Pucked Off (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  The bunny’s gone when I get there, which is good, because I didn’t want to deal with having to kick her out so I can get ready for the game. Before we head to the rink, I make the mistake of checking my phone. Tash has left more messages, which I stupidly check, so when I take the ice for my first shift I’m already amped up.

  In the first period I get a penalty for checking. In the second period I get one for sticking, and in the third period McHugh, the forward for Philly, gets all up in my space and keeps pushing at me from behind. We’re up by two, and they’re getting desperate. My ribs are still sore from the fight last weekend, and that’s exactly where he keeps elbowing me.

  After the sixth time, I lose my cool and say a bunch of shit to rile him up. It works. He shoves me from behind, so I turn around and get up in his face, looking for him to throw the first punch. He swings a right hook, which I deflect. Then I let him get in a few solid hits. I rip my helmet off and shove him back, so he goes for my face, his gloved fist slamming into my cheek.

  The pain is almost a relief. I need it. I want it. I don’t know how to exist without it. I don’t brace for the next punch, letting it take me to the ice. I’m careful to keep my head up, though, which means I take the hit with my back. I don’t even have a chance to fight back before Miller and a couple of refs are between us.

  Randy’s right there with him. “Romance, you gotta take it down. Come on, buddy.”

  I swipe across my cheek and realize I’m bleeding again. I’m sent to the penalty box where I reflexively look around the stadium. I don’t find what I’m looking for—which is my mother, wearing her disapproval in apathy. All I see are Philly fans cheering in the stands.

  Both teams are down a player now, Philly having started the fight even though I was the one to throw the words. McHugh is pissed about it, and the chippy play keeps up. Fortunately we end up winning the game, despite the penalties, so I don’t get the same level of flak that I might’ve had we lost.

  I get held up on the way out of the locker room because Smart wants the team doctor to check me out, so everyone’s settled in at the bar by the time I arrive. The bunnies are everywhere, trying to get in my lap, touching me, looking for a hook up I’m not interested in. My split eyebrow reopened during the fight, and my head is throbbing. I practically have to shove my way into a seat at the team table. I end up next to Waters.

  “You all right, man? You took a solid hit.” He glances pointedly at my eyebrow.

  “I’m good. Nothing I can’t handle. That guy wouldn’t let up,” I reply.

  “I get that. But beyond this—” He taps his own eyebrow. “—are you good? Things settled down for you?”

  Sometimes, after I see Tash or she calls or whatever, I talk to Violet, Waters’ wife. She’s good at listening, even if I only tell her the surface stuff. Last summer I went to Waters’ cottage after an altercation with Tash, and like usual, Violet was good about talking me down.

  Later Randy asked about my relationship with her, and told me to watch myself.

  I might look at Violet like family, but she’s not, and I don’t want to mess things up—for myself or anyone else—so I’ve given myself space from them. I never want to get between the people who are there for me. It’s kinda like how I’m leaving things alone with Miller right now. I get that sometimes the things I do rub him the wrong way, and now isn’t the time to hash it out.

  “Yeah, man. Like I said, I got it handled. I’m gonna get a beer.”

  “Okay. You did good out there, Romero. I know you’re keeping an eye out for Miller, and the team appreciates it.”

  The compliment means a lot and makes me uncomfortable at the same time. I stand as Alex gets pulled into a conversation with Westinghouse, and I flag down a passing waitress to order a pint of Guinness.

  Rookie’s got girls looking for action again, and he’s a lot more interested than I am, so when he asks, I tell him it’s fine to take them up to the room. A little while later I see Randy and Miller heading up, so I ask if I can come with them.

  Miller gives Randy a look. “You’re not taking a bunny off Rookie’s hands?”

  “I’m tired. I just wanna sleep.”

  “That’s a first,” Miller scoffs.

  “Look, man, I know you’re stressed about Sunny and the baby and shit, but you think you can cut me a little slack here?”

  Miller blinks a few times, jaw working as the hardness in his expression eases a little. He nods. “Yeah, man. Sorry. There’s a lot going on.”

