Prince Pucking Charming Page 3

  My practice is still in its infancy, and with the cost of rent in Washington D.C. and my school loans from Georgetown, I need all of the handouts from my ex I can get. Duke isn’t the first hockey player I have treated. Though, he is the first with serious anger issues.

  Five minutes before my session with Duke begins, my secretary knocks on the door. She pokes her head into my office and then steps inside, giggling like a child. I assume she’s lost her mind until I spot the source of her laughter. Duke is behind Rose, looming over her as he grabs the doorframe and whispers something into her ear. Just great. Duke already has my secretary wrapped around his finger.

  I have a strict no-fraternizing policy. As a doctor, I have ethical obligations to my patients, and I expect my employees to follow the same rules. My ex had to pull more than a few strings to get the contract with the Capitals, and I’m not about to have one of my employees mess it up for me.

  “Dr. Devine,” Rose says with laughter in her voice. “Your three o’clock is here.”

  “Thanks, Rose. You can leave us.”

  We exchange a look, one that tells her to keep her distance from Duke. She knows the rules. Rose had to sign a handful of documents my lawyer prepared for her because of my affiliation with professional sports teams. I have fantasized about Duke plenty of times, but I would never cross that line with a patient. It takes years to build a reputation and five minutes to destroy it.

  Rose nods in understanding and then exits my office, closing the door behind her. I press my palms to the refinished wood and step out from behind my desk. As I approach Duke, my tongue goes dry. Every nerve in my body is on fire. His stare is intimidating, and so is his massive frame. He towers over me, his shoulders and arms even thicker in person.

  Duke extends his big hand to me with a cocky smirk plastered on his face. “Duke Baldwin.” His eyes travel from my face to my chest and back to my eyes.

  I flash a warm smile and shake his hand that engulfs mine. “Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Devine.”

  Our hands linger for far too long before I finally withdraw mine and take a step back. The corners of Duke’s mouth curl up in a lopsided grin. He shoves his fingers through his thick hair that falls back into place, settling on his forehead.

  He studies me like a specimen under a microscope, and my breath hitches when he steps closer, invading my personal space. “You look too young to be a doctor.”

  I point at the wall behind my desk. “My diplomas say otherwise.”

  “So, you were like Doogie Howser, some kid genius?”

  I laugh at his reference to the old television show about a boy who became a doctor when he was a teenager.

  “I’m not as young as I look.” I wave my hand toward the couches on the right side of my office. “Why don’t we get started? The clock is ticking.”

  Duke grazes his bottom lip with his teeth. “How old are you?”

  “The last time I checked, I’m the doctor, and you’re the patient. I’ll ask the questions when we’re in this office.”

  “And when we’re out of this office?” He cocks an eyebrow at me. “How about I ask you questions over drinks?”

  I shake my head. “That’s never going to happen.”

  “You’ll change your mind,” he says with a playful smile. “Eventually.”

  “I don’t date my patients.”

  “That’s a shame.” He winks and then walks past me.

  I knew Duke was a player on and off the ice, but I didn’t expect him to be so forward. We’re not even five minutes into this session, and he’s already hitting on me. I would love to say yes to his offer. Under different circumstances, I would go out with him in a heartbeat. Who could say no to that face?

  Even in the dim light of my office, I can see every dip and crevice beneath the black Under Armour shirt that hugs every muscle of his sculpted abdomen. His shoulders are like mountains. I want to grab hold of them and climb. Of all the pro athletes that have stepped into this office, Duke is by far the most attractive. He has a few small scars on his face, which I assume is from all the fights. Still, he’s gorgeous beyond words. Duke has a certain aura about him that commands the room, forcing you to notice him.

  He waits until I sit in my chair before he positions himself in front of me. Holy shit! Even in black pants, it’s not hard to miss the outline of his dick. Does this man wear underwear? Someone save me. If he doesn’t move, I might pass out from lack of oxygen to my brain. Being this close to Duke and his manhood only makes me think of how long it has been since I last had sex.

