Good pucking luck the ji.., p.1
Good Pucking Luck (The Jilted Exes' Club Book 1), page 1
Good Pucking Luck
The Jilted Exes’ Club #1
By
Riley Hart
Copyright © 2024 by Riley Hart
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.
Published by:
Riley Hart
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
All products/brand names/trademarks mentioned are registered trademarks of their respective holders/companies.
Cover Design: Natasha Snow
Cover Photography: Michelle Lancaster
Edited by Keren Reed Editing
Proofread by Judy’s Proofreading, Lyrical Lines Editing and Lori Parks
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Book
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Epilogue
Other Books by Riley Hart
About the Author
Hayes
Proposing to my first boyfriend at a hockey game wasn’t my smartest move. Not only does said boyfriend walk out on me, but the whole stupid thing goes viral, and it turns out the man I was dating has too many boyfriends to count. Internet fame has crowned me a member of the Jilted Exes’ Club, a name I’d do anything to escape.
One thing’s for sure: I’m not making the same mistake again. No more boyfriends, just easy hookups. And I’ll start with this gorgeous catch in Seattle. The only problem…he’s a god in bed, and I’m an inexperienced mess.
Rylan
After a night with Hayes, I play some of the best games of my career. It’s meant to be a one-and-done deal, but when I find out he also lives in LA and doesn’t want anything serious, I see an opportunity.
Hayes wants experience. I want my good-luck charm to help me win the cup.
The media would go wild over a pro hockey player dating a member of the Jilted Exes’ Club—a distraction neither of us needs. We want this to stay simple. Easy. No strings, no falling in love.
Except I’m pretty sure I’ve already fallen. After all Hayes has been through, how do I get him to entrust his heart to someone who’s only ever been labeled a player on and off the ice?
Huge thanks to my beta readers: Jenn, Saxon, Mads, Christie, and Megan.
I’d also like to thank my sensitivity readers: Ali & Jacob.
PROLOGUE
Hayes
Late September
I hate hockey.
My boyfriend—hopefully my fiancé by the end of tonight—absolutely loves it. If Malcolm didn’t, I can guarantee you that sitting in this arena is the last way I’d be spending my night. In the beginning, I tried to ask him questions about the game, wanting to learn more about something he loves, but my questions were too much, frustrating him and keeping him from enjoying the action.
Malcolm shoves to his feet beside me, arms in the air, and I can only assume the LA Rebels did something good. This is a preseason game, and I don’t get why it counts, but it is what it is.
“Woohoo!” I exclaim belatedly, standing too, and of course that’s exactly when everyone sits down, looking at me like I’m an idiot.
“Hayes, sit down,” Malcolm hisses, annoyance in his voice.
Damn it. I don’t want to mess this up. Tonight is our night. I want to treat him to the perfect evening, where I’ll get on one knee and ask him to be my husband.
I plop down in the seat, my heart beating a little too fast. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine. Just…whatever. Have fun and be chill.”
I nod, thankful he’s willing to be patient with me. It’s taken me a while to figure out how to be a good boyfriend, mostly because it’s not something I’ve ever done before Malcolm. Which at twenty-six is incredibly sad, but I didn’t grow up the way most people do. My parents own the Rockwell, a high-end hotel chain throughout the United States and Europe. We traveled most of my life, and I was homeschooled. Even when we were home in New York, where I’m from, I never got along with my parents’ friends’ kids. I get that I can rub people the wrong way sometimes, and that’s fine by me. I don’t really care…mostly.
College was the first time I stayed put, but I was busy with school, not trying to find boyfriends. I wouldn’t have complained if one had fallen into my lap, but that didn’t happen until Malcolm started pursuing me eight months ago.
Honestly, I thought it was a joke at first, but it wasn’t. He just felt…connected to me, which is a really amazing feeling.
Malcolm watches the game, and I watch him.
I stick my hand in my pocket to make sure the ring is still there. It is. My stomach tightens in anticipation.
I want this. This is what people do, right? They meet their person, have okay sex, fall in love, then get married. Malcolm has told me over and over how much I mean to him, how terribly he’s been treated by exes in the past—being cheated on, lied to, used. For the first time in his life, he’s with someone who sees his worth. And for the first time in mine, I have a person. Someone who deals with my finicky ways. I can be a lot, but Malcolm puts up with it, lets me know when I’m being…well, me, and I should dial it back a little.
I startle when two players slam into the plexiglass thingies.
“It’s so violent,” I tell Malcolm.
“It’s just a game, Hayes.” He claps and cheers with everyone around me, and I try to pretend I’m interested, each second my stomach twisting more and more in anticipation, until it’s the end of the second period…which is my time.
