Zero Pucks Given (Gigi & Beau duet #1): Las Vegas Angels Duet Series, #1

By Jessa York

They're both driven to succeed--at all costs. But neither of them expects that to include wedding vows...

Beau

Being captain of my team has always been a dream of mine since I first stepped out on the ice.

When Gigi slams into my life, everything I've known is shaken.
I've never been in a fake relationship before—especially with someone who hates me.

But if it means finally reaching my goal, I'll do just about anything. That is, if I can keep my eyes—and my hands—off her.

Gigi

I've dreamed of marrying Beau Moreau—superstar hockey forward—for as long as I can remember.

Now I dream about punching him right in the junk.

After he ticks me off and breaks my heart—all while ogling my chest—my girlhood crush on this older man is officially over.

I think. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jessa York
• Release date: May 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201120092

Book preview

1

Gigi

I ’m pregnant.

Jillian, you’re not pregnant. Don’t say such things, I said, shifting my heavy bag from one shoulder to the other. Inwardly I cursed not bringing my roller bag. They hadn’t given us our uniforms yet, so I’d only brought the essentials.

Obviously, I’d forgotten how much my skates, pads, and helmet weighed. The stifling heat of the Las Vegas afternoon wasn’t exactly helping any. Neither was the sheer, crippling nervousness I felt deep within my stomach.

Being asked to serve as captain of your team was an honor I’d held many times.

This time was different.

This time, it was for a brand-new start up team in Las Vegas. Family friends of ours had invested in not one but two teams. A women’s—and a men’s.

It had always been a dream of Angelique’s to do this and now she was finally getting the chance to do just that.

Marcel had insisted on naming the teams, the Las Vegas Angels after his wife, of course—Angelique. They were rich and eccentric and still so in love after all these years it was goofy.

But cute.

They were also my godparents and I loved them both to bits. The last thing I wanted to do was disappoint them.

Jillian turned to me, her long, blonde, beach waves floating around her face and shoulders like she was posing for a shampoo commercial. Oh, I’m pretty sure I am after walking passed Beau in the entryway.

Just the mention of his name created a crazy amount of butterflies in my stomach. For weeks I’d been practicing what I’d do when I finally saw him—and I hoped it wouldn’t be to spontaneously throw up and faint like I felt like doing right now.

Speak of the devil, she whispered, nudging me in the ribs.

I gazed up to where her eyes were permanently fixed. Jillian might be correct. Beau exuded such a strong, masculine aura, every woman in a three block vicinity was likely spontaneously ovulating at the moment.

Tall, dark, and handsome didn’t come close to describing Beauregard Moreau. His coloring told of his family’s French heritage—which I already knew. The lean, muscled body he wasn’t hiding underneath his Team Canada T-shirt was definitely drool worthy. I wiped at my mouth in case there was actual drool escaping.

Once he’d turned the corner, I grabbed Jillian. Oh my gosh, he’s insanely hot, I whispered, hoping the other girls couldn’t hear me. If I let go of you, I think my knees might give out.

She laughed at me, then gave me a hug. You’ll be fine. I’m sure the novelty will wear off once you have to see him everyday.

My eyes widened. Oh no, I have to see him every day. The thought of seeing him daily constricted my lung capacity to almost nil.

Yo, Captain, someone called behind me.

Reluctantly, I spun my head around. It was Anna, walking toward me. Yeah?

You’re supposed to ask for the locker room key. Assistant coaches won’t be here for a while. I guess they’re in a meeting, she said, crossing her arms, looking a bit pissed. I couldn’t blame her. Calling both teams in for pictures on the same day we were moving into our new digs seemed a bit cruel.

How long could pictures take? I thought a half hour. Hour tops. We knew the drill. Gear on, new uniforms sorted, and handed out. Then out on the ice to line up.

No biggie.

I smiled at Anna briefly. Thanks, which way?

She pointed in the same direction Beau had just walked.

