Puck Buddies

by Tara Brown

  “I told you we don’t have a thing. And besides, I’d like the South of France or Italy. I can’t keep running into him and hiding because I don’t want to see him.”

  “If you just talked to him or stopped hating him, you’d never see him. This is God trying to force your hand to deal with things like a big girl.”

  “I don’t want to see him or talk to him,” I snap.

  The thought of him makes me sick.

  Not because he’s disgusting, which he is.

  Not because the way he treated me was disgusting, which it was.

  No.

  Even the image of the condom slapping onto the cold cement isn’t why.

  The reason I loathe him is that I am still desperately attracted to him. He treated me like shit, and I still spend all my time watching his stupid games on TV or noticing the cut of his jacket against his big arms when he does interviews after the games.

  And those hands.

  Dear sweet baby Jesus, those hands.

  It’s not at all like being attracted normally.

  No.

  It’s more along the lines of gut-wrenching sadness when I see him because I won’t experience that bliss ever again.

  It’s some weird self-deprecating crush where I allow myself to be treated like shit out of guilt for the bad things I’ve done. At least that’s what Linda, my shrink, says. And it sounds right. I am a self-deprecator.

  He and I will never happen again.

  NEVER AGAIN!

  I have new rules about boys treating me like a whore and it never happens more than once.

  But I see him everywhere since he moved here.

  At the café.

  At restaurants I like.

  At the patisserie I enjoy the most.

  At Chanel. What guy even goes to Chanel?

  A guy who’s dating someone, that’s who.

  And I hate that even more.

  We had cheap sex in a moving car and out there is a girl who gets to be with him for real. Not in a moving car like she’s being paid to be there.

  The thought of it boils my blood.

  “Oh shit, he’s coming over. He totally sees us.” She tightens her grip for a moment and then pretends to be browsing through the sweaters with me. “Yup, he sees us. Be cool. Laugh about something.”

  “Sami? Natalie? How are you?” His eyes dart to mine right away.

  “Great,” Nat answers as though she just got an avocado for Christmas like that kid in the video on YouTube.

  “Good.” I plaster the stupidest smile on my face. It’s a phony “I’m fine” shining on my lips brightly as I nod.

  Matt Brimley looks amazing. I wish he didn’t.

  It’s sighting number eleven and he looks better, if that’s even possible. I’m a sucker for dark-green eyes and perfect lips, especially when I know they are also the deepest eyes you’ll ever gaze into and the lips contain the best kiss you’ll ever have.

  He’s got a peacoat on over a suit, like the one he wore when we met, because why not? Why not torture me with a tailored suit and a pale blue dress shirt? He’s clearly just starting the night; he’s still pressed and clean and doesn’t have a lipstick stain on him, not yet.

  He and Nat natter on about Christmas while I suffer through the image of him kissing me in the very suit he’s wearing.

  Nat turns, smiling. “Yeah, she and I are both just chilling this year. Her dad wanted to go to London but I’m trying to convince her to stay with me at my mom’s in Greenwich.” She gives me a knowing gesture to snap out of it, like I’ve missed something important.

  I force myself to connect him with the memory of my being nothing more than a backseat bang for him. It makes me feel like shit. He makes me feel like shit.

  “No London this year, huh?” He tries to smile like we might be friends. It pisses me off more.

  “Nope. I don’t know that I’ll ever go back to London. Bad memories.”

  “Yeah?” His eyebrows knit for a millisecond. “Well, I should go. You guys have a great Christmas.” He gives me that lazy grin, the one that melts me out of my clothes. “I’m glad I ran into you again.”

  My traitorous vagina twinges with my stomach, but I shut that shit down. I’m not a backseat bang. I almost give him the “Bye, Felicia,” but I don’t. I just turn back to my sweaters, though I don’t see them. I see him, and the smile, and the way he makes me feel nauseated.

