Puck Love

by Carmen Jenner

  He shrugs his good shoulder. “It’s okay; I deserved it. I guess I’m not really ready for him to grow up.”

  “He’s twenty-one, Van. He’s already grown up.”

  “I know, but this opens a whole new door I’m not sure any of us are ready for.”

  “Come on, you can take on the Senators in the Stanley Cup, but you can’t deal with the idea of your brother having a girlfriend?” I give him a look that says, “Don’t be a damn baby.” Van shakes his head as he passes. “It’s not the worst thing. To fall in love, I mean.”

  “I know, country.” He climbs the stairs and doesn’t look back. “I know.”

  An hour later, I’m bundled up head to toe, and I have one of Van’s huge cable-knit scarves wrapped around my neck so only a small amount of my face peeks through from beneath it and the knit cap covering my head, or, as Van would call it—a tuque. I’m wearing the glasses again, because I like the reaction I get from the hockey hottie when I put them on.

  Van, too, wears a tuque, but he doesn’t bother with the rest of the disguise, and I guess it’s because while he may not live in Banff, he lives just outside it, and he’s at home here. The barista at the coffee shop seems to be on friendly terms with him, and they embrace in one of those guy handshake-hugs that I never really understood. Van introduces him as Blake. He has this cute surfer vibe going on, and he’s Australian, which is weird, but Van had mentioned half-naked Aussies taking over the ski slopes here as if it were a frat party, so I guess it’s not too much of a stretch to see one of them working as a barista. Blake holds his fist out, and Emmett bumps it with his own.

  After we order, we sit near the windows and take in the view. Banff is gorgeous. Cold, but so beautiful with the street lit up against the grey day, and the pristine snow on the mountain behind the town. There are boutiques, tea shops, and a surprising number of restaurants for such a small community. A few minutes into our not coffee date, Emmett gets up and takes a seat at a table nearby. I grin at Van, but I’m only met with nonchalance.

  Blake brings our orders over when they’re ready, and I lift one of the warm choc-chip cookies from the plate and take a bite. Several long minutes later, Sadie and her mother walk in. I still have the scarf firmly wrapped around my face, and even though it’s really warm in the coffee shop with a steaming cup of white cocoa in my hands and the fireplace roaring nearby, I keep bundled up because I’m terrified of being spotted. Van stands to greet them and Emmett does, too, but I remain seated and give them both a smile and a little wave. I’m afraid to engage any more than that. I know how quickly these things snowball, and it only takes one person to tell a friend that they’ve seen you, and suddenly there are paparazzi everywhere. I should have stayed at the house, but I had to see this. Also, Van and Emmett can be idiots sometimes, and I didn’t want Sadie to feel overwhelmed.

  After a quick chat, Mrs. Clark hurries off with Van’s assurance that we’ll take good care of her only daughter. Emmett and Sadie walk towards the counter, and I sip my cocoa and use the mug to warm my hands. I notice Van’s eyes glued to his brother, so I whack him in the arm. It hurts. I suspect it hurts me more than him, because the man is apparently made from steel and other . . . hard . . . things.

  I stand, collect my drink and cookie, and head to a sofa at the back of the room, closer to the fireplace. Van watches me with a confused expression, but it isn’t long before he follows. “Stop watching him like a hawk,” I say when he sits down, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. Sadie throws several nervous glances our way.

  “I’m not.”

  “Yes, yes you are,” I complain. “You’re intimidating them.”

  “I’m just being cautious.” His gaze slides back to Emmett and his date.

  “No, you’re being clueless.”

  He frowns at me. “Clueless?”

  “You know, it isn’t the worst thing for him to grow up and have a life of his own.”

  Van scoffs and waves that away with a lazy hand gesture. “I am not clueless.”

  “Whatever, hockey hero. You just keep telling yourself that.” I roll my eyes and sip my cocoa, and for a while we’re both quiet as we watch the snow fall outside the window.

  Sometime later, when the warmth from the fire and the coziness of the plush couch are lulling my anxiety about being discovered into a deep sleep, Van leans in and murmurs, “I wasn’t clueless about that kiss.”