Gigi, hurry up. I have to get on the ice before my makeup melts off my face, Jillian said, patting at her cheeks. For a hockey player, she really did wear a lot of makeup.

I’m going, I’m going. You guys watch my stuff. I gratefully left my bag on the black, rubber floor before strolling off.

This complex was huge. One wrong turn and backtracking would suck.

As I rounded the corner, I heard voices. Then, standing at the desk—I saw him.

Beauregard Moreau.

Best forward out there. I’d stalked his career for years. He was the reason I loved this sport so much and also the reason I took it as seriously as I did.

I’d watched hours of him playing—not only because he was hot, which he absolutely was—but also to learn his moves. Beau was a master player on the ice. And a master player off the ice.

Everyone knew that.

The photos of him on social media with a new girl every week were nothing new. Beau had been linked with famous movie stars, models, and even a princess.

And I’d wanted to scratch the eyes out of each one of them. Even as a twelve year old girl, I’d been horribly jealous whenever a picture showed up of him with some smexy girl on his arm.

I wonder when we get to see the girls, one of the guys standing near Beau said. I bet they’re hot.

I snickered at that comment. None of them had turned around so they didn’t know I was there.

Beau cocked his head toward the guy. Man, are you serious right now? Chick hockey players? They probably look like a bunch of lumberjacks. Make that amateur lumberjacks. On skates, Beau said, making the other guys around him chuckle and agree.

A stabbing pain shot through me at his words.

"I bet not all of them look like lumberjacks, Beau," the guy beside him said.

Shaking his head, Beau put his arm around the man. Luis, if you’re looking for a date, I wouldn’t waste your time on them. If fact, I’d bet they’re probably busy dating each other.

That caused an uproar of laughter.

It also caused bile to rise in my throat. Did he—Beau Moreau—just say that? My hero? The person in this sport I most looked up to?

For as long as I could remember, I’d dreamed of marrying Beau Moreau.

Now I dreamed of punching him right, directly, square in the junk.

No matter that he’d just crushed my heart and my dreams in less than a minute. Creeping away from this jerk was not my style. I slipped on my well known Gigi attitude and strode up to the group of Neanderthals.

A guy emerged from the back and stood behind the desk. I’ve got your team keys, the man said holding one key in each hand.

Instead of waiting, I pushed myself to the front of the desk. Without even looking, I could feel Beau’s eyes on me. Hi, Gigi Martin. Captain of the Lumberjacks. I gave the guy behind the desk a quick smile before yanking one the keys out of his hand.

He looked surprised but slid a big, blue binder toward me. Sign here, Ms. Martin, he said, holding my eyes and the pen a bit longer than he probably should. I took the pen, signed my name, and in the appropriate spot, I wrote, ‘Lumberjacks’ for our team name. Then I took the liberty of writing ‘Neanderthals’ for the men’s team name. Thanks, for your help, I said as I looked at the employee’s nametag, Paul. You can call me Gigi, everyone does.

I turned to hand the pen to Beau, who was currently standing with his jaw open, eyes staring directly at me. Do you want this next? I asked, making like I was giving the pen to him. His hand reached for it, but I quickly stole it back, leaving him with his hand hanging in the air, looking like an idiot. Or do you need some help with writing your name? I said in the most condescending voice I could muster.

The guys around us burst into laughter as Beau narrowed his eyes at me. I tossed the pen to him. Paul can help you out if you need it, right, Paul?

Paul chuckled then cleared his throat. You bet, Gigi. See ya later, he called to my back as I walked away.

And just like that, a decade of stalking and idolizing Beau Moreau went up in a burst of flames.

It was funny if not a little sad how quickly ten years of hero worship sank down the drain. I tried to swallow over the burning, dry lump in my throat. No matter how much I wanted to go home and cry into a bowl of ice cream, I wouldn’t let that jerk get the better of me.

In the past, whenever something shitty had happened, I’d call my dad. He’d say, Gigi, how many fucks do you actually give? Then we’d laugh as he put everything in perspective and joke with me until I felt better.

