Puck Buddies (7 page)

Every guy I know on the team told me
about the state-of-the-art center we had for training and the first time I saw
it, back in a summer camp, I was more than impressed. I still am. It’s the best
facility I’ve had the honor of training in.

When I get to my locker, I grin at my
name for longer than is cool but I don’t care.

I’m here.

I’ve arrived.

A lifetime of personal goals
are
met in
one turn of the locker room and seeing one name tag.

“Brimstone, buddy!” Laramie laughs. “I
didn’t know Rockefellers got starstruck. I thought you were the top of the food
chain. But look at you. Did you pee a little?”

I lift a finger, my favorite one.
“Shhhhh, you’re wrecking it. Ignore the pee.”

“It’s just weird seeing you impressed.”
He comes and pulls me to sit on the bench next to him. “So, you ready to be
ridden like a borrowed whore?”

“I don’t normally double stuff the cookie,
bro, so I don’t even know what level of riding borrowed whores endure.” I grin.
“But if it’s anything like the workout your mom gave me last night, I’m ready.”

He rolls his eyes. “If you managed to get
anything more than a Lysol wipe down from my mom, I owe you a drink. She was
the only billet mom no one fucked, which was cool with me.”

“I honestly have nothing to add to that.”
I chuckle.

“She’s interesting. Anyway, what’s going
on tonight? Drinks with the team, after training obviously, but after that?”

“Some club with my friends. You in? I
think my buddy Brady might try to make it up from Michigan.”

“Brady Coldwell?”

“Yeah.”

“Dude, I’m always in when you blue bloods
are down to party, but adding Coldwell means I’m doubly in. Maybe Sami Ford and
that hot blonde will be there again.” He nudges me and waggles his blond
eyebrows. No one has let me live down the night I took Sami Ford home. They all
assume I had a threesome with two almost unconscious girls, which is fairly
funny to them.

“It’s safe to say we’re too pedestrian
for them.” I use
her own
words against her.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Pedestrian? I don’t
even know what that means, man.”

“She’s interesting.” I laugh and throw
the words back at him.

“Well, whatever. Let’s do this.” He slaps
me on the back. “I hope you had your Wheaties, eh. It’s time to change.”

The locker room comes to life as the
doors burst open and other players filter in, each offering me a handshake or a
slap in the arm or back or even a hug. The captain offers a hug.

This is them coming back to work after
summer break so everyone is pumped to see the team. I’m not the only new player
so the welcomes are rolling off everyone’s lips. Mostly it involves more
spanking than I’m technically comfortable with. But it’s hockey.

My adrenaline starts to build as we head
out for the beating of a lifetime.

My first day training as a
Ranger.
Not a prospect. Not a junior. Not a college kid.
A real NHL
team member.

It’s magical.

For about fifteen minutes.

Then it’s painful.

On the tenth flight of bleacher sprints I
learn exactly what a borrowed whore feels like. It’s a bad feeling. I make a
mental note never to borrow whores. They don’t like it. No one does.

The excitement of being on the team has
died, along with one of my lungs.

“COME ON, LADIES! GET THOSE KNEES
HIGHER!” the assistant coach screams at us.

“WHO’S SORRY THEY SPENT THE SUMMER
DRINKING BEER AND JERKING OFF?” Our fitness coach shouts and laughs at us as we
all groan.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper through a cough.

“It’s
gonna
be a
long day, bro,” Laramie heaves. The flush in his face is gone and he goes pale.
He takes a knee and blinks a few times until the color comes back. “I’m gonna
barf.”

“Yup!” I nod and try to get my breath as
we wait our turn to take the next flight.

Long day doesn’t describe the level of
hell I’m in.

Not even close.

Chapter Six

Second chances

Sami

“Are we dancing this time or did we come
just to get your sober face in the papers again? ‘Cause seriously, I’m getting
tired of going out for nothing. We go to these places for photo ops so your dad
can pretend like he doesn’t have shares in everything in the city and he’s not
using you to make money. Because that would be tacky and your father would
never be tacky, out loud.” Nat mocks me as we click our heels along the pavement
from the limo to the club entrance. She’s gotten so much easier about going to
clubs now that we’re almost of age to be drinking. She actually likes going
out. But I don’t. I dislike it even more now.

I don’t glance at the huge lineup. I
don’t care who’s here. I want in and out.
“Face in the papers,” I groan.
“Dad told the owner I would come this weekend. We only have to stay an hour.
Then we can sneak out the back and go eat carbs, drink wine, and watch a
movie.” I wink but she doesn't seem impressed.

“But I put on heels and makeup and I look
pretty. Can we go to a fun club after this one?”

“You’re the Paper Bag Princess. You look
pretty in sweats. And this will be a fun club. My dad doesn’t invest in
anything that isn’t a sure thing.”

“You’re his sure thing. And I texted
William and told him we were coming here. He’s in the city for a couple of
nights. If he comes I want to have fun. You promise to be fun, for me!” She
gets that annoying whine in her voice, the one I want to slap the shit out of her
for. Mostly when it’s used with the name William.