  “Shut up, Van.”

  “I’m not clueless about you wanting me either.” He grins, and when I don’t say anything to contradict him, the smarmy bastard nods. “That’s what I thought. You won this round, country, but I’m just warming up, and you’re gonna regret taking me on as your opponent.”

  “Whatever, Ross. I could take you in my sleep.”

  “I bet you could.” His smile is so wide that the flash of teeth is blinding. “I bet you could take it all.”

  “Oh my god!” I throw the rest of my cookie at him. He picks it up from his lap and makes a big show of licking it slowly all over before taking a bite. I squeeze my thighs together and swallow hard. I have never before been jealous of baked goods, but with the way he closes his eyes and lets out a low lascivious moan, by god, do I wish I were that cookie right now.

  “You’re sure about this?” Stella bites her lip as she stares across the cab of the beast. She’s so fucking sexy with those glasses on. My dick is so hard it could pound nails. Goddamn, do I wish she wasn’t a virgin, because it makes things super awkward when all I can think about is her tits spilling out of her shirt while she leans over to suck my cock as I fist my hands in her hair. Fuck. I need to stop thinking about all the wicked things her sweet mouth could do, and get my head in the game.

  “Van?”

  “What?” Shit. I casually lay my hands over my crotch to hide my huge fucking boner.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m just . . . distracted.” Am I ever? Fuck. She’s gotta take off those glasses, or I might come right here in the front seat of my car. Luckily, Emmett humming along in the backseat keeps me from losing my shit completely and pulling Stella into my lap.

  “Are you nervous about getting back on the ice?”

  “Baby, I was born with ice in my veins. I’m never nervous about getting back in the rink.”

  She smiles and sinks her teeth into her bottom lip. It’s hot as fuck. “Well, I’m excited to see you play.”

  “Practice isn’t the same as watching a game,” I admit. “We might work hard and come out sweaty hot messes, but sometimes there’s a bit of standing around while waiting for your turn to practice drills.”

  “And you’re sure no one is going to recognize me?”

  “We’ll sit just behind the boards, far away from everyone else.” Emmett leans forward and rests his arm on the back of my seat. “That’s what I normally do.”

  “You’ll be fine, country,” I say and open my door. She pulls the ball cap down on her head and wraps one of my scarves around her neck. It’s so big it covers half of her face anyway, and I have this insane urge to bop the tip of her nose with my finger, but I don’t, because I really need to get inside, or Coach is gonna tear me a new asshole. I climb out of the beast and meet her at the hood, handing her the keys. She gives me a questioning look. “In case you get made and need to beat a hasty retreat.”

  Stella grips the keys tightly, and the grin she gifts me is huge. “Thanks.”

  “Just promise to be gentle with her.” I stroke the matte black hood.

  “I promise,” she says in a flirty whisper, and I have to walk away because if not, I’ll have her naked and splayed out in front of me on the hood of my car, and I’m pretty sure Coach would fire me if I had sex in the parking lot of our home arena. With a wave at Em, I head toward the locker rooms.

  Most of the guys are already here, and I make it through the usual ribbing that ensues when you’re forced to sit out a game. Torres cops the same shit too, but he’s fully dressed and ready
to hit the ice. Me? I’m lagging.

  “Jesus, Ross, got too used to sleeping in while we were away, eh?” Eli prods my side with his stick.

  “Aww, did you miss me, Boucher?” I make kissy faces at the man who’s as much a part of my family as my real brother is. “You and Rookie have to share?”

  “Yeah, don’t ever do that to me again. The kid gets the pre-game shits, and the stench? Fuck, me. I’m surprised they didn’t evacuate the whole fucking floor.”

  I laugh and sit down to wrestle with my socks, skates, and shin pads. My shoulder has been killing me since that kiss with Stella. Light as she is, I’m in no fucking position to be lifting anything. I’ve been popping pain pills and trying to hide the agony I’ve been in ever since. Still, with the way she climbed my body like a fucking tree, it was worth it.

  I pull on my shorts and reach for my shoulder pads. Tom Gagnon, bumps into me as he shoves past. “Ah, fuck!”

