Pucked Over (Pucked #3) (3 page)

“Are you wearing lip gloss?”

“What? No. Let’s go.” I turn my head to the side and wipe my mouth with my sleeve as we follow Violet and Charlene to the bar.

This is different than the scene after real games. There are loads of kids running around because this is a family event. I’ve been to a few Toronto games with Sunny. The usual afterparties can be loud and overwhelming. There are always a million skanky girls trying to get next to the guys. It’s not like that tonight.

I follow Sunny to the bar and order the same thing she’s having. Because she’s Miller’s girlfriend, they want to run a tab for her, but she refuses, passing over a twenty. I know she won’t let me give her money, so I’ll buy her next drink to make it even.

I move with her, drink in hand, staying a little behind her so I can hide if necessary. She’s oblivious to my anxiety, stopping to chat and introducing me to everyone she knows, which is a lot of people. I stay quiet and sip my drink. It’s delicious. Minty and limey and the perfect amount of sweet.

I glance around the room, taking in all the well-dressed, attractive people. It’s easy to understand why women hang all over these guys. A lot of them are carrying seriously padded wallets. Some of them are hot. Miller reminds me of a Ken doll, but he’s attractive.

And then there’s Randy. I sigh-groan-cough just thinking about that full sleeve covering his solid, well-built arm, and that deep V of muscle, and those abs… I make an awful slurping sound, which startles me out of my thoughts.

“Ha! I must’ve been thirsty.” I hold up the empty glass, certain my face is on fire. “I’m gonna get another drink. So parched! Want a refill?”

“I’m good for now.” Sunny holds up her mostly full drink.

I leave her with her friends and head back to the bar. More people have come in, and the players arrive in a pack. I slide down to the end of the bar and put in an order for another mojito. I keep my head down, letting my hair fall in my face. It only comes to my chin, so there isn’t much to hide behind. Every so often I peek up, watching those huge, well-built boys greet everyone with friendly smiles. Tonight none of them seem to care whether they were on the winning or losing team.

“Hey! There you are!” Violet bumps her curvy hip against mine. She’s wearing the same shirt I am, the same shirt as most of the people at this event, except she fills it out way better than I do in the chest area. She throws her arm around my shoulder. She’s a little sweaty. “Let’s get shooters!”

“I don’t really—”

“How about slippery nipples and screaming orgasms?”

“I’m down for those!” says Charlene, scooting in beside her.

“Having fun yet?” Violet asks.

I nod. I’d have to yell to speak.

“So Buck tells me you and Randy had a thing. How was that? I’ve heard all kinds of things about that guy. I mean, more than what a great player he is, how he’s going to take over Alex’s position, and all the other shit people say.”

She waves her hand around and pokes me in the ear. She’s definitely drunk. I don’t think it impacts the things that come out of her mouth, though.

“Anyway, I’ve heard he lives up to his name, if ya know what I mean? Wink. Wink. Right?”

“I, uh…”

“There you are!” Alex comes up behind us and puts an arm around both our shoulders. He gives me a squeeze. “Hey, Little Lily! How’re you? It’s been too long!” I hate that nickname. It makes me feel twelve.

“I’m fine. Good. Nice game tonight. I’m sorry you lost to Miller.”

“S’okay. It’s all for a good cause.”

“I’ll make you forget you lost later, baby.” I don’t think Violet means to say this as loudly as she does.

Alex laughs. “Shh. We don’t need to tell everyone who’s going down later.”

“Me!” She raises her hand. “
I’m
going down later.”

He puts a finger to her lips, still laughing. “How much have you had to drink, Violet?”

“Just one.”

He looks at me, as if I know something he doesn’t. I shrug. Which is the exact moment the bartender sets two rows of shots in front of us. Alex snatches Violet’s before she can and downs them. I do mine to keep Violet from stealing them. I try to pay for my drinks, but Alex gives me a look. I don’t fight him. He’s far too aware of my family’s financial situation. It’s just my mom and me, and sometimes that’s tough. Every so often, I’ll find a few thousand dollars deposited in my savings account. I know it’s him. He never mentions it, and neither do I. It hurts my pride, but it helps when things get tight. Like last year when we needed a new car.