Hearing his name makes me want to leave
early even more. I had a bad feeling she might tell him we were coming out.

“Deal,” I mutter as the cameramen and
women shout at me to turn around.

I pose perfectly and spin, allowing
exactly ten Mississippis before turning back to strut up the stairs, adding a
little extra swagger for the cameras. “I have gone years with no bad PR, as of
this summer. This is like an anniversary dinner.”

“It’s amazing how easy it is for you to
win your father over by going to a club or restaurant he’s an investor in. My
mom wants nothing less than her first blue-blooded grandchild before she
accepts me for who I am. Honestly, the only reason she’s letting me get a
degree in graphic art is because I’m dating
the
William Fairfield.” She says it like it’s a chore, but she and I both know
she’s so into him she has almost stopped existing on some levels. “She thinks I
won’t be working come next year when we grad. She’s certain I’ll be a stay-at-home
mom and a homemaker, mixing William’s drinks and rubbing his feet.” She rolls
her eyes but the vision isn’t so off.

“My dad’s so busy he doesn’t have a
moment to care what I do, so long as the pictures in the papers show a lady.
Because, honestly, that’s how he finds out what’s happening in my life. This
shoot tonight marks three years rehab-free.” I wink.

Nat grins. “If he knew how dull you’ve
become, he might actually miss Rehab Sami.”

“Sometimes I wish I
had
been in rehab, just once. Then I could add it to the
repertoire. Us Upper East Siders need more stories with edge. I’m tired of the
same old bullshit.
Party in Southern France, party in New
York, party in LA, party in the right crowds with the right people who talk
about the right shit.
I’m tired of boating, skiing, shopping, and
travel. And I’m even more tired of listening to people whisper about dating the
wrong people while holding the hand of the right person. Rehab is at least
dangerous and edgy. It might make me cooler than I am.”

She laughs. “Only you would say that.”

“Admit it, this club is filled with the
two types of douche bags who exist in our world. There are the ones who want to
tell you about their latest trip, pretending to be hipster chic and how they’re
saving the planet and deconstructing all their meals and beverages. Or there
are the ones who don’t pretend to care about the environment at all. They’re
jet-setting the world and their destinations are better than yours. The rest of
the club is filled with the naive people who want to be in our world but have
no idea the cost of being here.”

“You sound like you’re getting bitter
from lack of sex. Your vag has to be filled with dust bunnies by now. What’s it
been, years?”

“No, dick. I had three one-night stands
before I started seeing my therapist. She wants me to find worthy people and I
haven’t found anyone. It’s hard for a girl to get laid and have respect for her
vagina.”

“I have nothing but respect for my vag.”

“Right. The point is
,
I refuse to date someone who doesn’t make me feel fluttery.” I point at my
stomach. “If I don’t have that jittery nervous feeling in my stomach where I
almost feel like I’m going to poo but I’m not, I’m not so much as having a
drink with you. And I notice them the moment I meet a guy I like, or whatever.
It’s science.” I still have never told her about Matt and the black cab.

“You and those nervous pains. You’re a
moron. The feelings you’re getting are actual poo cramps. If you ate more
greens you wouldn’t have those stomach twinges. It has nothing to do with boys.”
She and I have disagreed about the way a girl’s body reacts to certain men. For
me that someone is a man I have never named and he was the last one I felt
them
with.

The fact she’s never felt that way with
Fairfield is hugely surprising . . . 
not!

“Stomach cramps won’t matter when my
parents get their way and marry me off to the right kind of rich guy. My dad
has been courting men already.”

“You won’t end up in an arranged
marriage. You’re Sami Ford. You are above that.”

“We both know this is my fate.”

“Oh my God, princess. No one feels sorry
for you. Tell your dad to suck it and do whatever you want in life. He can’t
take away your trust fund. You’ll always have money.”

I turn and cock an eyebrow. “Really?
You’re going to go pots and kettles this early in the evening while we’re still
sober and William is on his way over?”

“Yes. Besides, I actually like William. I
think one day we’ll make awesome adults together.” She laughs as we are seated
at a table in VIP and drinks are brought. Mine’s a red wine from France that
Drew Barrymore had on Instagram. I’ve been drinking it for about three months.
Nat’s is a glass of red from the label she’s stuck on from BC, Canada. The guy
is from New York but lives in Canada and ages the wine in pyramids. It’s
weirdly cool. It’s on the list of shit we need to see. Who even knew Canada had
wine, let alone pyramids?

“It’s nice in here.” Nat nods
approvingly. “I like the blue lights.”

“You mean the same blue lights that are
in every club? Admiring the decor doesn’t mean I’ll want to stay.”

“No.” She points at the blue lights
strung up over the bar. “They look like jelly fish.”

“Okay, those
are
cool.”

“Right. This isn’t the worst PR gig
you’ve had. Not even close. Maybe we can stay and have some fun, and you can promise
to be fun.” She glances around the bar, waving after a second. “He’s here.”

