Pucked Off (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  His fingers cover mine.

  “Why don’t you deserve what you want?”

  “I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’m trying to rearrange the way I think about it.” He sighs. “I want to be with you. I want to be what you need. That’s all I want. I tried to avoid her. I really tried, but she can’t seem to let this go.”

  I key in the passcode to my phone, because I need to see whatever it is that’s causing him such distress. I check the most obvious accounts first, and then I finally come across an unfamiliar name.

  “Natasha is Tash?” I ask.

  Lance closes his eyes and bows his head.

  I open the message. My throat tightens.

  I try not to react to it immediately or look at it with judging eyes. It’s difficult, though. Everything about this picture screams lies and deceit. But then I force myself to look without emotions, ignoring my aching heart, so I can see it for what it is.

  I know this woman—the one smiling at the camera. The one lying on a bed of white sheets with Lance’s big body. She’s naked, or topless at least, based on the bare expanse of her back. She was the one who came to the house the morning after I stayed the night at Lance’s a year ago.

  She’s gorgeous and in amazing shape, much better than what my twice-a-week yoga routine yields. We look absolutely nothing alike.

  Lance is stretched out on top of her. But while she smiles for the camera, he looks like he wants to rip someone’s head off. He’s wearing boxers. It’s better than him being naked, but not by much. A million unwanted scenarios rush through my mind, despite what Lance has told me, and despite my trying to keep perspective.

  I push the phone toward him. “This is what you wanted to explain?”

  “As soon as they came in the room, she climbed into bed with me and tried to take pictures. I was trying to get the camera from her so she couldn’t post them, and her friend snapped that one. I know how it looks, though, which is why I wanted to be here when you saw it.” He covers the image with his palm.

  I’m grateful. It’s like a train wreck. I can’t look away, even though I want to. His hand is the shield I need.

  “Is this going to end up all over social media?” I have to consider what that will be like, how difficult it will be to defend my relationship with him. How humiliating it will be.

  “No. This is the only copy of that picture left.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I deleted all of them.”

  “All of them? There were more?”

  “Tash tried to take a few, but they were blurry.”

  Of all the conversations I’ve had over the years concerning exes, this is definitely the most unorthodox. “Is she going to keep contacting me?”

  “I don’t know. She’s vindictive, but I told her not to. It wouldn’t take much for me to cause her a lot of problems if she does. It won’t look good for her that she’s still been in contact with me after everything that happened.”

  “Do you think she’ll send me other things? Pictures? Messages? Videos?”

  “There aren’t any videos, but we were together for a while. She’ll have old pictures of her and me.”

  I consider what may lie ahead. Dating someone like Lance puts a spotlight on me. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that. Or if I can. What if things like this keep happening?

  “Did she call the night before you went away?”

  “Aye.”

  “And you talked to her?” My chest feels tight. If I’d asked this question before he’d gone, would we still be dealing with this mess?

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she won’t leave me alone if I don’t answer. It had been weeks of her bullshit before I did.”

  “Why not block her?”

  “I have. I did. She messaged from someone else’s phone.”

  That makes sense, but it still doesn’t answer the most important question. “Why didn’t you tell me about her before you went away? Why lie?”

  Lance takes a sip of his water and clears his throat. “I didn’t want to mess things up and make you worry while I was gone. I guess that kind of backfired, huh?”

  “I don’t understand the point of keeping it from me. Why not be honest that your ex was going to be there in the first place? This makes it look like you were hiding it.”

  “That’s not what I meant to do.” He’s so forlorn.

  “If we’re going to have any chance of working, we have to be transparent with each other. Especially about this kind of thing. It’s not avoidable, but I don’t want to be blindsided by it. Today was horrible for me. I’ve spent the entire day on edge, feeling awful and wondering what was so damaging that you needed to be here before I could see it.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. But you get why I asked for that, right?”

  “How often is this kind of thing going to happen? Are you going to avoid going out with your teammates every time you’re in LA? I mean, really, even that isn’t enough, is it?”

  “Maybe you could come with me next time.”

  “To LA?”

  “Aye.”

  “Why would I come to LA when you don’t even have me come to home games? What are you hiding from me? Her?”

  “I’m not hiding anything. I’m protecting you.”

  “From what? Or who?”

  “The bunnies, the media crap. People will take pictures of you just like when we went out for dinner. But if you come to LA, you’ll know exactly where I am and what I’m doing.”

  “It’s not the media I’m worried about. I don’t want to police your actions, Lance. I want to be part of your life, more than just this little slice you’ve carved out for us.”

  “I just don’t want you dragged into all the shitty stuff that comes with being with someone like me.”

  “You mean like Tash? You said she comes to your games when you’re in LA. And if she’s there, then what? Will she confront me? Will she do things to hurt me? You?”

  He drops his head again. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I told her it was done for good this time, that I wasn’t doing this with her any more. And I meant it. I don’t want to be that person.”

  “I don’t understand why you still talk to her when she does these kinds of things to you. Why answer her calls at all? Why is she still messaging you?”

