Puck Buddies

by Tara Brown

  “Right. Those.”

  “We do have them—reenactments that is.” He pauses. “It’s weird seeing it. I guess because my great-great-grandpa was one of the men who died in Kentucky during the war, forced to fight for the Union. He believed in equality for all men, but he wasn’t a soldier.”

  “That’s terrible. At least he wasn’t a racist like everyone else in the South.”

  “They weren’t all racist in the South. My mom’s family in the North pretended they were Union, but they might as well have been from Alabama or Mississippi. They’re still not opposed to slaves, and they don’t care what color. Anyone beneath them should be licking their boots.”

  I want to tell him mine are better but they’re not. “Yeah.”

  “Anyway, my grandpa tried to get out of fighting in the war, but it was made clear that if he wasn’t with them he was against them. Kentucky took a beating being a border state. When he was killed, my great-great-grandma kept the farm going and the kids safe. A couple of years after it was all over, she remarried to a man who had lost his wife. They had a bunch of kids between them so they ended up with fifteen kids. Now the family is huge. Fifteen kids all having, on average, about five kids each is a lot of grandkids. Going down there is like being in a different world, and I’m related to half the town, and it’s not a quaint village. It’s not a bad size.” He smiles.

  “You go there?” I vaguely recall him telling me once he was from Kentucky.

  “I try to go for a couple of weeks in the summers and help on the farm. Keeps me grounded.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “It’s not so bad.”

  “I can’t even imagine working on a farm.”

  “It’s fun. We shoot shit and drive cool equipment and have spoiled-milk fights.” He laughs like he’s reliving a moment. “I can’t wait to go again this summer, once playoffs are over.” He lifts his bruised hands and turns them over. “Remember when you said my hands were rough?”

  “No.”

  “It was the night I carried you guys home.” He laughs.

  “Oh God, I hoped we might never discuss that again.” My face flushes.

  “Well, you did, you said they’re rough. That’s why. Working the farm and playing hockey. It makes my dad crazy. He hates hockey almost as much as he hates that farm. And seeing my calluses drives him nuts.”

  “Your dad hates hockey?” I play dumb but a conversation between him and Carson vaguely rings in my head.

  “Yeah, he’s all about finance and business and making money on the markets and rubbing elbows with the right people. He thinks he did me and my brother a solid by marrying my mom’s family and getting their name to mix with his fortune. He doesn’t see that I could have been a Kentucky farm boy just as easily. I probably still would have played hockey though.”

  “Wait, so you did actually live in Kentucky?” His life is fascinating in the most average way.

  “Can we finish this conversation over food? I’m starved.”

  “Sure.”

  “I have to ask you a serious question first.” He lifts his brows and steps in close, trying to intimidate me with his size. “Tell me the truth, I won’t judge you at all.” He sounds serious.

  “What?” I giggle nervously.

  “Did you really make the lasagna?—because it smells amazing.”

  “Yeah! Oh my God!” My face heats up again as I peek down at the pan. “I can’t lie, I used Rao’s sauce for the tomato part, but I put the whole thing together. Nadia supervised. The chef refused to be in the kitchen with me. She was mad I was even in there at all.” My gaze darts to the dish he brought in, still with the lid on it. “Why? Did you cheat?”

  “No.” He sounds offended. “Of course not. I made it, beaten and battered and bloody and all. It’s called ‘sex in a pan.’ It’s amazing.” He doesn’t sound like he’s messing around.

  “Sex in a pan? Is there sex involved?” I almost wrinkle my nose staring at his face, but I manage to keep that in check.

  “No. Just trust me.”

  “Okay.” I peer back to the pan of lasagna, not sure if it’s been fifteen minutes or not.

  “You have to cut it and put it on the plates.”

  “Thanks.” I tilt my head to the side, hoping he’s joking but annoyed he might think I’m that dumb. “I know that much. I was wondering which knife I would need to cut it with because it’s so cheesy.” The smell is impressive, which is likely attributed to Rao’s sauce and not me at all, but I don’t care. It’s pretty much perfection.