  Pain radiates up my shoulder and down my chest. I see red and practically charge him, but Eli grips me around the waist and plants me firmly on my ass in my locker. The room is dead silent. “What the fuck, Gagnon?”

  The guy’s a dick—he’s always been a dick, and I’m not the only one to have issues with our captain. He’s pushing forty-one and has a huge chip on his shoulder. He’s got shitty knees. He’s way past his prime, and he knows it. Tom will be the team’s downfall, and none of us understand how Coach hasn’t figured it out yet. “Aww, you gonna go cry to Mommy? Why don’t you take another day off, asshole? Put your feet up while the rest of us carry your weight.”

  “Sure, I’ll do that. Right after you suck my big, sweaty—”

  “Alright, girls, break it up,” Coach bellows, entering the room. His eyes sweep the team and then come to rest on me. “Ross, why the fuck don’t you have your gear on? This is not a vacation, son.”

  “No, Coach. Sorry, Coach.” I throw on my shoulder pads, trying not to wince because the last thing I need is Coach pulling me from the ice today. I can’t sit out another game. I’ll go fucking crazy. Unfortunately for me, I need Eli’s help to suit up properly because I can’t reach the fucking Velcro straps at the back, or the ones that fasten at the arm. Coach watches me like a hawk, and his angry dark gaze tells me he’s not impressed.

  “Jesus Christ,” Coach says. “Ross, you’re out. Go get worked over by a team masseuse. The rest of you, hit the ice.”

  “Coach, come on. I’m fine,” I protest. I practically walk circles around him as I tug on my jersey. “Please? I gotta get back out there.”

  “You had any meds today?”

  “Not one.” It’s a boldfaced lie. He studies me closely, probably waiting for me to crack under his scrutiny.

  “When was your last?”

  “I don’t know, like two days ago?”

  “So if I asked you to piss in a cup right now you’d come back clean?”

  “Go get me a cup,” I say adamantly. Fuck, I hope he doesn’t get a cup.

  “Alright, Ross. Don’t get your panties in a wad. Get your helmet, and get the fuck out there, but be careful. I got my eye on you, kid. I’m not gonna risk my star center because hockey gives you a boner and you’re busting a nut so you don’t get replaced.”

  “I’m good, Coach. I swear.”

  A few minutes later, I hit the ice. God, I’ve missed this—the cool air as it hits your face, the rasping scrape of my blades and stick tearing up the smooth surface, and the smell of the rink, sweat, and ice. I tear around my teammates like a man possessed.

  “Nothing better, man,” Torres shouts as I skate by him.

  I just nod. When Coach blows the whistle for practice drills, Eli skates toward me. “Dude, I thought you were supposed to get worked over?”

  I’m out of breath already, and my shoulder hurts like fuck, but I’m not about to tell him that. “Coach changed his mind.”

  He arches a brow. “You think it’s a good idea?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Yeah, and I know you better than to take what you say at value of face.”

  I laugh. “It’s face value, dick.”

  “Tais-toi, imbécile.” Eli skates past me, shaking his head.

  “You know I don’t speak French, but I’m pretty sure that was you calling me an asshole.”

  “Oui, exactement.” He grins and speeds away.

  We skate drills for the better part of ten minutes, and by then, we’re all sweating and out of breath but smart enough not to show it or Coach might make us do more. We separate into two teams and Eli stops in front of me, spraying ice all over my pads and knees.

  “Nice, fuck face.”

  “Who’s the hot piece of ass sitting with your brother, eh?”

  “She’s not a hot piece of ass,” I snap. Eli grins. Shit. “I mean, she is, but don’t talk about her like that.”

  “Oooh, little protective, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “She a bunny?” He hops about on his skates.

  I roll my eyes. “No.”

  “A hook-up?”

  “No.”

  He frowns. “A possible hook-up?”

  “Goddamn it, why are you so curious?”

  Eli chuckles. “Why are you so cagey?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Bullshit,” he says. “What’s the deal there, man?”