  “She got vindictive if I didn’t respond. I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

  “But you gave her that power. Why let her have it at all?”

  He’s fidgety, struggling with my questions. “I don’t know. We have similar backgrounds. She made it hard to walk away.”

  “You realize these are all excuses you’re making for both of you. She still seems like part of your present, like you can’t let her go. If it’s only me, it can’t be her, too.”

  “But she’s not part of my present any more. I told her that last night. I know she’s not good for me, and I don’t want that any more.”

  “This is a discussion we should’ve had before you went away. We’ve been seeing each other for weeks. When would you have told me about her if this hadn’t happened?”

  “I wanted to. I would have,” he says quickly.

  “But when? She’s called when I’ve been with you. Do you call her back later? When we’re not together?”

  “I’ve been ignoring her. I only talked to her that one time, and only because she kept calling, and I wanted to be clear that I wasn’t going to see her in LA. I promise I won’t talk to her any more. If she calls, I won’t answer. I’ll get a new phone so she doesn’t have my number. I’ll do anything, Poppy. Just please, give me a chance to fix this.”

  I can hear the child in him, the beaten one, the one who’s been abandoned over and over again. But I have to protect myself too.

  “This is a lot to take in, Lance. I don’t want to be responsible for allowing my heart to be broken.”

  Panic flares in his eyes. “So what does that mean? Are you
saying it’s over?”

  “I’m not saying this is over. It’s not black and white. But I need some time to process all of this.”

  His agitation makes the whole couch shake. His foot is going on the floor, the vibrations making the ice tinkle in his glass on the table. His elbows balance on his shaking knees, his fists clenching and releasing. I’m not sure whether to be afraid for him right now or not. I know he won’t hurt me, but he has a tendency to find ways to hurt himself.

  I’ve seen him fight on the ice before, watched him take hits over and over until he’s finally had enough. He has to be pushed hard before he breaks. It’s like watching a rubber band snap, a bomb explode.

  He runs a rough hand through his hair and down over his face. Balling it into a fist, he presses it against his mouth and makes a low sound. “How much?”

  “How much what?”

  “How much time will you need?” His voice is mangled.

  “I don’t know. A week? Maybe more?”

  He makes a noise that sounds a lot like a sob. “And I can’t see you at all?”

  Oh, God. The look on his face is breaking my heart more than that picture, and that picture shredded me. “It’s not a good idea.”

  “Fuck. Fuck.” He rubs hard at the space between his eyes with his knuckles. “Have I ruined this? I have, haven’t I?”

  “You haven’t ruined it. I need time to think, Lance. This has been intense right from the start—and I mean a decade ago. Every time you come into my life again, my world is turned upside down. I need to figure out if I can handle this level of intensity all the time.” I also need time to figure out how to find balance with this man. I want to save him from himself, and keep myself safe at the same time. But I can’t stop myself from putting my hand over his knee.

  He shudders and covers my hand with his. His palm is clammy and shaking along with the rest of him. Suddenly he’s on his knees in front of me. He wraps one arm around me and buries his face in my lap. The other hand grips my wrist. He presses my palm to the back of his neck, holding it there.

  “I wanna deserve you. Why can’t I find a way to deserve you?”

  Paralyzed by shock, I watch this huge man fall apart for an agonizing, protracted moment. Because I told him I need time. And that’s not unreasonable, I remind myself. Not after what I’ve just seen and what he’s told me.

  I run my fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles in closer, another tortured sound leaving him, like he’s dying for the affection. I consider that for a moment—how he’s gone through life prepared for the women in it to hurt him, rather than care for him.

  I don’t want to be that all over again, but I have to manage all the feelings I have for and about this man. I let him stay on the floor in front of me, for as long as I can, but eventually I stroke his cheek.

  He turns his head like he’s chasing the touch. He catches my hand and brings my fingers to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  “I know you are.”

  He lifts his head, but keeps a tight hold on my hand. “But you can’t forgive me?”

  “I didn’t say that. Just give me some time to get this all sorted out.”

  “That’s not a yes.”

  “It’s not a no, either. I’m not going to lie and tell you this is okay, because for me it’s not. But that doesn’t mean I won’t get over it. I need time to process, okay? I have to figure out if I’m ready for something like this.”

  That someone else wields such power over him scares me, especially since she’s been such a negative force in his life. I don’t think I could bear it if I let him into my heart the way I want to, only to have their pattern prove impossible for him to break. What will I do if he discards me like she seems to do to him, over and over again?

  CHAPTER 23

  DEPRIVATION

  POPPY

  In the past, I’ve always managed a breakup, or a timeout, or whatever it is I’m calling this by staying busy. So that’s exactly what I’m trying to do now. On Wednesday night I bring tea and cookies over to Mr. Goldberg’s. It’s too cold to sit outside, so we eat at his kitchen table instead.

  “I haven’t seen your boyfriend lately. Everything okay there?” He dips a gingersnap into his teacup. He uses fine china because it reminds him of his wife, even though the handles are difficult for him to manage.