  “A big one.”

  “Okay.” I turn, grabbing a knife from the cutting block, and hover it over the lasagna, a bit worried about doing it.

  “Let me help you.” He walks over, sliding his body up behind me, placing his puffy hand over mine, and controlling where I cut.

  He leans over me, slicing in tiny jerks, pressing his warmth into my back and arms.

  I slide my hand out from under his, letting him keep the knife, and spin, staring up at him. Wincing at the closeness of the injuries and possibly even forcing myself, I lift my hands to his puffy face, tracing the wounds. “They look really painful.” I want to kiss him but this is a bit much.

  Under it all he grins, leaning into me more. “They’re getting less painful by the second.”

  “Really?” I cock an eyebrow and consider just doing it as I’m starting to see him again behind the mask of mayhem. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Deciding I do want a kiss but not if it hurts him more.

  “I’m fine.”

  Taking his word for it, I lift myself onto my tiptoes and brush my mouth against his, kissing cautiously until he drops the knife and wraps himself around me, lifting me in the air. I take it as permission to kiss more, pulling his face down.

  He steps to the side, setting me on the counter next to the warm lasagna pan as his lips crash down on mine. He winces after a second, pulling back. “Not fine. Not even a little.” He steps away from me, lifting a trembling hand to his nose. “Oh shit. That hurt.” He grunts.

  “Oh my God, did I bump it?”

  “There was bumping.” He nods, squinting as water fills his pained eyes.

  “Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I can’t help but laugh. We’re ridiculous.

  “You sound like it.” Even his words sound painful.

  “No, I am. I just can’t believe I nudged your broken nose. You’re a hot mess.”

  “I hit my nose on you, not the other way around.” Matt groans, “Fuck, that hurt.” He shivers like he’s cold, but I think it’s the pain.

  “Why do you do this to yourself?” I mutter.

  “Love of the game?” he asks and laughs, blinking and nodding. “Okay, let’s eat.”

  “Maybe this is God’s way of making us talk.”

  “Maybe.” He grabs the lasagna and carries it to the table which Nadia has set for me.

  When he gets to his seat he wipes his eyes with his napkin. “I didn’t even cry when it happened, but man, that smarted.”

  “Smarted?” I laugh harder, pouring him some of the wine Nadia corked earlier for us.

  “Yes. Sometimes I revert back to a hillbilly. There’s no actual fixing what being in the South breaks.” He serves me some piping hot pasta. I take the cue and dish him up some salad. It’s Cecilia’s Caesar with Parmesan wisps. I love them.

  He breaks off some garlic bread and puts it on my plate before he gets his own.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Confessional Christmas

  Matt

  “Why were you in the South?” Sami asks like she doesn’t get it. Probably because she knows who my mom and dad are; they’re no different than her parents. They wouldn’t be caught dead in the South. “Were your parents there?”

  “I was there with Dad’s family, but my parents didn’t come. My mom would die in the South. The heat alone would be a personal insult to her.”

  “You went alone?”

  “Yeah, Mom and Dad wanted me to h
omeschool so we could travel a lot when I was a kid. Then they wanted us to go to boarding school, which I wasn’t into. My brother was all over it, but I wanted to play hockey. My grandpa took me to a game when I was six, and I wanted to play from then on. So they let me stay with them for my schooling until I was thirteen. Then I billeted out in the Northern schools or stayed at houses my parents bought and staffed.”

  “No way.”

  “Yeah. Benson and Charles came with me everywhere I went from thirteen on, and they took care of me when I was in the city before that.” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t really anymore, but I do wish my younger years had been spent with different parents. At least I always had Gran. I lift my water glass, not wanting to feel sorry for myself. “Happy Christmas Eve, Sami Ford.” I attempt the grin but my face hurts. “I can’t think of a single place I’d rather be than here.” It’s the God’s honest truth.

  “I’m glad you’re here.” She flushes with color. “Thanks for taking me out of my comfort zone.”

