Genre: Sexy Romantic Comedy
He’s the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing motherpucker on the ice…
When you’re named after the king of the gods, the world expects certain things of you.
Tough? Damn right.
Smart? Don’t let the hockey uniform fool you.
Large and in charge? Honey, I’m the biggest, baddest, mother pucking-est machine to ever own the ice. I shoot. I score. In and out of the rink. I don’t come early, but I come often, if you know what I mean. And I always leave the ladies wanting more.
Until that chick last night.
I’m no one-thrust wonder, and you’re damn right I’m going to prove to her I can do better. But every time I think I’m finally on my way back into her pants, she one-ups and out-balls me.
I should cut my losses, lick my wounds, and walk away.
But Zeus Berger doesn’t walk away from anything.
Especially when she's the only woman in the world who might be able to handle me.
The Pilot and the Puck-Up is a standalone romantic comedy featuring a hockey player whose ego is the only thing bigger than his shoe size, the most badass woman to ever fly a plane, rubber chockey (don't ask), and no cheating or cliffhangers.
The pilot—Joey “Fireball” Diamonte is probably pushing thirty, runs her own business (which has her hobnobbing with celebrities), attended college, and served a six year stint in the military. And yet despite all those life experiences surrounded by men, she’s never gotten down and jiggy with one.
This manwhore/virgin trope has grown so stale it just tastes bad at this point. Why aren’t these heroines allowed to have had some fun??? What is the appeal of having a woman hold on to her virginity for a decade past the point where she turned legal only to lose it to some guy who has enough notches on his bedpost to draw a stick figure village?
Even more mind boggling is that the only man who seems to waken her drowsy woman bits is the loud ass, large dude who she likens to a wooly mammoth and happens to be at a golf country club wearing a dress and bra stacked with coconuts.
While I’m sure the tone was aimed at romcom, the romantic part was missing. It seemed more like the Wayans brothers got a hold of a contemporary romance book and turned it into one of their skits. I mean, the hero is described as smelling like man sweat, beer, and fried cheese in one scene and Joey is still considering letting him go down on her. Yeah, definitely more of a parody of a romance than an actual one. And don’t get me started on Joey’s undergarments.
Meanwhile, we’re told a few too many times that’s she’s “badass,” which pretty much ensures that she’s not! She comes across as cold rather than caring, brash rather than ballsy, and cocky rather than confident. She treats her 26 year old sister like a child, and I was starting to really wonder about her obsessive need to interfere in her sister’s social/love life. It got to the point where her cock-blocking was creepy.
“One day, when I pick a man good enough for her, she’ll give me nieces and nephews…”
When I pick???
Okay, let’s add controlling and bossy to her characterization description too.
And then there’s Zeus Berger, 30, pro hockey player. He’s also cocky (not to be confused with confident), obnoxious, and immature. While he proclaims to not care what people think of him, he sure goes out of his way to get their attention. On one hand, they are made for each other; on the other...well I never thought I’d say this in a romance, but for one time—just this once—I was rooting for him to go hook up with someone else.
I know, I know, I usually rail against that in a romance, but the romantic vibe here was just that lacking, and I actually felt bad for the jerk after the way she treated him over the whole pre-ejaculatory incident. Or the fire drill that wasn’t even his fault.
And the more I mentally rooted for him to ditch Fireball and screw anything else that was more pleasant, alongside growing bored over their golf game, I realized it was time to throw in the towel on this one.
If you’ve ever wondered how Mr. and Mrs. Neanderthal courted, well then this might be one to give a whirl. But if you prefer both your heroine and hero to have social skills more advanced than a toddler, this is one pass the puck on by.
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Zeus Berger (aka the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing mother pucker to ever play in the NHL)
Coconuts are itchy. I should’ve gone for the watermelons. But it was a bitch and a half getting that last-minute private fitting at Madame Cosette’s anyway, and the woman probably would’ve had to stitch three bras together and then nailed the damn contraption to my shoulders to get it to hold without losing a melon, so coconuts it is. Besides, it’s the heels that are gonna be the bigger problem. Damn good thing I have ankles of fucking steel. And my minidress is stretched to max capacity over the coconuts anyway. It’s also in danger of showing my other coconuts, if you catch my drift. And there’s definitely a drift—or is that a draft?—on my other coconuts.
A wolf whistle echoes through the swanky private clubhouse where I’m strolling in with my twin brother on my left and my brother from another mother on my right. A passing server drops a tray of champagne. Conversation stops. And a bunch of stuffy golf pricks gape at us like we’re a mutant alien circus freak show crashing their million-dollar wedding reception. We’re three dudes who have more money than God, more muscles than all the Kardashians’ bodyguards combined, and more fun than cotton candy and roller coasters.
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Pippa Grant is a stay-at-home mom and housewife who loves to escape into sexy, funny stories way more than she likes perpetually cleaning toothpaste out of sinks and off toilet handles. When she’s not reading, writing, sleeping, or trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be productive members of society, she’s fantasizing about chocolate chip cookies.