  “Oh my God, he’s hot. Why are you always so mean to him or avoiding him?” Her eyes fix on mine as if she’s trying to read my mind. “And I don’t want to hear the bullshit story you gave me when he came by in the middle of the night looking for Carson. I wanna know what is going on with you two.”

  “It’s nothing. I just don’t like him. He’s a player. Dirty hockey pig. They’re gross.” I shrug and lift an argyle, pretending it might be an option for Nadia. It’s not. I already have her gift and it’s so much better than a sweater.

  “But he’s always so nice.”

  “Whatever. Do you think Nadia would like this?”

  “Sure.” She shrugs. “I guess. It’s all right.”

  I put it down and continue to saunter, staring at everything. Nat gets stuck on some ugly-Christmas-sweater idea in the corner as I make my way to the gloves. I lift them, caressing the soft leather and putting them down. My heart isn’t in shopping anymore.

  Sensing I’m being watched, I lift my gaze to find him staring at me from across the rack.

  I jump but he just smiles. “Hey.”

  “What are you doing?” I scowl.

  “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out again?” He comes off as flustered and sweet, but I’ve seen this act before. Sitting across from me in the limo begging me to stay with him.

  “No. I don’t want to hang out. When have we ever hung out? If you mean hang out in your limo again, I’m good.” I almost throw down finger quotations on the hang out. “I don’t need another tour of the slummy parts of the city.”

  “Okay.” He pauses like he’s confused. “Guess I’ll see ya around.”

  “Whatever.” I call my shrink as I watch him walk away.

  “Hello, Sami,” Linda answers trying to sound happy to hear my voice.

  “I just saw him and he booty called me. He like legit just asked if I wanna hang out again.”

  “I told you this before, you need to either be honest with him about your feelings or you need a power shift.”

  “I don’t have feelings. Besides hate, I hate him.”

  “Why are we having this conversation about a guy you have no feelings for then? Why have we been having these conversations about him for years, if he’s no one to you?”

  “Continue.” I sigh.

  “If you want to be honest with him, yourself, and me, you’ll tell him you like him and be a big girl and explain why you were angry and how his actions made you feel. Be vulnerable and put yourself out there. You never do that. You’re miserable being single, but you never lower the guards and let guys in. You say you don’t want to date but it’s clear you do.”

  “And if I don’t want to admit any of that?” There’s no way I’m being vulnerable.

  “Then you should think about the fact that you like to be in charge and you’re not, he is. He played you last so he held the control last. There has to be a shift. You have to get the control back or you won’t ever be relaxed with him. You’re clearly bothered by this young man’s ability to disassociate himself from you, even while engaging in sexual encounters. Most likely since you aren’t able to do that yourself.”

  “I know all of this, Linda, but I don’t know how to use it. I need practical application here.”

  “You ask him out, not for sex obviously. You choose the time and the place and the conditions with which you hang out with this young man, and the power will shift back into your hands. If he wants sex, you hold the cards. You choose no sex so you flirt but don’t let him know that. You act sexy and make him think you might give him sex
and then don’t. You walk away and leave him wanting more and bam!—you’re in control again.”

  “Genius.”

  “Nope, worst advice I’ve given out all year but it’s the sad truth.” She sighs.

  “No one cares about your conscience, Linda.” I hang up and tap my phone against my lip, watching him leave the store with his purchase as I come up with a plan.

  Chapter Eleven

  A sad boner and a heavy heart

  Matt

  Watching the game clip for the tenth time I still don’t see what the assistant coach is talking about. The other team’s defense has no holes or aggression. They skate fast and flawlessly, regardless of being beasts. They anticipate the pass, always being where they need to be. Half their damned team is Canadian so they probably all know each other. No wonder they play well together.

  “A Miss Sami Ford is waiting for you in the parlor, sir.” Benson enters the doorway, interrupting my thought process.

  “What?” I pause the game, certain I misheard him. “Who?”

  “Sami Ford.” His old face mocks me more than any words ever could.