I pull the box out of my pocket and slide to the dirty floor, which I didn’t think about ahead of time. I totally wish I would have brought something with me to kneel on.
I open the box, hands shaking. People around us begin paying attention, tapping each other on the shoulders and pointing their phones at us.
Malcolm is too distracted by his phone to notice. I’m not sure what’s so interesting, since he doesn’t know much about technology and doesn’t have social media.
I clear my throat.
“Hayes, can you get me a drink and—” He looks my way, sees me, sees the ring. “What are you doing?”
“Aww! They’re on the jumbotron!” says a woman in the row in front of us.
Malcolm’s gaze flashes up to it, but I can’t take my eyes off him. “These last months have been…awesome,” I say because I’m not sure how else to describe them. “I know it’s soon, but I’m not like those other men you’ve dated. I want to be with you, want you to know how important you are to me. Malcolm, will you marry me?”
“Put that away!” There’s panic in his voice, which I don’t understand. His pupils have blown wide, his head jerking around like he expects the secret service to jump out and grab him. Is he on the run? “Hayes, Jesus Christ. What the fuck are you doing?” He grabs his jacket and puts it over his head as I try to comprehend what’s happening. Is it because I did it here? I thought he would like it, considering how much he loves hockey. Plus, Malcolm loves to be the center of attention, loves to be showered with it, but maybe I fucked up. Maybe he wants this moment to be something just between the two of us. Something small and romantic.
“I’m sorry. I just…” I don’t have words to continue. I feel every eye on me now, every camera facing us. I want to slink into the floor, climb under these chairs and never come out.
What was I thinking? I’ve ruined everything.
“Move. Get out of the way,” Malcolm says tersely, pushing around me and walking away.
The arena gets echoey around me. My vision blurs, heart trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“Maybe you should get up,” one of the people in front of me says, but I can’t think. Can’t move. How did I get that so spectacularly wrong? I thought this would make him happy, would make us both happy. He’s always telling me how much he loves me, how different I am, how special. How he wants to spend his life with me.
I push to my feet, the eyes of everyone zeroed in on me, the guy who just got left with a ring in his hand while proposing to his boyfriend.
Is Malcolm still my boyfriend? I want that to be the case.
I run the direction he went, but it’s packed with people—seems like the whole arena took a bathroom or food break during the intermission.
I call his name, push through the crowd but don’t see him, so I run out of the building, to the lot where Malcolm parked…and his car is gone. He left me here, which okay, yeah, that’s a little annoying. He could’ve at least waited for me out here so we could talk.
The first and second times I call, it rings and rings. The third, it goes straight to voicemail.
“Mal…it’s me…of course it’s me. You know that. Who else would be calling from my phone? Anyway, sorry. I…can we talk? I know I messed up, even if I’m not sure how. I just…I don’t know. Call me.”
I sit on the curb and wait for a ride share to pick me up.
Malcolm doesn’t call all night.
When I wake up the next morning, I fumble my phone, hoping I missed a message from him last night, but I didn’t. From my parents, yes. Somehow, I must have forgotten to turn my ringer back on after the game. There are numerous missed calls and texts from my mom.
Mom: Honey, I’m so sorry. Call me.
So sorry? How the hell does she know?
Mom: Have you seen? I’m assuming you haven’t seen?
Dad: Your mother doesn’t want me to send you this, but it’s not like you won’t find out eventually.
I click the link in the text from my dad, and my heart drops. The video of my proposal has gone viral. It’s all over the internet. There are memes and GIFs and… My gut clenches, nausea sweeping through me as a headline grabs my attention: TWO MORE LOS ANGELES MEN CLAIM MAN IN VIRAL VIDEO IS THEIR BOYFRIEND
I don’t have another boyfriend. What the fuck?
I shove up and sit on the edge of my bed.
Current and ex-boyfriends keep coming forward.
Malcolm cheated on me with my best friend.
Malcolm used me to get ahead.
Malcolm made me think I was special, but really, I was just part of his sick game to inflate his ego.
On and on and on. Stories from men who met him online and had relationships or friendships with him. At least two other guys from LA, and he’s left a trail of others in cities he’s lived in. Many of them gave him money.
Just like me…
I used to pay for everything.
Malcolm is a con artist.
Malcolm used me.
Malcolm cheated on me.
He was never mistreated.
It was him who mistreated everyone else.
So many things start to make sense. How he doesn’t like social media. Hell, how he pretended he didn’t even understand it. That was all a game, and I fell for it.
I proposed to him.
In front of everyone.
Fuck my life.