The answer to the question was always, Papa, I give zero fucks.

That was the real kicker.

Because this time I cared way too much.

2

Gigi

The guys had on tight, white jeans. No shirts.

The girls had on tight, light green bodysuits. No pants.

I marched out onto the ice, more angry than I think I’d ever been in my life. This is not acceptable, I said to the photographer, holding the skimpy bodysuit and silver high heels in my hands.

The photographer frowned at me. Look, lady, I didn’t choose your outfits. I’m just here to take your pictures. Take it up with him, he said, jerking his thumb over to a guy I’d never seen before.

The man had thick black glasses, a bright orange sweater and a pink scarf.

What’s the problem? a voice sounded from behind me—a voice I’d heard on TV nearly weekly during his interviews before and after games. My knees started to wobble before I even turned to him.

I spun around quickly and tried my best to hide my reaction to him. The problem? The problem is this, I said, holding up the scraps of a bodysuit. And this, I said, showing him the shoes, dangling from my fingers. That’s when I noticed Beau’s very bare, very hot, very manly chest.

Immediately, my pulse began to race quickly. Even though I was still mad at him and even though he was a jerk—he was an extremely sexy jerk. His height made me feel nearly diminutive compared to him.

And Heaven help me, his shoulders were great bricks of stone I wanted to dig my fingers into.

I’d always been good at math and I could quickly observe he was sporting more than a six-pack. His muscles were lean, yet defined—and perfect.

He looked at the bodysuit and shoes, then at my face. Yeah, the problem is you aren’t wearing them. Go change, Martin, he said, nodding his head toward the doors.

Completely aghast, I responded, I’m not putting this on. It’s demeaning to women. What the heck do high heels and barely-there bodysuits have to do with hockey?

Beau took a deep breath, his hands sitting on his hips. Gigi, everyone else is wearing it. Nobody has an issue with it besides you, he said, his big, strong arm swinging around the rink.

And if everyone here jumped off a cliff, would you? I asked, putting a hand on my hip and jutting it out, trying my best to give him some attitude.

He leaned into me and I swear I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. If it meant getting away from you? Yeah, I probably would. Go change, Martin. Stop being a goddamn princess, he said before swaggering back to the guys.

I’m going to strangle that asshole, I said under my breath as I watched Beau’s back muscles flex while he walked.

Mon chéri, I heard a familiar voice call.

When I turned my head, I saw Marcel, one of the owners—and my godfather. Hey, Marcel, I said, then hurried over to give him a hug. He and I did the double-cheek kisses. I hadn’t seen him or Angelique in so long.

How happy am I to see you, my dear? he said, and with his strong accent it sounded more like, appy

I grinned up at him. I’m happy to be here, Marcel. I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity, I said before broaching the reason for my current freak out.

Marcel waved his hand at me like he was shooing me away. Oh stop it, now. Enough with the thanking already. But tell me, why are you not dressed? All of your friends are waiting for you? His head tilted to the side as he looked at me with concerned eyes.

These costumes are a bit—revealing, I said, feeling a blush rise on my chest and cheeks.

His eyes floated over both teams. "Oui, I see what you mean. Pierre is our stylist and he did all of this. Pierre, une minute, s’il vous plait?" he called to the man in the orange sweater.

Pierre walked gingerly on the ice, almost like a penguin. It took everything in me not to laugh. "Allô! he said, slipping back a bit as he waved. Luckily, I was near enough to grab his arm and keep him from going down. Oh, thank you, merci," he said, clutching onto me for dear life.

I’d let go of the bodysuit and shoes in order to save poor, frightened, Pierre. Bending down, I scooped up the silly costume that I had absolutely no intention of wearing. I didn’t wait for introductions. Pierre, I’m Gigi, nice to meet you, I said, shifting the stilettos under my arm and offering him my hand. He held onto me as his feet slid again.