  “Either sit or stand,” I say, “but you need to do it someplace other than in front of me.”

  He chuckles. What a jerk. He did that on purpose. Duke sits on the sofa across from me and opens his legs wide. I could punch him right now.

  Is he trying to kill me?

  My ovaries are ready to explode, thinking about Duke without those sweatpants. His big body takes up way too much space as he adjusts himself. Flexing his muscles beneath his shirt, he leans back against the cushions and smiles at me. But it’s more like a cocky smirk that says he knows what I’m thinking.

  I trace the lines down his arms with my eyes and imagine doing the same with my fingers.

  “Do you see something you like, Doc?” He leans forward, his elbows rested on his thighs, pinning me down with his eyes. “Do you need me to give you mouth-to-mouth?”

  Ignoring him, I lift the pen and pad from the side table next to me.

  “You looked like you stopped breathing,” he says with laughter in his voice. “I thought I could offer some assistance.”

  When our eyes meet, he winks at me. I grip the pen so tight my hand hurts. Duke runs a hand through his hair and licks his lips, eyeing me up as if I were his prey.

  I glance up at the clock on the wall and sigh. “We’ve wasted enough time already. Our session begins now,” I say as I set the timer on the table next to me.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “What made you attack Dean Crawford? Let’s start there.”

  He sighs, looking away from me. “Because he deserved it.”

  If he keeps giving me clipped answers, we’re in for the roughest months of our lives.

  Chapter Five

  Duke

  Therapy is a waste of time. After my mother’s death, my dad forced me to see one doctor after another, none of which could get me to open up. Nothing Dr. Devine says or does will get me to talk. She could spread eagle on the couch for me, and I wouldn’t tell her a fucking thing.

  Dr. Devine sits across from me, tapping her right heel on the edge of the table, attempting to distract me. She has nice legs, long and lean, and I bet her skin is soft to the touch. My focus is impenetrable. No matter how hard she tries to break down my walls, they’re staying up. The more she pushes, the more I will fight back. It’s in my nature. That’s what I do to survive.

  “Why do you think Dean Crawford deserved a beating?” Dr. Devine’s tone is harsh and demanding.

  I roll my shoulders against the comfy chair, averting her gaze.

  “Dennis,” she says in a mocking tone, which only fuels my anger.

  “Don’t call me Dennis,” I snap.

  She stops tapping her shoe on the table and crosses her arms. Her lips stretch into a tight line. My sister gives me the same look when she’s mad at me. Kat says I act like a jerk to hide my soft interior, but that’s just what she wants to believe. My little sister has a weak spot for assholes. Hence, why she chose Dean.

  Don’t get me wrong, I love my family with an intensity that scares even me sometimes. I would do anything to protect them, to defend them. In my mind, what I did to Dean was payback for what Kat is going through now. I know it took both of them to make the baby and that Dean would never hurt her. But still, it felt good to smash his face in with my fist.

  “Dennis,” Dr. Devine says again in an even more condescending tone. “That’s your name, is it not?”

  “No one calls me
that,” I challenge.

  Not since my mom was alive.

  Kat calls me Denny when she either wants something from me or is trying to get under my skin. When Kat calls me Denny, I don’t mind. It’s like a term of endearment to her. Kat reminds me so much of our mother. She’s so sweet and pure, the spitting image of our mother when she was her age. Dad says that looking at Kat is like staring at old photos of my mom. I think Kat had a lot to do with why Dad stayed away so much when we needed him most.

  All of us remind him of what he lost—the love of his life. Knowing that heartache can make people do stupid things, like ignore their family, makes me never want to fall in love. I never want to feel that kind of pain. I don’t want to get close enough to anyone that I can lose someday.

  Dr. Devine will never know that.

  I can’t share this part of myself with a league-mandated shrink who only wants to expose my secrets and report back to my team. Nope, not going to happen. My secrets will stay with me, locked away with no key.

