career. No one even remembers that he’s part of the Thompson family now. He’s Theo the badass hockey pro.

I want my own version of that. I want to carve out my own path too.

I want to see if I could do something unexpected. If I could be more than just a twenty-eight-year-old rich girl who travels and posts selfies on social media.

An ugly feeling digs at my gut. I think of my ex, Kyle, and how he and his friends used to make fun of me for never having a real job.

Babe, you call what you do work? Get real. You get paid to post photos of yourself on social media. That’s great and all, but it’s not a real job.

Even though it’s been months since our breakup, his words still sting. Part of me wants to do this to prove to him that I can be more than he ever thought I was.

I slip my phone back into my coat pocket and grab a menu from the bartop. As I skim the text, broad blazer-clad shoulders infiltrate my peripheral vision.

“Hey, beautiful. Come here often?”

I roll my eyes at the familiar line spoken in an unfamiliar accent. Australian, I think.

“Nope,” I answer without looking up, and set the menu back down on the bar top. It’s a lie, but I don’t care. I just want this guy to leave me alone.

“Let’s celebrate your arrival then.”

He sets a short glass on top of my menu. The amber liquid swirls, reflecting the light from the fixture above. When I look up, blue eyes and a smug smile greet me.

“Name’s Cameron. What’s yours?” He steps right next to me, lightly bumping my arm. I instinctively scoot to the left to create space between us.

One perk of hanging out with Theo and his teammates is that whenever they’re around, I don’t get hassled by creeps. But since I’m alone, this guy probably took that as an invitation to chat me up.

I look at him. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’d just like to be left alone.”

He scoffs, but the smug smile doesn’t budge. “Then why are you here dressed like that?”

“Excuse me?” I almost laugh at what this guy is implying. I’m wearing a camel-colored wool coat that hits my knees, boots, jeans, and a blouse. I’m dressed pretty conservatively all things considered.

But what I’m wearing shouldn’t matter. I could be wearing lingerie and that still wouldn’t give this guy the right to bother me.

“Don’t tell me a hot little thing like you came here to be left alone.” He turns so he’s facing me. He leans closer and stares at my chest.

All the muscles in my body tense. What a prick. The sour stench of alcohol burns my nostrils.

“You have no right to speak to me like that.” My voice is a low, icy calm.

He glares at me then moves his hand like he’s going to grab my arm.

But before I can even step back, a massive hand lands on his shoulder, jerking him back.

Someone steps out from behind the creep. My eyes go wide.

Whoa…

This guy is tall. Like, probably six-three or six-four. It’s also clear that he’s built like a brick wall.

Even the hoodie and jacket he’s wearing can’t hide how muscular he is.

And he’s hot. Like, really, really hot.

I take in the broad spread of his shoulders, the thick sheet of dark scruff on his impossibly square jaw, how his dark hair is thick and messy. Like he’s always running his fingers through it.

But it’s his eyes that I can’t stop looking at.

They’re a rich mahogany brown with flecks of caramel gold. And despite the way he’s glaring at the creep, I could swear I see softness behind all that sharpness in his stare.

His thick fingers clamp into the creep’s shoulder as he spins him around. The drunk winces. My gaze bounces between them.

“I think you should leave her alone,” the guy says, his voice low and rough.

“Look, mate, this isn’t your concern,” the creep snaps.

The guy leans forward, invading the creep’s space. His glare turns razor sharp. “If you’re gonna harass a woman and ignore her when she asks you to leave her alone, I’ll make it my concern to remove you. Now leave. And take your drink with you.”

The drunk creep finally seems to register that this guy is bigger than him and could likely kick the shit out of him if he wanted. He stumbles away, drink in hand.

I glance up at the ruggedly handsome stranger who saved me.

“Thank you,” I finally say.

Instead of smiling like I think he will, he frowns. Not like he’s mad. More like he’s confused about why I would thank him. My stomach flips. There’s something about the way he’s looking at me. His eyes are focused, like he doesn’t see anything or anyone else in this bar except me.

“Thank you’s not necessary,” he says.

I take in the softness in his deep brown eyes, how they contrast nicely with the sharp angles and ruggedness of his handsome face.

The peppery evergreen scent of his cologne hits me. I almost moan. Whoa. He smells incredible. And it’s making it impossible for me to think straight. I clear my throat and hope he doesn’t notice that I’m struggling to stand upright in his presence.

I smile at him. “Buy you a drink then?”

His forehead relaxes as the corner of his mouth tugs into a half-smile. My heart skids in my chest.

Holy hell. This guy is dangerously handsome when he smiles. And he’s not even full-on smiling.

What would my reaction be if he grinned at me?

There’s a faint pulse between my legs. Heat flashes across my skin. Well. There’s my answer.

He gestures to the half-full glass of beer on the bar top. “No need. I’m good.”

His half-smile fades. His gaze on me focuses, like he’s studying me. “You okay?”

Warmth pools at the center of my chest at how he’s concerned about me, a total stranger.

I nod. “Yeah, I am. Thanks for asking.”

He nods once then glances off to the side, like he’s not quite sure what to do or say.

I touch his arm. “You sure I can’t get you anything?”

His gaze falls to my hand touching his wrist. I instantly pull away. I probably shouldn’t have done that.

He looks at me, his eyes shy. “I’m okay. Thanks though.” He clears his throat. “You have a good night then…”

“Ingrid,” I say quickly as my brain works in overdrive to think of something smooth and charming to say to get him to chat with me longer. This hot stranger swooped in and pulled a seriously swoon-worthy move by saving me from a drunk harasser, and I don’t want him to leave just yet…but I can’t think of a single thing to say that wouldn’t sound totally weird.

He blinks at me. “You’re Ingrid?” He says it like he already knows who I am.

“Yeah…”

His brow hits his hairline like he’s shocked.

I let out an embarrassed laugh. “Sorry, have we met, or should I know who you are…”

He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can, Theo walks up to me.

“Hey.” My cousin smiles at me, then looks at the hot stranger standing in front of me.

That smile disappears from Theo’s face. He’s scowling now. “Del. What the hell are you doing here talking to my cousin?”