"Salut, Gigi, a pleasure to meet with you, he said, his accent also strong. He pronounced with like wit".

Figuring it would be unwise to let go of the man, I held onto him as we spoke. Look, Pierre, I have a problem with these—clothes. I can’t put this on. We’re hockey players, not strippers.

Pierre gasped, smacking his hand against his chest. "Oh, mon Dieu! Gigi, of course not. What we need to convey here with these two, talented teams is strength."

All I see is a lot of naked, I said dryly to him. Marcel chuckled beside me.

"Oui, oui, naked strength, he said, giving his body a small shimmy. We unveil to the world the two newest, best teams in their leagues. And we show them strength," he said, his arm pumping toward the ceiling.

Pierre, I’ll be showing the world more than I’ve shown my own mother in the last ten years. This is too much.

He shook his head and tossed his scarf over his shoulder. "Non, Gigi, I disagree. To get the world’s attention we need to be a little, you know, risqué." His head shook from side to side.

The girls clothing are somewhat more risqué than the guys, I muttered.

"Ah, oui, vive le difference!" he said, throwing both hands up in the air. This had the unfortunate consequence of causing him to slip back again. Marcel and I both stopped his fall.

Look, Gigi, I understand where you’re coming from, Marcel said, looking down at me. Angelique approved the costumes herself. She will have final say in the pictures, I guarantee you. But if you refuse to be a part of this photo shoot—I know she will be more than disappointed.

Damn. He had to bring up his wife—who I’d also do anything for. Even wear a skimpy, stupid costume in front of a bunch of leering idiots. I was sure once she saw the pictures—and how much skin they showed—she’d overrule this stylist in a second.

I sighed as my shoulders slouched forward, along with my head. Fine.

Pierre cheered and said, Horray, come wit me! I will fix you up quick.

I thanked my lucky stars I was a regular waxer. If not—yikes.

No need to leave anything to the imagination. Nope. Everything I had was completely out on display.

I couldn’t hide my heavy-duty bra and sports bra underneath this tiny contraption. The only thing Pierre let me wear were silicone nipple covers, because as he said, The rink is cold, yes?

Yeah, the rink was cold and now it was going to be freezing.

My hair was out to there, and my makeup was dark and sultry. It looked like I was ready to jump on a pole rather than jump onto the ice.

"Oh, magnifique, Gigi. You are utter gorgeous perfection," Pierre said, bringing his fingers to his mouth and kissing the tips before flexing them out into jazz hands.

Surely Angelique would see how ridiculous we looked, right? This could not be how she’d want her team to be portrayed. Once she saw how her girls were dressed, she would burn these photos.

At least that was what I was hoping for.

Once I stepped out on the rink, the guys’ talking stopped. Their heads all twisted in my direction.

I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been more self conscious. Instant panic swelled up inside of me. Men could be pigs—I was no stranger to that newsflash. I drew in a shallow breath and kept walking.

Mother Nature had blessed me with a large cup size from a young age. Unfortunately, sports and boobs didn’t go well together. Over the years I’d learned how to wear two bras, strap them in as best I could and call it a day.

During the day I wore a lot of loose tops and hoodies. Which I was quickly realizing wouldn’t really cut it in the Vegas heat. Where I came from, our summers were short. The rest of the year was definitely hoodie acceptable weather.

Letting it all hang out was not something I was used to. Even though I worked on keeping my body in tip top shape—it was one of my prime objectives, each and every day—that didn’t mean I wanted every Tom, Dick, and Harry staring at me.

Eating the right things, exercising, and meditating were top priorities. The only thing I wasn’t that great about was getting enough sleep. But that really couldn’t be helped.

Wearing a sexy bodysuit that showed more than it covered was—well—uncomfortable to say the least.

As I made my way to the rest of my team, I heard a man’s voice say, Jesus, would you look at that rack? I bit down on my tongue in anger. If I’d been wearing more clothes, I swear I would have gone over there and found out who it was and socked him right in the junk.