  “Are you taking the piss? Did Charles put you up to this?”

  “Possibly. You’ll never know if you don’t go to the parlor.” He winks and leaves the room.

  I swallow hard and drop the remote on the couch.

  She’s here?

  Why?

  “Shit!” I jump up, checking my armpits for at least a trace of deodorant and make a run for the parlor, skidding on the marble foyer and pausing, getting my game face on.

  My stomach aches, reminding me that last time I saw this girl she acted like she might murder me.

  Not that I blame her.

  I’m an idiot.

  I clear my throat and stand tall as I enter the doorway, trying too hard to be cool. I exhale as I see her and not some cruel prank by the evil Englishmen in my life.

  I take several deep breaths, forcing my heart to slow down. “Hey.” I hope I look confused and not constipated.

  She raises an eyebrow from where she’s sitting in my mother’s favorite white Queen Anne chair in the corner. “Hey?”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” She stands up, revealing a knee-length trench coat and some very fucking high-heeled boots. Only an inch of leg shows between the black boots and tan coat.

  I almost tear my gaze from her and look up, just to thank God for this moment.

  But her facial expression doesn’t quite match the stripper outfit she’s wearing. She walks toward me, getting close enough that I can smell the delicious scent of her perfume and skin.

  “Are you okay?” My fingers tingle, desperate to hold her in my arms, but she still has that weird look on her face, the one indicating she might smile or murder me but hasn’t decided yet.

  “I wanted to ask you what you wanted to do”—she pauses and steps closer—“but I didn’t have your cell phone number.”

  “What do you mean?” I’m lost, so lost. Does she want me to make the first move or is she not here for that? What did I want to do? I can’t even think straight. I wanna fuck, is that an answer?

  “You asked if I wanted to hang out, in Bloomindales. It was like three days ago, remember?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “So?” She smiles wider, her perfect smile. Her teeth glow, they’re so white against her red lipstick. I’ve never seen her in red before. Her usually tanned skin is pale so the contrast is hot. I can totally imagine those red lips around my cock but I need to focus. “What do you want to do?”

  “I don’t know. I just was thinking maybe—” about fucking but I can’t say that since I already messed that up. “Dinner or something?” It’s the lamest thing I’ve ever said.

  “Really?” She tilts her head disappointedly. “I mean, I guess.” I’m praying she opens that jacket and tells me where dinner is, but she doesn’t. She shrugs. “We could do pasta, that place over in Harlem. You obviously like it there, since I saw you there last month.” She blinks innocently.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah, you were with some girl, a brunette.”

  “My cousin, Harriette. She’s from Kentucky.” I don’t care who I was with, who was she with? Carson said she isn’t seeing anyone.

  “Cousin.” She blushes and glances down. “I was there with Natalie, the blonde I’m always with. It’s great pasta. Anyway, when should we go?” She looks sexy being sweet. But she looked sexy being crazy too. She’s just sexy.

  “Wednesday night? I play in LA Monday, but I’m home Tuesday.”

  “That’s Christmas Eve.” She laughs.

  “Oh shit, it is.” I’m a moron. “My parents are going to be in Italy for Christmas with my brother, Anthony. I keep forgetting.”

  “You’ll be here alone?” Her tone changes.

  “No, I’ll have Benson. Charles has a wife so he’ll be busy for a few days, but me and Benson will chill.”

  “Is that your staff?” Her sexy red lips toy with a grin.

  “I don’t think of them like that.” I shake my head, hating that snobby way of being. “Anyway, Wednesday obviously doesn’t work. What are you doing for New Year’s?” I can’t help but grin. “Maybe there’s a—”

  “Don’t say it!” She cuts me off.

  “What?”

  “You were going to say wet tee shirt contest that I could win.” Her face flushes.

  “I wasn’t, I swear.” I can’t fight the laugh. I was totally going to say wet tee shirt contest. “I was going to say maybe there’s a movie or something.” I laugh harder.