  “I’m enjoying you being out of the comfort zone. I think I’ll try to keep you on your toes so you’re just always there.” I pray to the gods of all the holy things she didn’t notice that lame comment I made about why I never have girlfriends. She makes me uncomfortable and I sound like a moron, constantly.

  “Funny.” She sips her wine as I put my glass down and cut into the lasagna. I lift the first bite, a little scared. She’s wrestling with a grin, making the whole experience scarier. There’s a slight chance this is all a ploy, a game, and she agreed to dinner just so she can poison me.

  I gulp and close my eyes, taking the bite in my lips. I chew woodenly for a moment. My throat refuses to swallow, it’s closed and not opening. The flavors burst in my mouth and after a minute I force the masticated food down my esophagus. “Good.” I try to smile.

  “Really?” She takes her bite as though she waited for me to eat. “Oh my God, thank you, Jesus. It is good.”

  I relax and take another bite, actually enjoying it.

  The sauce is perfect, the cheese is salty and crisp on top, and the noodles are cooked just right. I nod after a moment and grin, certain I have spinach teeth. “It’s perfect. And excellent choice on Rao’s sauce.” I drag the bread through the sauce that’s spilling onto the plate and moan as I take the next bite. “So tell me about you. What don’t I know about the infamous Sami Ford? What isn’t in the papers or being whispered at all the ridiculous parties we attend?” I need to crack this can open.

  She takes another bite, contemplating the question. “I like scary movies.”

  “I knew that.”

  “I like cats.”

  “Okay, we’re going to have to dig a little deeper. Everyone knows you like to drink but not do drugs and you like cats and you’re perfect. Show me the cracks. Get uncomfortable.” I say exactly the thing I’ve wanted to since we met, “I need to see behind the curtain.”

  “Behind the curtain?” Sami swallows hard, maybe contemplating what is actually behind her curtain. “I don’t know where to start. You know when you were a kid and you had a personality and every time you showed it to your parents or friends you were punished, until you finally sort of fit into the void they wanted?”

  “I do.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to overcome. There’s a smartass bad girl in me who rebels against everything, but only the things I know I’ll bounce back from. I don’t do drugs or take anything too far. Not anymore. But that person is my armor. She’s the wall.” She gives me a look. “Does that make sense?”

  “Perfect.” I don’t want to say too much, this is like striking oil.

  “I never knew our way of living, with our parents ignoring us and having servants take care of us and being alone all the time surrounded by stuff instead of love, was wrong. I thought everyone lived the way we do. It was my normal.” Her words punch me in the gut.

  I don’t want to interrupt this so I sit back, listening, maybe more intently than I ever have.

  “Until I went to Nat’s house for a slumber party when I was little and saw how normal people live. It’s little things like her dad whistling while he made waffles. Or how he asked us questions like he wanted to know what we liked and what we wanted to be when we grew up. He wanted to know us and see us. He knew all her favorites. I had no idea life was like that for some people until that moment. And then I kind of wanted it.”

  She laughs and glances at her plate, shaking her head and sounding bitter when she speaks, “I still wanted a Fendi bag and a yacht but I wanted that too. So I stayed with her all the time. We had movie nights and we snuck things, stole from her parents because there were rules about things she was allowed. Like sugar after ten at night and movies that were rated R. Her parents say no, still. And she listens.”

  “It’s insane seeing it, isn’t it? Normalcy. No one understands how relaxing normal is to us, just like how we won’t ever understand how stressful it is for them. They don’t have money all the time. Sometimes they have to go without something because they’re short on cash. And lots of times they only buy the things they truly need. They look at every price and calculate before buying. It’s like an alien planet.”

  “I know.” She gets excited. “Nat’s mom talks to herself when she’s at the store, adding up prices and putting things back. Sometimes she would drive us so far to buy food from markets I’d never seen that I thought we were going on a trip. Then I’d see the market and be disappointed. Money is such a big deal to them, but if you try to give it to them they won’t take it. They’d rather suffer. Like our money isn’t any good.” Her voice trails off there.