  “Nothing, okay? She’s working with Emmett.” We’re practicing drive and shoot drills, and when Coach blows the whistle I take off before Eli. I shoot him the puck, he snaps it back, and I take my shot at the net. My shoulder seizes, pain radiates down my arm. The puck misses the mark by about three feet. I shoot a quick glance at Coach. He’s glaring at me, because I never miss like this. Maybe in a game, yeah, but not at practice. Fuck. I am so screwed, and I’m gonna need the world’s longest soak in my hot tub after this.

  Eli gives me a pointed look and we join the back of the line. “Working on what?”

  I’m thrown by the direction of his question. I expected him to give me shit about my colossal fuck up, so it takes a beat to realize he’s picking up where we left off. “I don’t know, some speech therapy or something.”

  He’s openly staring at the two of them now with a goofy, puzzled expression on his face. He gives them a wave. I’m tempted to give my brother the finger, which is what I’d usually do, but Stella’s sitting beside him, and I don’t want her to think I’m an ass.

  “And that means she has to attend practice?”

  I shrug my right shoulder. The left hurts like a bitch. “She goes where he goes.”

  “I call bullshit. I’ve known you too long to accept that.” He points his gloved finger at me. “You don’t blush about any woman, ever . . . and you certainly don’t bring them around Emmett. She’s the one you bought that guitar for, isn’t she?”

  “Hey, if you pussies got back to work, we might actually win a game this season,” Gagnon shouts as he skates toward us.

  “Fuck you, Gagnon,” I mutter, too low for Coach to hear, but apparently, I’m not quiet enough to escape my captain’s supersonic ears.

  He gets up in my face and shoves me with a fucking crosscheck. The blow doesn’t seat me on my ass the way I guess he hoped, and despite the pain, I shove back, using my stick the same way he did. “Fucking cock fuck!”

  His grin taunts me. “You gonna cry, Ross?”

  “Fuck you, asshole.”

  “Don’t do it.” Eli tries to pull me back. I throw my stick down. Gagnon’s brow raises, and he smirks. The fuck he did. My gloves come off next. “Ah shit,” Eli mutters.

  Gagnon tosses his stick and throws his gloves, and I charge him. His fist meets my jaw three times, knocking my helmet off. I grab his jersey to hold him close, and raise my fist. I get one clean hit in before the bastard throws another punch, only this time it’s not at my face—it’s my shoulder.

  I crumple like a little girl. My skates sl
ide out from under me, and I hit the ice, hard. My ears ring. My vision blurs. Pain radiates around my body. I go out like a fucking light.

  Emmett is great company. He’s hilarious, especially when Van is on the ice. I’ve never spent time with anyone who has Down syndrome before this. I hadn’t really given much thought to how different my life is from those with a disability, but after meeting Emmett, I realize he’s just like me. Or, he’s just like his brother. They seem to share the same sense of humor. They say exactly what they mean, and I don’t know why, but I just feel lighter around the two of them. Like all of my drama and the crazy that comes with being a celebrity isn’t so important anymore.

  Sitting here with him, watching Van on the ice, it makes me feel like an idiot for running away, and at the same time, I don’t want to leave. I like this rink, I like spending time with Emmett, and I like watching number sixty-nine—the irony isn’t lost on me, either. I’d like to do just that with him. But what I don’t like is seeing one of the members of Van’s team confront him. I can’t hear what the men are saying, but I can feel the tension from halfway across the rink. The other guy gets closer, and shoves Van with his stick, and then all hell breaks loose.

  “What the fuck?” Emmett gets to his feet. He shouts at the men on the ice, but my ears start to ring because Van’s teammate is punching him in the head, and right when it looks as if Van might get his own back, he goes down in a heap. His head smacks off the ice, and the whole rink seems to collectively hold its breath. It all happens so fast. Someone shouts for the medic, and Van is swallowed from my view by several huge bodies crowding around him. I’m on my feet now too, my hand pressed against my mouth, my eyes glued to the scene before us. Another scuffle breaks out, and the teammate who’s been by Van’s side this whole practice punches the brute who took Van down. Emmett and I scurry closer, our noses pressed to the plexiglass, but the wall of hockey players surrounding Van hasn’t moved. A team of people skate across the ice to Van, and block our view.