  “They’ve had an away series. They’ll be back in a couple of days.” I don’t want to get into my relationship problems with Mr. Goldberg, mostly because I think it might make me cry.

  “Well, if you wouldn’t mind asking him to bring by some of those special oat biscuits when he’s back, that would be lovely. I think they’re my new favorite.”

  “I’m sorry, oat biscuits?”

  “I think that’s what they are. Sometimes when you’re still at work, he stops by with cookies and snacks.”

  “You’re talking about Lance?” I had no idea Lance was sweet-talking my neighbor. He hadn’t mentioned it even once.

  “Unless you’ve got another redheaded boyfriend you’re hiding somewhere, Miss Poppy, that’s the one. He offered to help me get out all the Christmas decorations this year. Which is nice of him. Trudy loved Christmas.”

  I remembered last year the decorations had been missing, when usually they went up right after Thanksgiving. “I can come help, too.”

  He pats my hand and gives me a watery smile. “That’d be lovely, dear.”

  The rest of the week passes in the same slow, achy fashion. Work, which is usually a good distraction, is dragging today. I’m half-grateful, half-worried about having tomorrow off. As much as I need a day off, the free time means my mind has endless time for wandering, and I can spend the day watching PVR hockey games, unless I make alternate plans..

  Lance has been gone for the past seven days, and I’ve watched the games obsessively. He’s averaged three penalties a night, and there’s been nothing to see on the bunny sites. Tonight they’re finally playing again in Chicago. Knowing he’ll be in the city again seems to make the hurt worse.

  I hate that I don’t know more about who he is beyond the confines of my house and what the media says. It’s hard to gauge how truthful he’s been with me because I only know this narrow aspect of his life.

  “Poppy?” April snaps her fingers in front of my face, and I jerk.

  “Huh?”

  “Your next client is going to be here soon. Do you need help with the sheets?” She looks pointedly at the ball of cloth in my arms. I’ve been staring off into space for the past few minutes, it appears.

  “Sure. Yeah. Thanks.”

  She rounds the table, takes the used sheets out of my hands, and grabs a fresh set. “Just call him.”

  “I’m not ready.” It’s been eleven days. Lance hasn’t so much as texted me. As I asked. I should be happy about this.

  I’m not.

  The silence is painful, even though it was requested.

  I’ve kept myself occupied by spending time with April, going to yoga, having tea with Mr. Goldberg; I even went to see my parents last weekend. It amazes me that in such a short span of time, one person could have filled so much of my life that even the busy-ness doesn’t take away the ache of his absence.

  “You’re not ready, or you’re too scared?” April prods.

  “I don’t know. Both maybe.”

  “Do you know what you want yet?”

  I absolutely do. I want him. I want him to want me as his girlfriend. I want to have more sleepovers. I want to find him naked in my kitchen, rummaging around in my cupboards for gummy bears. More than that, I want him to let me into the rest of his life. I want to be invited to games, to meet his friends, to see him as a whole, and not just a series of puzzle pieces I can’t fit together because so many are missing.

  But I’m terrified of how that plays out for me. I think I can deal with the media exposure; I even think I can handle a bitch ex-girlfriend. And I’m not afraid to love someone who’s been broken. But that’s the ext
ent of what I can control. I worry about being separated from the rest of his life, and that he’s keeping me away for a reason.

  “I don’t know,” is the answer I give April, though.

  She throws up her hands. “Why can’t you admit that you’re into this guy and call?”

  “He hasn’t contacted me in almost two weeks.”

  “Because you asked him not to.”

  Now it’s my turn with the hand gestures. “Why are boys so complicated?”

  “Because they have penises. Or peni. What is the plural of penis?” She’s trying to be funny, and most of the time it would work.

  “You’re not helping.”

  “Why don’t we go out tonight?” she suggests. “It’s Saturday! We’ll get dressed up and go dancing. You can cut loose and have one drink. I’ll have six or seven. We can flirt with dumb boys.”

  “There’s a game on.”

  This gets me another look. “It’ll be over by ten unless they go into overtime. Neither of us works tomorrow. You need something to take your mind off your boy problems, not feed into them.”

  “And you think being rubbed on by random strangers is the answer to that?”

  “It’s far better than waiting for a phone call you asked not to receive.”

  She’s right, even though I hate to admit it. I still have that stupid picture on my phone. I know I need to delete the evidence, but I can’t bring myself to do it. And like an idiot I’ve checked that Natasha girl’s profile.

  She’s been posting old pictures of her and Lance—not just the two of them, but her with the whole team, or shots of them all working out. It’s another reminder that I’m only on the fringe of his world, and makes me wonder all over again how much I can trust him, whether what he shows me about himself is real.

  “I’ll think about it.” I tuck the sheets in and throw the heating pad on. My next client gets cold.

  A brief knock is followed by Bernadette’s disembodied head appearing around the doorjamb. She rarely leaves the comfort of her desk, so it must be important.