However, I was particularly devoid of clothing at the moment, so I chose to ignore the comment.

Gigi, you look hot, girl, Jillian said, and all the girls joined in with whistles and catcalls. Jerks.

Shut it. I look ridiculous, I said, crossing my arms over my chest in a failed attempt to conceal them.

She smiled over at me and said, Nah uh, you look hot. Half those guys had to adjust themselves as you walked past them.

Gross, would you stop? I said as I shook my head and looked over my crew. How are you guys doing? I’m really sorry, I had no idea this was what they had in mind when they said, ‘photoshoot’. And I’m sure once Angelique sees what the pictures actually look like, she’ll nix them, and no one will be any the wiser.

I kind of like these, Jillian said, spinning around in a slow, sexy circle as she shook her booty. Jillian would like this kind of outfit, seeing as how she made money from designing, sewing, and selling her own bikinis and bathing suits.

They have a time and place, Jillybean. I don’t think that time is now, or the place is in a hockey rink, I said, shaking my head at her.

Let’s just get this over with. I’m frozen in places that were never meant to be frozen. Tell the French dude to hurry up so the photographer can snap his stupid camera, Niki said, always the pragmatist. I was going to correct her and explain that Pierre was the stylist, not the photographer—but I decided time was of the essence.

I walked over to where Pierre and the photographer stood. Okay, guys. Can we start now? My girls are freezing.

We could have started twenty minutes ago if you’d been ready. Don’t blame them. They aren’t the ones holding up the process, Beau said, now standing beside me.

I felt the heat of shame rising up to my face as I suddenly forgot my left from my right. Anger swelled in my gut as I gritted my teeth.

If I wasn’t currently living in fear of my boob suddenly popping out of this fabric, or of my team catching double pneumonia, I would turn to Beau and give him a piece of my mind.

Right now, if I turned, I’d likely give him an eyeful of my chest. Which I had no desire whatsoever to do. Thanks for the lesson in tardiness, I said to him, only catching his eyes for the briefest of seconds. It’s all I could handle. Why was he so good looking?

Keep it in mind, Captain. You’re supposed to be leading by example. And so far, you’re not doing a real great job of that from what I’ve seen.

Did he really just say that? To me? I could practically hear the blood rushing through my head as I stepped toward him. Risking a wardrobe malfunction in the process, I put my hands on my hips. "You have no idea how I lead my team, Captain," I spat out at him as I tried my best to ignore how hot he still looked.

His eyes traveled down to my chest for a split second. I’d allow him that. It was rather shocking, even I had to admit. But if it happened again, I’d poke his eyes out of their sockets.

Besides, I may have very briefly looked at his chest for a second. Or two. I’d been daydreaming—and night dreaming—about that chest for many years now.

And damn if it wasn’t even hotter in person.

Up close.

"I disagree, Captain, he threw back at me. Your actions and your attitude speak for you. These two gentlemen, my team, and your team have all been waiting—half dressed, I might add—for you to get a move on. Don’t speak to them as though they’re the ones holding up production here. Because that would be solely your fault."

His words cut. Deep. I could feel the burn behind my eyes, but I would not give him the satisfaction of watching me cry. Gosh, who would have thought you’d be such a whiny little baby. Color me surprised, I snarked at him and his eyebrows raised.

I turned back to Pierre and the photographer. "I apologize for keeping you waiting. I had a small issue with the extremely small costume choices and felt it was my right as a human being and the captain of my team to voice those issues. However, I said, moving my hands down my body, as you can see, I lost my battle. My team is ready whenever you are."

Taking a deep breath, I looked at Beau. Captain, I’m sorry for delaying you and your team. Please convey my apologies.

With that, I whirled around and strode back to my girls.

3

Gigi

As if the skimpy bodysuits weren’t bad enough, they brought out the, ‘ pièce de résistance ’ as Pierre said. Huge angel wings, complete with a billion white feathers.

And huge fans to blow on us.