  I almost laugh at that. “Oh God, no. Middle-income people don’t take charity. My grandpa had to sell some land a couple of years ago to pay something off and my dad ended up being the one to buy it in secret because Gramps wouldn’t take the cash from him. And Dad didn’t want to see the land separated.”

  “Yeah, I’ve paid for things Nat and her parents have no idea about. They think they got a deal but I paid most of it.”

  “What’s your favorite part of being around them?” I chuckle as I take a huge bite of bread coated in sauce.

  “Conversation at parties. When they honestly don’t know who I am and they’re just talking, it’s real. They talk about crazy stuff, not trying to impress anyone or compare lives or fortunes. They have real topics: death and birth and pain and joy. You can just sit and listen and wonder how hard it must be to always worry about things. But at the same time, how cool it is to have worries that aren’t shallow and selfish? I actually stress about being seen in public doing anything beyond looking like a statue because I hate the paparazzi. I worry about people following me and about being kidnapped for ransom ever since I got rid of the bodyguards. But at the same time, I doubt I did get rid of them; I think he just has them hidden better, my dad I mean. He worries about me being taken because of how it’ll look, not ‘cause I’ll get hurt. He’s always worried about how I look to everyone, even though he’s not looking at me himself. He doesn’t see me. And he doesn’t want to. They want the shell, the mold they gave me to fit into. They hate it when I get all teenage girl on them.” She takes a small bite, obviously as uncomfortable as hell.

  I’m uncomfortable too so I don’t say anything, hoping she’ll continue to wow me with her depth.

  “We’re spoiled and snobby and shallow and vain. And that’s how we’re supposed to appear. No one wants us to be anything else. We have to date right, marry right, live in the right areas, and have the right jobs. We need to hang with the right people having fun, but not reckless fun. Borderline reckless fun. We want people to talk about us but not too much. My dad has shares in clubs and bars and clothing and handbag lines, and he expects me to promote them. He makes a fortune off the lip gloss I use when everyone’s watching. He thinks I don’t know but I do. He leaves lists and samples of products for me to Instagram and assumes I’m clueless as to why. I know he has a fin
ancial interest in them. I don’t even care, I just wish he’d talk about that instead of acting like he’s doing someone else a favor.”

  She puts down the fork and grabs her wine, biting her lip for a second as if fighting the tears in her eyes. “That’s as real as I get, Matt. I don’t have secrets. My life is all out there in the world, plus the mistakes I haven’t made. Everyone knows all about what’s under the rocks; they don’t even need to lift them.”

  “Like rehab,” I say after I take a big gulp of wine for bravery.

  “Right. I’ve never stepped into a rehab clinic except to see a friend once. I’ve never been. But the magazines all say I’ve been so many times. Same as the abortion scandal two years ago that didn’t happen.”

  “I didn’t hear about that one.” I can’t believe she never went to rehab. It makes me wonder what else is bullshit.

  “They make up shit all the time and that girl is the only one my dad cares about. Whatever she’s doing makes or breaks it for me.”

  “I know exactly what you mean. To be totally honest, I thought you were in rehab.” I drop it, hoping she understands some of my apprehension about her.

  “Nope. Not even once.”

  “Yeah, well like you said, they make up their own stories. Watching your life in the news makes me nervous. For us both.” I feel sick that I’ve judged this girl so harshly. She’s not any different than I am. She’s alone for Christmas too. And this isn’t the first time.

  We eat and laugh and talk and it’s real. Just like I prayed it would be.

  When we finish the meal and I contemplate kissing her, she gives me a funny look from across the table.

  “Stay.” She isn’t asking.

  “Where?” I can’t imagine she means stay the night here.

  “Here, with me. We can sleep in separate rooms, but stay and do Christmas morning with me.” She blinks a couple of times.

  I have no defense for her pleading stare. “Are you serious?” I don’t know if she’s thinking this through. My eyes flicker on the wine bottle to see how much she’s had. “Christmas morning?” I ask when I see it’s still almost full.