PUCK AND PAINT: A HOCKEY ALPHA'S FORBIDDEN MUSE

Lucia’s POV

"Yes, Tiff, yeah! Bounce on it, you hard rider! Don’t you fucking stop!"

I jolt awake, gasping for air. That damn dream again.

Jim’s voice echoes in my mind her loud moans, their bodies tangled on my couch, in my house. The betrayal, I was supposed to be out of town for, delivering a painting to a client who had personally requested my presence. But Jim had orchestrated it all as a deceitful plan to bring Tiff into my space. If it weren’t for my best friend, who saw him walk in with her, I wouldn’t have known. I was meant to be fifty miles away, lost in my art, and instead, my world shattered again.

“Fuck it!”

Almost every night, my mind replays that day like some twisted porno I never asked to watch. I can’t escape it.

I stare at the half-finished painting in front of me, my mind a complete blank. My gaze drifts between the brush, the palette, and the canvas, where only the faint outline of a man’s lips remains. My eyes flick back and forth, but inspiration refuses to strike.

Six months have passed, and I’m still stuck. The art gallery waits, my clients wait. I’m supposed to deliver a steamy, romantic piece, my specialty, my bread and butter.

People say I paint lust like it’s poetry.

I don’t just point; I provoke. My art doesn’t hang quietly on white gallery walls. It pulses, breathes, it's tempting. Those who look at my work don’t just see it; they feel it deep in their bones, in their throats, between their thighs. I paint pieces that make you ache for a body beside you.

But now, my brush feels heavy, missing that spark Jim stole. He took my muse and without it, my art is dead.

"That fucking piece of shit." I stab the air with my finger, like it’s his face. He’s out there living his best life, having hot sex, doing romantic shit. Meanwhile, I sit here, stuck in my head. I haven’t even felt an ounce of desire, let alone been with a man. How am I supposed to imagine passion and then deliver it to a dry gallery?

I sigh heavily. I’m going to do this today. I’ll pick up my brush again, no matter what. But then voices outside my door pull me out of my thoughts.

I freeze, listening.

"It’s my new neighbor," I gasp, tiptoeing to the door. I press my eye to the peephole. Harry, the luggage porter, stands beside a massively built man. Tall. Imposing. His hoodie hides his face, leaving more questions than answers.

Please, don’t turn away. I want to see if he’s cute, handsome, hot, everything.

"You're very welcome to the estate. I hope you enjoy your stay," Harry says, shaking the man’s hand.

"Thank you, Harry," the deep, rich voice replies. The man digs into his pocket, pulls out some cash, and hands it over.

Harry chuckles, happily accepting. "Thank you very much, sir. You're very generous."

Hmm. Mr. Next Door seems like a good guy. I can’t wait to meet him though I hope he’s not a shithole like the last guy who was kicked out of the building.

I exhale and return to my mini studio. “Come on, Lucia. You have to do something. Why the fuck does your mind keep going blank when you’re in front of the canvas?” I groan. Looks like today’s going to be like every other dull, uninspired.

Might as well just go to the gallery, sit my ass down, and do absolutely nothing.

I gaze out the window, lost in daydreams about inspiration. Suddenly, a ruggedly handsome man walks in. His sharp features, massive frame are impossible to ignore.

I gasp softly. That’s my new neighbor. I instantly recognize the same black hoodie he wore earlier, the brooding aura.

Is anyone going to attend to me? he growls, his deep voice slicing through the silence. His gait is sharp, impatient and used to getting what he wants.

Three assistants rush toward him, giggling like schoolgirls spotting a celebrity. Well, can you blame them? Handsome men like him don’t usually stroll into galleries.

"I’d like to see the artist," he says curtly, brushing past them like they’re invisible.

I step forward quickly. “Hello, I’m Lucia Lane”

“Okay,” he cuts in, not even sparing me a glance. He completely ignores my outstretched hand, like shaking it would be beneath him.

I suppress a groan. Please don’t be a shithead. Why does the universe keep sending me shitty neighbors?

Gently, I withdraw my hand and trail after him as he scans the gallery. His expression says it all: unimpressed.

Wait….seriously? Is this man trying to say my erotically gorgeous paintings don’t intrigue him? The same ones praised left and right? No way.

"Where's your best piece of art?" he asks, still not looking at me.

I grit my teeth. So nothing’s good enough for Mr. Broody?

“This is all I have,” I reply with a tight smile. “What exactly are you looking for?”

“Don’t think you have it,” he says, eyes still sweeping the room like he’s searching for meaning in a cereal box.

“Well,” I say, trying to keep cool, “if you tell me what you’re after, maybe I can make it work or refer you to some of my friends.”

He groans. “No thanks.” Without another word, he starts heading for the exit.

“Hey…uh, we’re neighbors. I think I live next door,” I call out.

“Okay,” he says, not even slowing down.

Who does this guy think he is? Carrying himself like some big shot. Just a

shithole. I’ll make sure he understands I don’t give a shit who he thinks he is.