  “A movie? Liar.” Her eyes narrow, which is intense because she has really smoky eyes. It’s like being stared down by the devil herself.

  “I swear, I never thought of it.” I try to get ahold of myself. “Forget dinner and a movie. Let’s do something else.” I work at seeming serious.

  “Okay. You think on that and let me know.” She takes a step back, her eyes darting to the door. “I do actually need to get going though. I only came over to ask that.” She pulls out a piece of paper. “Here’s my number but only use it if you think of something more fun than dinner or a movie.” She hands it to me but doesn’t let go right away. “It’s not to Bloomingdale’s or Nordstrom, I swear.”

  Her tiny hand gets swallowed by mine as I reach over with my other and pull her to me. She jerks back, leaving the paper in my hand, and freeing herself from my grip.

  “I’ll talk to you later.” She brushes past me, leaving her scent all over my mom’s parlor.

  “Wait!” I grab her arm and spin her around on her heels, and end up catching her as her ankles sort of twist in the huge boots.

  “What are you doing?” She stumbles to her feet and pulls out of my arms.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” She is different suddenly, there’s an expression of worry in her eyes.

  “Everything.” I don’t know where to start so I go right for the beginning. “I pretended I didn’t know you in London. I didn’t want to scare you, you were alone on the street, and when I saw you I was worried. I knew who you were from a mile away, and I knew you were dating Drew. When you didn’t recognize me, I didn’t want to make it weird. So I played your game of not telling names. And I didn’t want to make it awkward in the club with everyone else there when we saw each other again. You didn’t say hi to me or act like you knew me so I took my cue from you.” Everything just blasts from me in the least cool way possible.

  “You’re making it weird now.” She scowls but only for a second before she softens again. “But you’re right. I want to make peace too. So I’m sorry for overreacting about it. It just felt sneaky like you were trying to trick me. And in the club you made it seem like you didn’t know me, and I assumed it was because people were there.”

  “I wasn’t, I swear.”

  “Okay.” She bites her lip but something is definitely bugging her. “I really do have to go though.”
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  “No.” My eyes lower to the coat and I realize she didn’t wear it here for me. She’s meeting someone else. I take one stride closer, wrapping my arms around her waist and jerking her against my abs. “Stay.”

  “No.” She doesn’t lift her gaze to meet mine. She just shakes her blonde head. “I can’t.”

  I slide a finger under her chin and tilt her face. “Please.”

  “No.” She lifts onto her tiptoes and plants a mushy kiss with a heap of lip gloss on my cheek. “I’m not the person I accidentally led you to believe I am.” She lowers herself and pulls out of my embrace, walking out of my parlor and sight. “Goodnight!” she shouts back.

  I contemplate running after her and forcing her to stay but all my thoughts have a creepy hostage vibe to them. I want to make her stay so I can explain better—tell her I like her. I don’t want her to meet the person she’s going to meet, but I have no right to make her stay here.

  She’s probably going on a date with some fuck who gets to touch her. I can’t even imagine what’s under that trench coat. Actually, I can.

  Shit!

  I walk over and slump in the Queen Anne chair, lifting my phone to my ear as I press a name.

  “Seriously, cuz, I’m winning Pong. What do you want?” Bev, Harriette’s sister, answers the phone gruffly.

  “She just showed up in a trench coat, bare legs, and stilettos. She asked me out on a date, kissed my cheek, but nothing else. I think she has another date after coming here.”

  “Who?”

  “Sami Ford.”

  She pauses. “Sami Ford just showed up at your house unannounced?”

  “Yes!”

  “Was she dolled up in those high heels and trench coat?”

  “As fuck.” I can barely breath and my dick is so hard I’m scared for it. And not just because I’m talking to my cousin.

  “Wow.”

  “What does that mean?” I’m lost.

  “You just got the revenge play for the backseat bang. Did you try asking her out again but like a gentleman?”