  “You wanna crash in our room?” Randy asks, breaking the tension.

  “You cool with that?” I pull my phone out of my pocket and check my messages. There aren’t any new ones since Tash messaged me earlier, and I haven’t read them. Yet.

  “Yeah, man. Of course. You sure you’re all right?” Randy asks.

  “Yeah. Just one of those days.”

  The whole scene is losing its appeal. It brings me more trouble than it’s worth these days, especially since the guys I’m tight with on the team are all committed to someone. I don’t know if it’s that or the crap with Tash, but if I’m going to feel alone—which I know I will—I’d rather actually be alone as well.

  CHAPTER 12

  TOO MANY FAVORS

  POPPY

  Instead of going out for a bite to eat with April on Sunday evening, I tell her I need a night in with a book because I’m tired. Which is sort of true. I also promised Mr. Goldberg a game of cribbage on his front porch, which I’ve already taken care of and of course I let him beat me twice. Plus, I have early appointments tomorrow. I also want to watch the game. Because maybe I’m a little obsessed with Lance Romero. Still. Again. I don’t know.

  I should definitely not want him to call me and beg for another home massage session. I should also not be fantasizing about him. Because he’s a client. Because he’s a dog. All the bunny sites tell me that.

  But I am fantasizing. Because he’s gorgeous and because he’s been so sweet with me, and maybe a little awkward. Nothing like the guy I met last year at the bar who was drunk and cocky. Okay, so maybe he’s still a little cocky, but that’s not a bad thing.

  My focus during the game is one hundred percent singular. I watch Lance, number twenty-one, every time he’s on the ice. When I’m not watching the game, I’m checking my social media feeds. Lance is following me on Instagram and has liked a bunch of my posts. I shouldn’t be all that excited, since everyone follows everyone else here, but I am.

  Close to the end of the third period, a fight breaks out between Lance and number forty-four from the other team. If one could even call it a fight. It doesn’t look two-sided from my perspective. The guy from Philly lays right into him. Lance even takes off his helmet, but he never hits the guy. Not once. He does go down hard, though. Hard enough to make me cringe. He’ll be sore tomorrow. I wonder if that means he’ll try to get another appointment with me.

  By the time the refs intervene, Lance is bleeding from a gash above his eyebrow. I think it might be the one that had the fly bandage on it the other day. That’ll suck if he reopened the wound.

  He still gets a penalty, though. Both teams do. But Chicago manages to win the game being down a player, and it’s late by the time I go to bed.

  I have an early morning with an eight o’clock start, and I’m dragging a little as I get myself out the door. I arrive about ten minutes before my first client, but without caffeine in my system, because I slept through my alarm. It’s Lance’s fault. He not only infiltrates all my waking thoughts, but sleeping ones too. It made for a restless, thigh-clenching night.

  Bernadette doesn’t arrive until nine, so I don’t get stuck at her desk to chat. I rush to my room, grateful I set up on Saturday night so all I have to do is throw the heating pad on the table to warm it, cue the music, and put the oil in the warmer.

  My first client of the day is always pushing the late side, so I have a few extra minutes, but not enough time to run across the street to grab a coffee.
I send April a text requesting one if she has time to stop on the way in.

  My client arrives at 8:03, and a long, painful hour ensues. She’s an incredibly chipper person. Normally I appreciate her positivity, but underslept and caffeine deprived, it’s a bit much to handle on a Monday morning.

  April arrives at my door as I’m stripping the sheets, coffee in hand. I toss them to the floor and practically tackle her for it. “Oh my God, I’m dying right now.”

  April’s eyes go wide and she holds out the cup, cringing away from me. “Wow. Do I need to stage an intervention?”

  “I slept horribly last night.”

  “Yeah. You look like you’re packing for a vacation under your eyes.”

  “It’s not that bad.” I check my reflection in the mirror across the room.

  April changes the subject. “Have you talked to Bernadette yet this morning?”