I remember I’ve got my little cousin with me, so I excuse myself, not that it’s necessary since Violet’s moved on to trying to grope Alex, and he’s busy keeping her hands from going places they shouldn’t in public.

I clutch my mojito, keeping to the edge of the room, as I search for Brett. I find him exactly where I don’t want him to be: with Randy and Miller and Michael—the boy Miller set up this fundraiser for—sitting at a table surrounded by heaping plates of food. They’re smiling and laughing and Miller has his arm on Michael’s shoulder. He’s got a personal connection to Michael’s situation; his own mother died when he was a kid from an inoperable tumor.

I was a real bitch to Miller when he started dating Sunny. Media reports were highly unfavorable; he was traded to Chicago last season for screwing his previous coach’s niece in a bathroom stall. I was worried for her. But ever since the post-camping weekend at Alex’s cottage, I’ve seen a much different side of him—one the media hasn’t been privy to. He’s so in love with Sunny, he’d do anything for her. Like name a foundation after her. The shirts everyone’s wearing tonight? They say Project Sunshine.

According to Sunny and the media, Randy, who happens to be Miller’s best friend, helped organize this event. Randy’s involvement doesn’t change how I feel about him, though. Just because he’s good to Michael doesn’t mean he isn’t a manslut player. Yet pathetically, I still want to ride him like a rodeo bull.

Deep down, I don’t believe Randy’s a bad guy. In fact, I’m inclined to say the opposite. A player? Definitely. Manslut? One hundred and ten percent. But I’m the one who threw myself at him, not the other way around. What bothers me most is that despite knowing this, I don’t regret what happened at the cottage, apart from not having sex with him. Which I regret. The no-sexing part. And I hate that I regret my regret, because it makes me feel like a puck bunny, which I never want to be.

I should be glad my actions over the past month have ensured nothing else is going to happen between Randy and me. Not only did I write terrible things all over his clothes in permanent marker, I’ve avoided him both times he called. He didn’t leave a message, so I have no idea what he wanted to say.

Why all the conflict over a hockey player? It goes back to my conception. My dad, who I’ve met a total of zero times, played professional hockey. He knocked my mom up when she was eighteen and then went back to his nice life: traveling the country, slapping a puck around on the ice, and banging puck bunnies who stupidly spread their legs for him, leaving my mom to raise me alone.

Ironically, my mom fit into the puck bunny category for a very short time. She never dated another hockey player, and she beats me over the head with a proverbial stick about not falling into the same trap. She does, however, seem to be good at finding guys in other lines of work who don’t stick around. It’s been a revolving door of unstable jerkoffs my entire life. I’m not cynical at all, though.

I scare myself again when all I get is air out of my straw instead of mojito. I glance down at my glass, frowning at the lack of liquid. How do these disappear so quickly? I look back over to Brett.
Oh, shit.
Randy’s noticed me.

A smug grin pulls up the corners of his sexy mouth. He says something to Brett and pats him on the shoulder, then pushes his chair back. I pretend to be involved in my phone. I feel seasick with how often I glance from the screen to their table to the screen.

Oh God. He’s on his way over here.
I’m not ready for this. I scan the room frantically for Sunny. I can’t see her anywhere, so I do the most logical thing in the world: I hightail it across the bar, away from Randy. There’s an exit door I’m not supposed to use on that side. The alarm has been disconnected for forever. It’ll get me out of here and on my way back to the bathroom where I hid out earlier. I can lock myself in there and figure out how to manage this.

I burst through the fire doors, relieved the alarm is still disconnected, and speed-walk down the hall. I make a quick right. Goddamn it. He’s following me. What could he possibly want? To smirk at me some more? Running away should be a sure sign I’m not interested in any kind of confrontation, or discussion, or even getting naked—on the off chance that’s on the table. Okay, the last part I totally want to do. Which is why I should keep running.

“Hey, Lily!” he calls. “Wait!”