“Great.” I don’t even bother to look in
his direction. The shitty expression I have the moment she says it will only
start something I always end up regretting. I have never told her I hate him.
I’ve told her she’s worth more. I’ve told her he’s not that into her. I’ve
forced her to watch
He’s Just Not That Into
You
, but she doesn’t see it. Their off-and-on-again thing is annoying, and
I had desperately hoped school would be enough to make her see there are other
boys in the world, but she went to community college. There aren’t other boys
at community college.

No doubt part of the reason her mother
agreed to it.

“I’m gonna go say hi.” She gets up,
leaving me alone.

“Whatever.” I don’t even lift my phone to
pretend I’m not uncomfortable. I just sit in my discomfort and watch the club
move like a wave. It’s packed with all the usual suspects: The rich kids who
act like they can’t possibly wait to get out of here or to do their next line.
I fit into that category.
The people who are genuinely fun
and like partying in clubs.
And the hipsters with their expensive
brand-name
hippie-styled clothes and man buns.

Dear God, I hate the man bun. There was a
GIF of one guy putting his hair up into the man bun that was hot. But that
beefy bro could have been hot doing just about anything.

The rest of the rat-faced male populace
has used the man bun and beard to hide their hideousness.

At least the DJ is actually talented and
the decor
is
perfect. You get the
feeling you’ve entered another world.
An underwater world.
Even I can’t hate on that.

“What are you doing all alone?” Carson
gives me a cheeky grin.

“I’m not technically alone. Nat’s over
there”—I point—“with William.”

“Cool.” He leans in, speaking low, “You
look hot.”

“You look high.”

He laughs. “I am. As fuck. Some hipster
chick just slipped me something on the dance floor with a kiss. It was like a
scene from an early DiCaprio movie.” He slides into the seat next to me, coming
too close for comfort. “And I have something to tell you.” His eyes dart to Nat
and William the Turd. “It’s wrong but I can’t stand knowing it alone. I saw
him, Will, two weeks ago with some brunette. They were all over each other on a
deck at a penthouse party.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I wouldn’t normally
betray bros before hos, but Nat’s the nicest of us all. She deserves better
than Fairfield.”

“Agreed. However, two weeks ago they were
broken up, had been for a while in fact. They got into a fight on a yacht and
ended the relationship in June. I had hoped it was for real this time but now
they’re back on. Got back together last week.”

“I wish she would see him for the dipshit
he is.” Carson wrinkles his nose. “I mean, he’s a friend but he’s an asshole.”

“Oh, me too.”

“You wanna dance?” He takes my wine and
sips it.

“Sure.” I shrug. “Why not?”

The song changes to a mix we both clearly
love because we shoot up from our chairs and hurry to the dance floor. The DJ
mixes Drake with Rihanna. It’s weird and awesome. Closing my eyes and moving to
the flow of the beat strips my worries away.

Carson is the best dancer I know.

Our arms go up at the same moment and
then as the song breaks we both slow, moving like we might have taken a little
Molly. I suspect that’s what he got from kissing the hipster chick. I don’t do
Molly. I don’t do drugs. I tried a couple of times but I get paranoid.

The DJ keeps us here, paused in the
moments between the beat dropping.

When it does, the entire club comes to
life, bursting like a wave swelling on the sea.

I love stoned people.
They
just dance better
,
they try harder
.

When the song ends I forget I didn’t want
to be here and dance more. After a few songs Carson drags me to the bar to slam
shots. I scan the room for Nat, stopping when I see she’s having a serious
moment in the corner with William.

“Oh shit.” I suck back another shot and
try to ignore the scrap going on.

“Looks like trouble in paradise again.”

“The honeymoon period is getting shorter
and shorter with them.”

Carson lifts his hand. “Two more—”

“Bellevue!” A familiar voice shouting his
name cuts him off.

We both turn to find
Matt-fucking-Brimstone looking about as hot as he possibly can. His dark-green
eyes narrow when he sees me but it doesn’t stop the butterflies in me, not even
when he sneers. “Ms. Ford. I thought this place would be too pedestrian for
you.” He’s such a jerk.
A hot jerk.

“Brimstone.” I roll my eyes and lift my
fingers at the bartender. “And make that two more.”

Carson laughs. “I was just getting bored.
Shall I clear a space for the moment she calls you blue collar again?” He leans
forward, chuckling harder.

“You know I don’t hit girls.” Matt’s eyes
blaze pure hatred at me, but I lift my favorite finger, flashing him a grin.

“I could take you,” I mock him.

Carson nods. “I believe that. She would
cheat and you would fight like a gentleman.”

“Gentleman, my ass.” I roll my eyes and
give Carson a glare. “He’s a big fat liar. How long would you say he’s known
me?”

“I don’t know, years? His dad’s a member
of the Pine Valley Club with our dads. How long Brimstone, a decade? Longer?”

Matt’s eyes fill with humor. “Longer.”

“And that right there is the issue.” Matt
doesn’t shy away from the obvious shade I’m throwing down. “I don’t like
liars.”

“I never lied to you, Sami.”

I ignore him until the shots arrive and
then I drink all four back to back, pretending all the hate I harbor is because
he lied to me and acted like he didn’t know me. The reality has something to do
with embarrassment I don’t want to face either.