Puck Love

by Carmen Jenner

  “Okay. Well, when you’re done being irrational and want to talk to me like an adult, I’ll be at home. I’ll see you in the morning at six. Try to look presentable. We can’t have you reeking like a wino the second day of your comeback.”

  “Lock up when you leave,” I say, as I snag the bottle off the counter and head to my bedroom. I climb under the covers, swig straight from the lip and fight like hell not to cry. It doesn’t work. The tears come thick and fast until I’m choking on them, struggling for breath. All I want to do is call him, and I have to remind myself why that’s a bad idea. The truth is, apart from Lana and my label telling me Van Ross is no good for my image, I can’t think of a single reason why he’s not. And even now, after all the interviews today, the damage control, the smack on the wrist from my label, and my career in the toilet, I can’t think of a single reason why I should have listened to anyone but my heart.

  It’s seven a.m. when we touch down. There’s a text from the coach on Eli’s phone. It says to come to the rink as soon as we land. We pick up Eli’s car from the airport parking and drive straight to the rink. We don’t even stop for coffee first, which is a damn shame because I could use one before Coach chews my ass out.

  When we walk into the rink, it’s dark, save for the light from Coach’s office. I rap on the door, and he yells, “Get the fuck in here already.”

  He looks like he’s baying for blood. “Sit the fuck down.”

  We don’t need to be told twice. Eli sits in the chair, and I take the one on the other side of the room, dragging it in front of his desk until I’m beside my wingman. “Coach, he doesn’t need to be here. This was all my idea.”

  “The hell he doesn’t.”

  “It was my—”

  “Ross, shut the fuck up. I asked Boucher here to keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t flee the country, and what the hell does he do? Go along for the ride? Fuck me! It’s like trying to herd cats with you boys. You two need to seriously quit the fucking around and get your heads in the game. I got Gagnon asking me to trade the both of you.”

  I gulp. Eli leans forward in his seat. “But you’re not, right?”

  “No, Boucher, I’m not trading you—either of you—but I will. If you don’t get your heads on straight, I’ll trade you both so fast you won’t have time to grab your nuts before I cut ’em off and hang them from my rear-view mirror like a pair of fluffy dice. Are we clear?”

  I nod, and say somberly, “We won’t let you down, Coach.”

  “Yes, you will. I have no doubt about that. But you’re good for this team, both of you. Sure, you’re hot-headed and too quick to throw down the gloves, and come on, punching Gagnon in the face? What the fuck was that? If it ever gets out that there’s animosity between the team captain and his best players, other teams are going to exploit that. You two gotta quit thinking with your dicks.”

  “Yes, Coach,” Eli and I say as one.

  “Now Boucher, get the fuck out. I need to talk to Ross alone.”

  Eli shoots me a wary look, but he doesn’t say anything as he stands and leaves the room. I have no doubt he’s standing on the other side of the door eavesdropping anyway.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Ross? You hide a damn country superstar in your house, tear my office apart when she leaves—which you’re paying for, by the way—and then you get into it with your team captain and fly to Nashville overnight for some girl? Just what the fuck are you thinking? I thought you lived for the game, son.”

  “I do.”

  “Yeah, well it sure as fuck don’t seem like it.”

  “I . . .” I pause and rub my chest as if I could ease the ache that’s been there since Stella left, and then it dawns on me. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I’ve never been willing to sacrifice my career for the love of a woman. Jesus. Fuck. Love. “I love her, Coach.”

  “Jesus Christ. You can’t love her. You’ve known her what, a week?”

  “Three.”

  “Three. Okay, great. And how many other lasting relationships have you had?”

  I swallow hard. “None.”

  “So, what makes this one any different? What makes her so special that you’d jeopardize your career, a career you’ve worked for since you were six years old?”

  “It doesn’t matter anyway. She turned me down.”

  He sighs and looks at the wall with the signed prints of his previous Crushers captain holding the Stanley Cup above his head. “You see that trophy?”

  I nod. “Yes, Coach.”

  “You wanna know what it feels like to hold it? To feel its weight in your hands?”

  “That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” I say adamantly.

  “Then forget Stella Hart. Focus on getting that injury out of the way and getting back on the damn ice. And for the love of god, Ross, no more impromptu trips to Nashville. Got me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now get the fuck outta here. You may be injured, but you and Boucher can still skate suicides. Get your gear on.”

  I nod and leave, running into Eli in the hall. “Dude, suicides? You fucking owe me.”

  Yeah, I owe him. I also want to hold him down and set fire to the hair on his nut sack for not talking me out of going to Nashville.