My knees almost buckle at the sound of his voice. What does he want? I slide on a wet patch and barely avoid landing on my ass. He’s right behind me now. I clutch the bathroom door handle and skid to a stop, nearly falling again. Wrenching it open, I throw myself inside. It’s extra dramatic with a side of drama fries. But before I can pull the door closed, Randy manages to slide his massive, muscular body in the gap.

“What are you doing?” I screech as the door closes behind him, sealing us in darkness. “I can’t see anything!”

He chuckles. The light flicks on, and I blink against the sudden brightness. “Didn’t you hear me calling you?”

I plant my hands on my hips. “Didn’t you see me running away from you?”

He laughs again. It’s a beautiful sound. “Uh, yeah. I figured maybe you really had to use the bathroom.”

“I did. I do. Now get out, or I’ll pee right in front of you!” I’m shouting. It’s high-pitched and totally unnecessary, seeing as I’m standing about four inches away from him. I might be spit-talking at his chest. His extra-muscular chest.

His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, leaving all the tattoos on his right forearm on display. He even has one on the back of his hand. It’s almost three-dimensional in the way it’s been put on his skin: a stunning flower beaded with dew, with a tiny, intricate skull inside the falling droplet. It’s so badass. I remember how amazing it looked when the fingers attached to that hand, which is attached to the arm covered in ink, were inside of me, pumping away until I came. I make a strangled sound.

“Did you moan?”

“What? No.” My eyes shoot up to his.

That infuriating smirk makes his eyes crinkle. Even his eye crinkles are hot. “I think you did.”

“It was a groan. That’s very different from a moan.”

He leans against the door, blocking my exit. “Oh yeah? Wanna explain that to me?”

“I don’t have to explain anything to you. Now get out so I can use the bathroom! In private. Alone.” My voice is still super squeaky. I need to stop acting like an idiot. I also need him to get out of the bathroom before I do something I should regret, but probably won’t. He doesn’t seem nearly as opposed to that as I’d thought he would.

I push his shoulder in an attempt to get him out of the way. He moves maybe a fraction of an inch. He smells fantastic, like he’s freshly showered and deodorized. His arm is so solid, nothing like Benji’s was. I keep pushing, and I might give his biceps a little squeeze.

“What’s with you and busting in on me in the bathroom?” I say, not quite shouting now.

I feel my face heat at the memory of him barging in on me at the cottage with my girl parts on display and his hand in his shorts. Damn it. Now I’m thinking about the near-sexing we did, again.

Randy’s still smiling like a jackass. I think he said something and I missed it, too busy being mortified. And turned on.

“What?” I ask.

His tongue sweeps across his bottom lip. He has great lips. They’re full and soft and great for kissing. He brushes the hair out of my face, fingertips skimming my cheek. All my muscles clench. I’m pretty sure I could come just thinking about the things he’s done to me. Which is crazy, because I’ve always believed reactions like that are total bullshit.

“I was just saying that the last time we were in a bathroom together, you were wearing a lot less.” His gaze roams over me and his eyes—the color of honey, or a sandy beach, or who the fuck cares—drop below my waist. He points at my crotch. “How’s your waxer doing these days? You get your situation sorted out down there?”

My mouth hangs open. I close it quickly, then open it again, waiting for some sassy quip of retaliation, but nothing arrives. I don’t have a good comeback, or anything to say to that, because the honest answer is
no
. I haven’t had a chance to sort it out.

I’ve been stuck waxing my own girl parts for the last month. I’m not very good at it. I keep missing spots, and I have to go over them with a razor. My vag constantly has patches of five o’clock shadow.

“Wouldn’t you like to know!”

“Wanna show me?”

“You’re a pig!”

In reality, I kinda do want to show him, even if it’s not the best waxing job in the world. Actually, I’d like to get him on his knees, drop my pants, hike a leg up on the edge of the sink and shove his face right in there so he can have an up-close-and-personal view of the hell I have to go through in order to make my vagina presentable for no one, because I’m the only person who sees it.