The Puckable Playbook

From USA TODAY Bestselling Author E. M. Moore comes a delightfully endearing hockey romance between an awkward wallflower and her perfect, hockey-playing "dating coach" who become mismatched roommates. A touch of humor, spice, and scenes that will have you swooning all await you in The Puckable Playbook.

When college journalist, Lenore, finds herself trapped rooming with a hockey player, she’s anything but thrilled. After all, Len despises athletes—too cocky, too entitled, and definitely not included in her long-term goals. With a lengthy list of ex-roommates, however, she doesn’t exactly have a choice.

Coming off a bad breakup with his new roomie’s best friend, Zaiah isn’t exactly happy either, but it’s better than the alternative. He’s signed all of her stupid contracts (No puck bunnies? No problem.), and is hoping to finish out his senior year in peace until…

He notices Len has a little crush on her editor, and before he knows it, he’s agreeing to be her dating coach.

Their goal: Make this wallflower more puckable.

The problem: He may have just made her into his perfect girl, and now he has to stand by as she uses her new moves on someone who definitely doesn’t deserve her.

Can Zaiah turn the athlete-hating word princess into a hockey lover? Or will old fears and prejudices keep them both from scoring the ultimate goal?

 Chapter One

Len

The Warner newsroom buzzes with electricity, alive with ideas, creativity, and the spark of the next best thing. The muted sounds of barely audible typing mix with low conversations about different stories, and my skin’s about to jump off my bones because I’m sitting next to Clark Davis…and our knees are touching.

Go to press…our knees are freaking touching.

His mouth moves while I stare at his profile: the adorable black ink smudge on his cheek that he probably doesn’t even know is there calls to me like a lighthouse beacon; the day-old stubble haphazardly growing in different directions; the way his black-frame glasses slip down his nose. He uses his pointer finger to push them back up, then peers over at me…and I nearly have a heart attack. He is so perfect.

Quickly changing the direction of my stare, I focus on the layout he’s started for the next edition of the Warner Gazette.

This is important, I remind myself. The adorable ink smudge can wait. My unrequited crush on him can wait. The way he looks like Clark Kent—literally—right before he turns into Superman will still be there while we hammer out this layout. I am a professional, for crying out loud.

“What do you think?” he asks.

I blink. Of its own accord, my mouth moves, but not a single sound comes out. My brain works, trying to think of one thing he showed me while I drooled over him, but I have nothing. The fact that I’m such a spaz in moments like this is mind-bogglingly embarrassing, and honestly, the story of my life.

Ninety-nine point eight percent of the time, I am a level-headed, abysmally normal person. The moment he walks into the room, I act like a Netflix junkie on a fluff binge who spends her free time staring at walls.

I give him a grin that I hope appears cute, but more than likely struggles to be this side of passably sane. “Sorry, Clark. Would you mind explaining again?”

His jaw twitches, and my gaze focuses there like a love-seeking missile. What does that mean? Is he mad? Does he think I’m an imbecile? Heck, I’d take frustratingly endearing right now.

Fixing my glasses back to their rightful position, I turn toward the screen while Clark talks me through his thought process again. I listen to his layout choices, and I’m glad I paid attention this time because there are minor tweaks he should take into account before finalizing. Gesturing at the layout, I point them out, then shrug. At least my words come out intelligent enough.

He stands, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re a godsend, Lenore. I’ve been…”

Staring at this all day. Yeah, I know.

An internal, contented sigh accompanies the glazing over of my eyes. I could repeat his spiel back to him—I’ve heard it so many times—but I’m too busy studying his perfectly pink lips. What would he do if I kissed him? Right here, right now. Stood up with him and sealed my lips to that flawless cupid’s bow.

He pats my back, jarring me out of my reverie, and then hurries off to his workspace on the opposite end of the room. Since we work with each other a lot, I’ve always wondered why he doesn’t move closer. The resounding thought is that he wants to kiss me too and sitting so close would only tease him. We are at work, after all. Both über-professional newspeople, so staying away is for our own benefit.

When I’m having a bad day, though, it’s because I have stinky cheese breath that roils his stomach every time he’s near.

I’ll never know which it is because, besides the possible cheese breath, I’m also a certified chicken. No way on this Earth would I ever approach Clark with my fantasies.

Moving my attention to my own laptop, I stare at my Word doc for a bit before getting back into the groove of the article I’m writing about the Warner clock tower. The clock hasn’t worked in years, yet it’s a Warner staple. Upperclassmen use the never-moving hands to trick younger classmen into being late to classes. Stately pictures of it stand out among clouds and a blue sky on all the Warner University brochures. Symbolically, it’s right up there with our Bulldog statue in the quad.