  I shake my head. “My first appointment was early, so she wasn’t here when I came in. Why?”

  She gives me an eyebrow waggle. “You need to come check out who’s booked into your schedule and on a wait list for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I think you mean who am I talking about. Bernadette’s been telling everyone who comes through the door. I think you might have a fan.”

  “Is it that guy who smells like cheese? Please tell me it isn’t. I don’t think I can handle repeated hours of that.” Every time that guy comes in I’m off cheese for a good week, and normally I love cheese.

  April makes one of her signature faces. “Oh, God. No. This is way, way better.”

  “So who is it?” My stomach does a little flip, but I quash that quickly. It has to be someone else. It can’t be who I want it to be.

  “Guess.”

  “I have another appointment in a few minutes. I don’t have time to play guessing games.” I don’t have anyone for another twenty, but I’m not in the mood for this.

  “Oh, come on! Why are you so grumpy? You’re ruining all my fun.”

  “Fine. Is it that guy who won’t takes his socks off?” I know it’s not him. He only sees Marcie.

  April throws her hands in the air. “It’s Lance! You know, the professional hockey player whose ass you had your hands all over last week? The one who asked for your number so you could be his emergency massage therapist?”

  “April!” I throw a pillow at her. “Keep your voice down!” While it’s not against policy, I don’t want the whole clinic to know about that.

  “That’s the reaction I get? Lance Romero, this famous, incredibly hot hockey player keeps calling to check for cancellations, and you’re worried about my volume? Where are your priorities? Are you sure he doesn’t remember you?”

  “As far as I know. Wait. What do you mean he keeps calling?”

  “He called yesterday and left messages, and he’s already called twice this morning.”

  “It’s only nine.”

  “Yeah. He left a message at, like, seven thirty.”

  “You’re kidding.” I squeeze past April and root through my purse until I find my phone. I have missed texts and a voicemail from Lance.

  Now it feels like Leprechauns are dancing in my stomach.

  “Oh my God. He’s texting you? And he left a voicemail? You have to check them! You need to listen to it!”

  I hold my phone close to my chest. “You need to calm down.”

  “You need to be more excited!”

  I roll my eyes but check my messages. I missed quite a lot sleeping through my alarm and being without coffee this morning.

  “Oh my God!” April rips the phone from my hand. “Did you read this? He needs you. Can’t you hear him saying that in his sexy Irish accent?”

  “He’s Scottish.”

  “Scottish, Irish, whatever—it’s sexy as hell. You need to find a way to fit him in.”

  I’d like to fit him in all right.

  She pushes me toward the door.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “You need to talk to Bernadette before your next appointment so you can call him back and tell him he can come in.”

  “He’s getting on a plane; it can wait.”

  “Are you crazy? You don’t make guys like Lance Romero wait.”

  “I’m sure it’s a skill he could probably use a little help with,” I gripe. “And can we stop calling him by his first and last name? It’s a little weird.” But I stop fighting and let her push me. I’m curious to see what exactly Bernadette has to say about this and whether April is blowing it out of proportion.

  As soon as Bernadette sees me, her eyes light up. “You’ll never believe who’s trying to get an appointment with you this week, and who’s booked appointments for the next two months.”

  “Lance?”

  Her face falls, and she shoots April a dirty look.

  April lifts a shoulder. “I got excited.”

  “How many appointments has he booked?” I ask.

  “Twelve.”

  “Pardon?”

  “He’s booked twelve appointments. And he took a cancellation for next week, but he says he really needs to see you this week. I tried to explain that you don’t have any openings, but he didn’t sound very happy about it. That accent is so sexy. Where’s he from again? Australia?” Bernadette sighs.

  “Scotland,” I reply. “Can I see the appointments?”

  She turns her computer monitor toward me and flips through them. He has two appointments a week for seven weeks, starting the week after next since I’m already booked up until then.