Things don’t get better over the next few months. I’ve become a meme, a saying. You Got Hayesed. That’s what they say online when something bad or embarrassing happens to someone. The media calls me for interviews. They dubbed all of Malcolm’s old partners the Jilted Exes’ Club, and apparently, the one dumb enough to propose at a public event is seen as the biggest loser of them all.
CHAPTER ONE
Rylan
January
When I got to the practice facility earlier this morning, the first thing we did was go over video from the game last night. We played Toronto, whose offense is annoyingly fucking good. But I did my job, protecting my goalie and keeping those motherfuckers as far away from the net as I could, and Mads was on point, blocking all but two of their shots. It wasn’t a perfect game, but we pulled out the W, 3–2, and that’s what matters.
“Fuck, I wish we didn’t have ice time today,” Mads says as we make our way to the locker room to get in our gear.
“Can’t hack it?” I joke, though I wouldn’t mind a break. I’m fucking sore as shit from all the hits I took.
“That last puck went between my pads. Hurt like a bitch.” He rubs a hand over a spot on his torso. “My D-man let them slip by.”
“Who? Stevens? Because I know it wasn’t me,” I tease, making Mads laugh. Kason Maddox is my closest friend on the team. He was drafted one year after me. We’ve both been lucky enough to play for LA our whole careers so far. With him being a goalie and me a D-man, we play closely together. Plus, we’re both bi and have similar backgrounds—parents who didn’t have jack shit for money but busted their asses to help us succeed. He’s a little quirky, but then, he’s a fucking goalie and most of them are. Mads is my boy, and I’m thankful as hell I get to play with him.
We hurry into our gear, tape our sticks, then head out to the ice for stretching and drills.
“Short and sweet today, guys. You deserve it after last night,” Coach Warren tells us. He’s a bit of a hard-ass, but he’s also made the Rebels what we are today. We were shit before they hired him, then brought me and Mads on, and now we’re one of the best teams in the league. We haven’t gotten the cup yet, but I can guaran-fucking-tee it’s gonna happen.
Coach only keeps us on the ice for forty-five minutes before he lets us go. We do a little cooldown on the bikes and have a quick session with the trainers, before we’re both dressed—Mads wearing his backward Rebels cap, as usual—and heading out to our vehicles.
“What’s so interesting on your phone?” I ask Mads.
“That poor fucking guy who got humiliated when he proposed at our game is still all over the internet.”
Mads doesn’t always show it, but he’s a big fucking softy. He’s a kickass goalie and a tough motherfucker, but also tears up at commercials and gets emotionally invested in other people’s lives. He watches these queer soap opera–type shows online, and it’s not strange to have him telling me who is fucking whom, who died or who got their heart broken. It’s just how Mads rolls.
“Yeah, it’s fucked up. Do people really have nothing better to do with their time?” I don’t know why the media—and hell, every person with internet access—latched on to this story so completely, but they have.
We’ve gotten wrapped up into it some because it happened at a Rebels game. The organization tried to offer the guy—Hayes, I think his name is—tickets for another game, but he declined. Can’t blame him. If I were him, I’m not sure I would want to go back to the place where that shit went down.
“I can’t imagine such a difficult moment going viral. They’ve even tried to get them in for interviews and shit like that.” I haven’t watched any videos, or interviews. I don’t know if he’s done them or not. I’ve made it a point not to consume any media about the situation out of respect, but I’ve picked up bits and pieces, and apparently the boyfriend has a list of significant others and exes long enough to form his own hockey team.
“People are shitty,” Mads concurs. “They don’t consider the person on the other end of the story. Or hell, just the other person they’re hurting in any situation.”
“And this is why I avoid relationships.” Well, that, and the fact that it’s hard to find someone you trust when you play professional sports. Being used isn’t real high on my priority list, and it’s happened before. My bio dad sure didn’t want anything to do with me until he realized the son he walked away from became a professional hockey player. Then, of course, he was a changed man who has only ever wanted to be my father. Fuck that. I have a dad, and he’s the man who came into the picture when I was three years old and raised me like his own.
“Eh…I would be in a relationship, if I found the right person.”
“I know you would, Madsies.” See? Big fucking softy. “See you in a few.” We fist-bump, then jump in our vehicles.
Mads and I are both scheduled to do an event at a public rink in downtown LA. There’s a new youth hockey program for troubled and at-risk kids, and we agreed to spend some time with them today. I’m tired as hell, but no way I would skip something this important.
Mads and I arrive at the same time. It’s noisy when we walk in, a bunch of teenagers laughing and talking, but everyone goes silent when they see us. It blows my mind sometimes, that I get that kind of reaction from people. It’s fucking cool as shit, but also, like, what the fuck world am I living in where this is my life.