Recently, however, the college board has proposed to actually fix the clock in a massive undertaking. The student body instantly divided into two camps: one that wants the repairs, and one that is very vocal about keeping the nostalgic, broken timepiece what it always has been.

Rumors abound as to why it stopped working in the first place. One particularly macabre story has lived on longer than most. In a fit of jealous rage, an undergrad climbed to the top of the tower on a dark and stormy night. With thunder rolling all around her, she called out one last time for her unfaithful love before diving to her death.

There are also less tragic stories, like it was hit by a single bolt of lightning on a clear day. Though, I tend to think that theory took hold in the 80s when Back to the Future released.

Since no one on the board can tell me why it stopped working, I need to research the exact reason. A significant historical fact might help sway the interested parties one way or the other—keep the wistful marker as is or fix the “embarrassment.”

Their words, not mine.

Like any other quality reporter, I’m only here to record the facts. A good story backed by truth can at least give everyone the same knowledge to base their decisions off of with confidence.

Unfortunately, the story of this clock tower is slippery at best. Nailing down the actual reason it ceased to tell time is proving to test my research skills, and I need this information before going to print on this article.

“You look better.”

I peer up from my screen. Kitty-corner from me, across the white table that spans the length of the newsroom, sits Flora, my work buddy. Her curious gaze traces over my face.

Warmth creeps up my cheeks. “Finally. The roommate from hell moved out, so I can sleep.”

She opens her slim, silver laptop. “Any word about a new one?”

I roll my eyes. “You know, being a senior should come with perks, and one of them should be that I’m not utilized as a test subject for the TV pilot of My Crazy Roommate.”

Flora lifts her brows while still clicking away at her keyboard. Me and roommates never seem to work out, and I’m praying Housing will take pity on me and let me live out the rest of my senior year in peace. Unfortunately, that probably won’t be the case since I live in a highly sought-after dorm on campus. A two-person suite, attached, private bathrooms, with the living room and kitchen the lone communal spaces.

My last roommate turned our shared spaces into a hippie haven, which prompted me to write an extensive article on cannabis use on campus. Needless to say, we didn’t jive at all. Luckily, she got kicked from the dorm because she stopped going to classes altogether.

If my roommate history is any indication, I’m a magnet for eccentric personalities who think college is a hobby at best.

“I can’t wait to hear the next chapter in Roommate Woes.” Flora drops the name she coined my roommate horror stories and smiles. Woes is too romantic for the shit shows I’ve been dealing with, but she’s had the same roommate since her freshman year, so it’s likely she’ll never have to experience the true depth of what I’ve had to endure. I’m glad for her. Despite being my only confidant, the raven-haired junior with the penchant for dark clothing has been my ally in the newsroom on more than one occasion. She’s smart, crafty, and she doesn’t type too loud, so I like her.

After another few minutes of staring at the blinking cursor on my screen, I close my laptop and shove it in my bag. It’s evident I’ll have to have another go at the campus library, and if I can’t find my answer there, I’ll move on to Warner’s town library, and then the county library if I have to. I’m wasting precious time by not having this one fact.

“Going so—” Flora cuts herself off, her stare landing behind me. “Man crush, nine o’clock,” she singsongs.

“What?” I push my glasses up again, peering at her.

Clark’s voice sounds behind me. “Oh, are you leaving?”

My heart immediately takes off. I fist the straps of my bag before turning. “L-library,” I stammer. Closing my eyes briefly, I take a deep breath to attempt to calm my crazy, out-of-control heartbeat. “Why? Did you…need me?”

For a split second, my brain switches to full-on porno territory.

“Did you…need me?”

He did. He absolutely needed her. The pulsing of his engorged cock hammered out a rhythm of need only she could satisfy.

He stepped close, forcing her back against the desk while he rolled her pencil skirt up, finding her pantieless and wet.

“Are you my dirty little reporter? Is all this for me?”

“Y-yes.”

In a slow, methodical way that intensified her anticipation, he lowered the zipper on his jeans and—

I shake my head, my skin flushing with heat. I hate when I go 80s erotica. I can imagine the red painting my cheeks right now as I push away thoughts of his engorged cock.

Clark has a nice cock, I’m sure. A perfectly adequate penis for lovemaking.

“Are you okay, Len?” Flora’s voice filters through my lust-filled brain. “Clark asked how you were doing on your assignment.”

“Fine,” I force out between two buzzing lips. “Great, actually. Just trying to nail down a fact, and it’ll be good. Perfect. Really, really perfect.”

My gaze lands on his ink smudge, and my heart flutters. Perfections in the imperfections.

I could lick that ink smudge off his cheek right now—

Pull yourself together, woman. You are a professional.