  Next week, training sucks. I’m given the all clear by the doc to hit the ice, but Coach’s three-game suspension is still in play. This means I have to train extra hard to keep up. Emmett stays with Mom because it means he’s closer to Sadie, and the cabin is quiet. Too fucking quiet. So damn quiet that I hold a party after the game. It’s mostly just for players, but as with any hockey party, it’s packed with bunnies. Several of the girls I’ve fucked in bathrooms, cars, and empty hallways are in attendance. They slip in and out of the hot tub in their skimpy bikinis, walk around my damn house dripping wet and next to naked, and I don’t give a shit. I also don’t care for any of it, so I make my way upstairs to my bedroom, and I slip into a hot shower. When I come out completely naked, Veronica—a bunny with black hair, ruby red lips and skin so creamy white she turns all pink when you fuck her—is occupying my bed. She’s naked.

  “I locked that door,” I slur, indicating to the door in question.

  She shrugs. “I’m handy with a lock-pick.”

  “And I’m not in the mood.”

  “Is it about that country singer? Because she is dumb as fuck. If you came to Nashville looking for me, I’d drop everything and suck your dick right there in the middle of my driveway.”

  My dick stirs, despite my revulsion. “Yeah, well that’s what makes you not her.”

  “Oh please, she’s a virgin. Or did you pop that cherry?” She climbs off the bed and moves toward me, her hips swaying rhythmically. “Either way, I’d be willing to bet it’s not like fucking a woman who knows what she’s doing.”

  She drops to her knees, and involuntarily, my hand threads in her hair. I’m not wearing any clothes, so there’s nothing to stop her, and she wraps her hand around me and takes my semi-hard dick in her mouth. I groan. My cock likes the sensation an awful lot, but there’s something wrong. This doesn’t feel right. I want to fuck this girl. I wanna pound the shit out of her and fuck her mercilessly in a way that I never could with Stella, but I don’t want her. I don’t want to bury myself inside her. I want Stella, and Veronica is part of the reason I can’t have her.

  It took me a while to figure out what Stella was talking about last time we met, but Ronnie here had been one of the bunnies who had spilled all on live radio about NHL players and their voracious sexual appetites. I’d been one of the players that they’d talked about. My agent threw a shit fit, and two of my endorsements almost walked.

  I jerk away and knock her off her stripper heels in the process. I pick up her shit from off my floor and pull her to her feet, shoving the clothes at her. “Get the fuck out of my house.”

  “Oh my god, you’re throwing me out?”

  “Yeah, I’m throwing you out. Fuck off.”

&
nbsp; “Asshole.”

  I want to call her a bunch of names in response, but I don’t, because it’s true, I am an asshole. I step out onto the landing and above the noise, I shout as loud as I can, “Get the fuck out of my house, all of you!”

  Eli glares up at me from his position on my couch in the den. He has a bunny on his lap, and I’m pretty sure his hands are in her panties. I stalk back into my room, and hear him telling everybody, “All right, party’s over.”

  I slam my door behind me and toy with the lock, but it’s fucked. So, I do something really stupid in my inebriated state and slide my dresser that weights a ton across the floor in front of it, barricading myself in. My shoulder aches, and I’m sure it’s going to hurt like fuck in the morning, but my heart’s hurting like fuck right now. I climb into bed and snatch my phone off the dresser. No messages, but then it’s not like I expected her to call. She still doesn’t even have my goddamn number. Unless she’s opened my Facebook message, but the ballbuster probably controls that aspect of her life, too, and would have no doubt deleted it.

  Instead, I scroll through my photos and find the one of her sleeping on my couch. I hadn’t noticed before but there’s one of me there, too. The time and date stamp tell me it was taken on the same day. It’s of me. Obviously, Stella took this, which means she saw the photo of her and didn’t delete it. I swipe back to the image of her, and jack it three fucking times while I stare at her face and wish it was her mouth wrapped around my cock instead of my hand.

  Fuck this. Fuck me. Fuck her. And fuck feeling like shit for almost screwing a puck bunny when all I am to Stella is a mistake.

  Fuck Stella Hart.

  One month later

  Shoving down the first strains of panic, I climb out of the limo and wave to the fans standing around the street. Lana ushers me along inside the tented walkways toward the reporters for interviews. I’d rather cut off my own ear right now than listen to their questions, but I know that isn’t how the game is played. So, I bolster my courage and plaster on a fake smile, licking my teeth to make sure there’s no blood red lipstick on them before I step up to the long line of photographers.

  “Stella, over here!”

  “Stella, to the right.”

  “Show us that gorgeous smile.” A thousand flashes go off, and a hundred voices all clamor alongside them, but one question comes out a little louder than the rest. “Stella, where’s Van Ross tonight?”

  My smile falters, and I glance at Lana waiting off to the side. Her head snaps up from her phone. Typically, photographers don’t ask questions unless it’s, “Can we have a shot without your date?” The questions come later when you enter the snake pit full of reporters looking to get the scoop, so I’m momentarily stunned. I’m also furious. This is supposed to be my night.