  “Duke,” I correct, my tone softening.

  “Okay, Duke,” Dr. Devine says. “Why did you viciously attack Dean Crawford?”

  “I’m a defenseman,” I point out. “It’s part of my job.”

  She shakes her head, unsatisfied with my answer. “No, there’s more to the story.”

  “No, there’s not,” I counter.

  “I might not be a hockey expert,” she says, “but I’ve watched enough Caps games over the years to know that you went too far. I’ve examined the game footage. You and Dean exchanged more than a few words as you were hitting him. It looked personal.”

  “He was begging me to stop,” I lie. “That’s the typical response I get.”

  A beat passes where she taps her pen on the notepad resting on her thigh. My eyes drift to her legs, wishing my face were buried between them instead of enduring this conversation. Dr. Devine is the sexiest doctor I’ve ever met. If they had more shrinks like her when I was in high school, I might have opened up more during my family sessions.

  Dr. Devine clears her throat when my gaze lingers for too long. “Duke,” she says, dragging out my name. “If we’re going to spend the next two months together, then we need to get on the same page.”

  I cock an eyebrow at her. “How so?”

  “You can start by being honest with me.”

  “I am.”

  She glares at me, and her knuckles drain of color from gripping the pen so hard. “You’re here because of the fight with Dean Crawford.”

  “Technically,” I say, one finger raised in the air, “I’m here because I knocked out a linesman after the fight ended.”

  “Let me rephrase,” she says. “Was your fight with Dean Crawford personal?”

  “Fine,” I groan. “Yes, Dean did something to me. And he did deserve it. Are you satisfied?”

  I flash one of my boyish grins that make women melt every time. Except it doesn’t work on Dr. Devine. She looks even more irritated as if that were possible. We won’t make it two months together. Why did Tom have to choose her? Of all the doctors in D.C., they could have picked anyone. I’m not spilling my life story to a woman I don’t know, a woman who looks like she wants to stab me with her pen and fuck me at the same time.

  “Look, Doc,” I say. “I can’t tell you the real reason. It’s personal.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” she hedges. “I can help you channel your anger into something more… useful.”

  It takes every ounce of my willpower not to laugh. “How can I make my anger useful?”

  “We have to start at the source,” she says. “It will take some time—“

  “We have plenty of that,” I shoot back with a wicked smirk.

  “That we do.” Seconds that feel like minutes pass before she says, “How about we start over? Take me back to the night of the fight. What did you do before the game?”

  “Same as usual,” I admit.

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Which is?”

  “I usually find someplace less crowded, like a hallway or even a bathroom, and watch a few clips of some old Western movies on my phone.”

  Her face is unreadable. Most people think I’m a weirdo when I tell them I like Western movies. She doesn’t even crack as much as a cocky smile. It’s the standard shrink-face, the mask doctors wear around their patients.

  She looks down for a few seconds to scribble notes onto her pad. I would love to know what she’s writing about. Dr. Devine looks up at me, her face giving away nothing. Her bright blue eyes hold mine.

  “Does watching Westerns relax you?”

  “Yes.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You think it’s weird, don’t you?”

  “I don’t judge my patients.”

  I lean forward, digging my elbows into my thighs. “What if I’d said I watch porn before games because it relaxes me?”

  “Whatever works,” she says, doing her best to keep her tone level, though her voice sounds a little shaky.

  “Do you like porn, Doc?” I wiggle my eyebrows to taunt her. “Does it relax you? Excite you?” My lips curve into a wicked grin. “Does it turn you on?”

  I love toying with her, watching her squirm like she’s trying to do to me.

  “We’re not here to talk about me.” She taps her pen on her thigh. “How did you get into Westerns?”

  “My dad loves John Wayne.”

  “Is that why you go by Duke?”

  I nod. “You know your Westerns, huh?”

  She shrugs. “My grandfather was a fan.”