Clark taps a pen onto the notepad he’s holding. “Do you know when your piece will be done?”

“Um, next week.” The answer comes out of my mouth as a statement rather than a question. Next week? Next week? What the fuck am I thinking?

“That would be perfect,” he exclaims, and for a split second, I don’t care that I’ve put a ridiculous timeline on myself if I’ve caused him to smile like that. “I look forward to seeing it.”

“Great. Good. I look forward to you reading it…in the near future.” The too near future.

Clark nods, taking his ink smudge and cupid’s bow with him.

Before I can even break down what happened, Flora snickers. I turn to her, cringing.

“You’ve got it bad. It’s a shame he takes advantage of you.”

I recoil. “What? No.” My brain flicks to my erotic image, but I force it away. That’s not the kind of scenario she’s talking about.

Flora gives me a look, her fingers still moving over the keyboard. It’s a trick of all reporters to be able to type while carrying on detailed conversations, yet Flora has also added a pointed look that says “Sure, you keep thinking that.”

My entire being balks. “Clark is smart and talented. Plus, he’s the editor.”

She continues to work but lowers her voice. “Clark wouldn’t be so smart or so talented if he wasn’t over here asking what you would do all the time.”

“We bounce ideas off each other.”

“If by ‘bounce ideas off each other,’ you mean you give him the ideas that make him look good, then sure, that’s exactly what you do.”

I roll my eyes. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about. She hasn’t worked as closely with Clark as I have. He’s a genius. His words are like crack. In a time when people could get all their news from television or a Google search, our college-run newspaper is thriving. It’s amazing, and no one will be able to convince me that it’s not in part due to Clark Davis. My pre-Superman.

Sigh.

Flora shrugs, as if she can hear the inner workings of my mind and is brushing them off. I like the girl, but yeesh. She’ll see next year when some other editor takes over and this place isn’t run nearly as well. I’ve worked side by side with Clark for four years. I think I know.

“See you tomorrow?”

“I’ll be here,” she says, gaze focusing on her screen.

I give her a wave that she doesn’t see, and then I skirt around the long table and exit out the glass double doors. While walking away, I stare inside the newsroom for one last glance at Clark. It’s easy to do since the entire wall of the hallway is glass so the student body walking by can see us working inside.

Being on display was a little unnerving at first, but I don’t even notice it now. Plus, it’s smart. As reporters, we have to be in the midst of things. We can’t sequester ourselves away from the world with our narrow focus on the blinking cursor mocking us. No, we have to go out there, be out there.

Also, it’s nice to sneak glances at Clark.

His brow furrows while he stares at his screen. That look of concentration is sexy as hell. He’s—

I slam into something large and solid. My feet freeze in place, and I peer up at a towering body, an apology on the tip of my tongue. However, it dies in my throat when I meet familiar eyes. Isaiah. Isaiah James. I swallow the sudden dryness, a whirlwind of memories washing over me.

Even though I haven’t seen him in a while, his smile still disarms me. “Hey, Nor.”

He’s still broad shouldered and effortlessly good looking with soft-brown eyes and caramel-colored hair. Plus, the charm. It oozes off him even when he doesn’t talk.

For a moment, I get caught up in him, but then his words chisel past the initial shock and right into my brain. No one has called me Nor since her—and only ever her…and by extension, him. She thought Len sounded too masculine, and I despise my full name, so we compromised on Nor.

Well, actually, the one doing the compromising was me. I understand that now.

But the worst part is the memories that claw to the surface from the hollow dip in my stomach that I tried so hard to forget. He opens his mouth to say something again, but I cut him off. “Hi, I’m actually going somewhere.” I maneuver around him and start walking once more, trying to steady my feet underneath me.

Instead of leaving it at that, he steps in line with me, keeping pace. “I was hoping to talk to you about something.”

Yes, and I’m sure that something is a five-foot-seven, leggy blonde who I used to call a best friend. “Listen, I don’t know where Trish is, okay?”

Images flit through my mind, and every one of them makes me feel small. Like my world is turning in on itself.

“Trish?”

Oh, please. Why the feigned shock? What else would he want to talk to me about except his ex-girlfriend who’s also my ex-best friend?

Isaiah James and I are not friends. We’re barely acquaintances. We were tethered together by an unfortunate excuse for a human being, and we have the scars to prove it.

I pick up the pace, and it takes me a few moments to realize he’s not walking next to me anymore. A sigh punctuates the relief that brings me. The last thing I need to worry about when I just told my editor I’d have my article done by next week is old feelings popping up.

No, my ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend needs to stay wherever he’s been hiding for the last several months because I can’t take the reminders of them.