  I pull up my appointments for tomorrow on my phone. All I have are two half-hour breaks, one at eleven and one at three thirty. The clinic closes at eight on Tuesdays, but since I already have six appointments, Bernadette won’t schedule me another one, no matter how much time I have at the end of my day. As I’m contemplating whether it’s a good idea to give in to Lance, my phone rings.

  “It’s him!” April shrieks.

  I glare at her.

  Bernadette’s hands flutter. “Oh! You should answer! He’s been very persistent. He only wants you.”

  I wish people would stop saying things like that. “You both need to stop fangirling.” I wait until they stop twittering like birds before I answer. “Hello?”

  “Poppy?”

  “You’re speaking to her.”

  “Thank fuck.” He mumbles something, maybe to someone on the other end of the line. “Sorry about that—the swearing, I mean. I’m boarding the plane back to Chicago. Listen, I know you said no more home treatments, but I really need to see you, and your appointment warden won’t book me in for anything in the next day or two. Can you help me out? Please.”

  Why do I have no resolve? “What time does your flight get in?”

  “Uh, like, before noon, I think? Maybe a little later? And we have a team meeting as soon as we get back, but I’m totally free after that. I’ll take anything right about now. I got into a scuffle on the ice last night, and it undid all the good you did last time.”

  Oh my God. The word scuffle coming out of his mouth does funny things to me. “I saw that.”

  “You did?”

  I cringe at his surprise, and the fact that I’ve outted myself as a hockey watcher. Like this man needs his ego fed any more. “Mmm. Let me check my schedule this afternoon.”

  Bernadette shakes her head and motions to the screen. I came in early today so I could get out early. My last appointment is at six thirty and it’s only forty-five minutes. Technically I can fit Lance in, although that’s going to put me up to seven sessions today. And I’ll miss yoga. Although our new instructor isn’t nearly as good as the girl who’d been teaching the class since early spring, so I’m really not missing all that much, apart from exercise.

  I point to the computer screen and give Bernadette a questioning look. She shrugs, and April makes flailing hand gestures. “I can take you at seven fifteen.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Ye
s.”

  “At your house, or the clinic?”

  “At the clinic. We close at eight, though, so it can only be forty-five minutes.” I want Bernadette to be here when he leaves, just to be safe. Lord knows I’m stupid around this man.

  “Okay. That works. Yer a precious angel. I really owe ya, Poppy.” His voice becomes muffled. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m hanging up. No, ya does nae hafta do that.” His voice becomes clear again, the Scot thicker with his agitation. “I gotta go or they’re gonna kick me off the plane. I’ll see you tonight, Poppy. Thanks again.”

  I listen to dead air, still processing the precious angel comment, before I finally hang up.

  Bernadette and April are squeal-flapping.

  “You’re worse than teenage girls at a boy band concert. You can’t act like that when he’s here.”

  April huffs. “This one starts treating famous hockey players, and she’s suddenly Ms. Serious.”

  “It’s one hockey player, and he’s asking me to treat him, not marry him.”

  “Yet,” April says.

  “I have another client, so I need to get ready.” I leave the two of them to go set up, trying not to squeal-flap myself.

  The rest of the day moves in an anxious blur. I don’t want to fixate on Lance, but really, I have a lot of time to think about him and the fact that he’s scheduled all these appointments and insisted on seeing me today. I also try not to think about what it means that I’ve given up my evening plans so I can treat him. I’d like to say it’s because I’m nice, but I’m not so nice that I’d give up my evening for just any client.

  I’m antsy by the time seven rolls around. Typically I’ll work a little longer on my clients, particularly if they’re regulars, but knowing that Lance is likely waiting out there makes me feel rushed. Still, I don’t want to short-change anyone, so it’s seven twenty by the time I finish up.

  I slip out of my room and down the hall to wash my hands before I check reception for Lance. He’s sitting in the same chair as the last time, wearing a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved henley pushed up to his elbows. Its dark green hue makes his eyes and hair pop more than usual. He has bruises along his jaw, and his eye has a dark shadow under it. There’s a new, bigger fly bandage across his split eyebrow. He’s still gorgeous.