It was official—we were hockey players, turned lingerie models.

If it weren’t all so humiliating, I would probably cry.

Pierre was continually fighting with the photographer about angles and lighting and—oh my gosh was I done with this day.

Beauregard, we need you to pick up the young lady and swoop her sideways, you know? Pierre said with an excited look on his face.

When I felt Beau’s hands on my waist, I nearly melted into a gooey puddle on the ice. The heat from his touch burned into my skin. I spun around. What are you doing? I said incredulously to Beau.

He pointed at Pierre. Just doing what the man asked.

I turned to Pierre. "You seriously want him to pick me up?"

Oh no, just standing beside Beau had been torture enough. Being in his arms? I would surely not survive that in a million years.

Pierre smiled, nodding fiercely. "Oui, like a swoop, you know?" he said, his arms out, moving from one side to the other. Then he proceeded to explain what he wanted.

For most of my life, I’d taken direction from coaches and advisors. Never had I ever had so much as a blip of trouble understanding or performing what was needed. Sometimes it took a lot of practice. But I got there eventually.

Right now, I had not one blessed clue what Pierre wanted from us. Beau kept using those big, manly hands of his, touching my waist and legs and—so help me if I spontaneously combusted from being so near to his hot, bare chest.

Watch it, Moreau, I warned him for the third time when his hand came dangerously close to my breast.

He huffed behind me and grumbled, I’m not doing it on purpose. Get a grip, princess.

There were many things I’d been called over the course of my life. Opposing teams were usually not kind to each other on the ice. However, one thing I had never been called before was a princess.

I was not a princess.

Anyone who knew me, knew I was not and would never be a princess.

Beau was using it as a term of weakness, and I was not weak.

"Shut up, I’m not a damn princess. You’re a princess," I shot back at him.

You’re accusing me of—things and—

I whirled around. Just keep your mangey hands to yourself, Moreau. Is that such a difficult request? Or do you need me to draw it out for you on a whiteboard?

His face blanched. How his beautiful, tanned skin could turn pale, I didn’t understand. Time out, he said, then without another word, Beau grabbed my hand and started walking me down the carpet.

Are you crazy? What are you doing? I asked, trying to pull my hand out of his grip.

Shut it. Honest to God, Gigi. Shut that trap of yours or—

Or what?

He glanced down at me with such contempt I actually had a moment of pity for anyone who’d ever played against him. Instead of poking the bear any further, I decided to follow him out the doors of the rink.

Once the door shut behind us, he maneuvered me against a wall and leaned in. You’re making me sound like some kind of pervert in there, he said, stepping closer into me. I could smell him even better now, in the warmth.

His woodsy, musky scent nearly made my head spin. "Maybe because you are a pervert?" I glared at him but half hoped he’d lean in further.

He moved toward me another inch. Look, I’m not doing it intentionally, okay? It’s just your— he motioned to my breasts, are very—

Very what?

Fucking fantastic, he breathed out, now full-out staring at my breasts. He looked at me with that devil may care trademark smirk of his. It’s not my fault, I swear. I promise I’m trying my best but how am I supposed to pick you up and not so much as—

My stomach did a few flips and I was entirely too grateful for the silicone pasties which covered my extremely hard nipples. I hoped. A few more inches and our chests would touch. His bare chest next to my barely covered breasts.

You keep your hands to yourself. That’s what you do.

Gigi, it’s the—your— he sighed, raking one hand through his hair.

My eyes are up here, Moreau, I said, using two fingers to point at my eyes.

Both hands rubbed his face. It’s the sheer— he looked down at my breasts again, volume of—them. When you lean on your side—they—well—

I see, so you’re saying I have saggy boobs? That’s real nice, I snapped at him.

Saggy? Fuck no—oh my God, I keep digging a deeper hole with every goddamn thing I say to you, he muttered, his hand now on the back of his neck as he walked around in a small circle. We’re out there half naked, too, Gigi.

"How do you think we girls feel?