  The Duke was John Wayne’s nickname. My dad called me Duke one day, and it stuck after a while.

  “What else do you do to prepare for a game?”

  “I show up,” I shoot back.

  The corners of her mouth turn up slightly.

  “Would you look at that, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, clapping my hands. “Doc smiles.”

  Dr. Devine ignores me. A few seconds pass as she considers her next question. As luck would have it, the timer on her phone dings.

  “Until next time,” she says.

  Relief washes over me.

  Saved by the bell.

  Chapter Six

  Delilah

  I stare at the clock on my cell phone. As usual, my ex-husband is late to pick up our daughter. He promised Max he would take her to a Washington Capitals game. The game starts in ten minutes. He hasn’t returned any of my phone calls or texts. I hate that Max has to endure this constant disappointment from her father. And I have to sit here, helpless and unable to do anything to make this night better for her.

  Ted is a giant asshole. He only ever cared about how we made him look. His political career takes precedence over every part of his life. Fortunately, Max has yet to realize Ted is fifteen minutes late. I’ve kept her busy, hoping Ted is just his usual fashionably late.

  Max moves across the living room with her plastic hockey stick in hand. She has a look of determination on her adorable face as she slaps the puck across the carpet. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t let her play sports in the house. But I’m hoping this will keep her occupied until Ted bothers to show his face.

  “Mommy, watch!” Max’s face brightens, and her smile reaches up to her big, blue eyes.

  “I’m watching, baby. Let me see your slapshot.”

  Max giggles. “Daddy taught me this.”

  Ted is a huge Washington Capitals fan. Max also loves hockey, probably because it’s one of the few things her dad does with her. Ted is usually too busy at work to spare any of his free time for anything other than hockey. He’s never understood how to bond with Max. She’s a brilliant ten-year-old girl with a quirky personality. Most of the time, Max acts and sounds more like an adult than a child. She has more energy and smarts in her tiny body than all of the adults I know.

  Max pulls her stick back, eyes focused on the puck, and takes her best shot. The puck sails through the net. My girl is more like her father, rough around the edges, an
d not afraid to get her hands dirty.

  Max drops her stick to the floor and squeals, throwing her hands above her head. “She shoots, and she scores,” she yells as she takes her victory lap across the living room.

  I can’t help but laugh at her display. My daughter is one of a kind. Pretty soon, she starts youth ice hockey. The thought of Max getting hurt terrifies me.

  She crawls across the carpet and reaches into the net. “Max Fairchild for the win,” she says, holding the puck in the air.

  “Great game, baby,” I say with the biggest smile. “You’re going to sweep the competition.”

  She grins so wide it reaches up to her eyes.

  When I found out I was pregnant, Max was the first name that popped into my head. I initially thought she was a boy. With how I carried her, everyone thought she would be, too. And when I saw her, I knew that Max—not Maxine—was the perfect name for her.

  Max takes another lap around the living room and then stops in front of the couch. She grabs my shoulder, using it as support as she jumps on the cushions.

  “Max,” I choke out. “Didn’t I tell you to stop doing that?”

  Max launches herself into my arms, tilting her head back on my lap, laughing like a hyena. “Daddy lets me do this at his house. We play Gladiators.”

  I hold my tongue when it comes to Daddy and his ideas about parenting. As a psychologist, I know that bad-mouthing Max’s father doesn’t do anything for either of us. He has rules at his house, and I have mine.

  “Okay, baby, but we’re not at Daddy’s house.” I kiss the top of her blonde head, and she giggles, squirming in my arms. “And we don’t jump on the furniture here.”

  She rolls onto her side and peeks up at me with the same blue eyes as mine. “Whatever you say, Mommy.” Max gives me one of her lopsided grins. “Can I have chocolate chip cookies?

  I nod in answer.

  Max sits up and drops the puck in her hand onto my lap. “Did you know that hockey pucks are frozen before games to keep them from bouncing?”