  Likely emboldened by his peer, another cameraman asks if Van and I are dating. One more asks if Van’s meeting me inside and ditching the red carpet altogether. I glance at Lana again, who’s shaking her head as if to tell me not to respond, but I can’t let this go. If I do, there’s going to be a hundred magazine covers tomorrow morning fresh off the presses with my forlorn-looking face on it. Instead, I straighten, plaster on that smile I’ve gotten so good at faking, and say, “My guess is that he’s handing the Philadelphia Flyers their asses on the ice. Of course, he and I aren’t dating, so you’d have to ask him.”

  I give the photographers all one final toothy grin and walk away, even though I’m supposed to stop at intervals along the carpet for the next ten minutes. Once we head inside the tent, E! News is up first. Those people have been good to me, so though I don’t feel like answering more questions about Van damn Ross, I head over and do my bit.

  “We are back, and look who’s just joined us on the red carpet? It’s country’s sweetheart, Stella Hart.” The host leans in, her huge lollipop head almost colliding with mine as we air-kiss. “So good to see you this evening.”

  “Hi, how y’all doin’?” I give the camera a little wave.

  “You look stunning. Who are you wearing, Stella?”

  “Oh, thank you so much. This is from LaBourjoisie.”

  “Absolutely gorgeous. And you’re up for five nominations tonight.”

  I nod. “I am.”

  “What’s that like? I mean, you’ve been at this game so long. I have to wonder when they announce the nominees, is it ever just, ‘Oh, there’s another one?’”

  “No,” I say with a laugh. “No, it’s really an honor. I mean every time you see your name on that list you pinch yourself, you know? I think when you start to expect it, maybe that’s when you need to go back to your roots and evaluate why you’re here.”

  “Is that what you did in Banff, Alberta? Reevaluated why you were here?”

  My grin slips. “Something like that.”

  “And let’s talk about Van Ross. I mean, hockey players. Girls, can I get an amen?” she says to the camera. “But seriously, what’s it like to spend several weeks hiding out with hockey hunk Van Ross in his Rocky Mountain home?”

  I give a nervous laugh because if I don’t, I’ll likely start crying. “It was an experience.”

  “So, any plans for the future? Will you be heading back to Canada anytime soon?”

  “No. Van is just a friend, and he and I are right where we need to be.”

  “Those Canadians are pretty friendly, huh? I mean, I saw those pictures of him completely naked. How you stay just friends with that is beyond me.”

  “Well, he’s a hockey player, so I think they’re pretty used to baring all.”

  “There you have it, boys. Stella Hart is still single.”

  I give an awkward smile. “Sure am.”

  “What about Logan? I noticed he’s not here tonight, do you have anything you’d like to tell us on the subject, or something you’d like to say specifically to women who’ve gone through an abusive relationship?”

  “Er . . . I can’t comment on anything in relation to Logan and that situation, but I just want to say that I’m so grateful to everyone for reaching out to me to show their support.”

  “Well, thanks for joining us, Stella. Have a great night, and good luck.”

  “Thank you so much.” I smile and walk away. I can’t even wait for the outro, and as I take several steps toward Lana, she glares at the reporter.

  “That was not okay.”

  The reporter’s thin painted mouth twists in a frown. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re gonna be,” Lana says, “I’ll be chatting to your boss. This is the last interview we’ll do with E!”

  There are still several other reporters to talk to, but I can’t. I’m two damn seconds away from bursting into tears, and having the whole world witness it. It’s one thing to lie to him, to the reporters, and the world, but I can’t lie to myself. I’m crazy in love with him. I’m so far gone there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it because dating Van Ross is the absolute worst thing for my career, or so I keep hearing. He’s a hockey player, for god’s sake, and I can’t date a man who’ll sleep with anything that moves. No matter how much I might want him, no matter how much I might love him, I can’t be with Van Ross. But I can’t seem to forget him either, and therein lies the problem.

  I’m head over heels for a hockey hunk who’s bound to break my heart, even though he’s in another country. This is why I don’t let people in—because I’m better off on my own.

  One month later

  December twenty-third, I’m geared up for our last game before the Christmas break. I’m ready to hit the ice, but this is my first game in Nashville since the season started, and I’m wondering how I managed to avoid it until now. With my four-game suspension and my shoulder taking another hit in Dallas two weeks ago, this is my first time facing off against the Preds this season. Coach gave me a pretty stern talking to before we left Calgary last night, and I told him he had nothing to worry about, but I lied. All I can think about is her. I didn’t know until the bus ride to the stadium that
Stella would be singing the national anthems. I was pretty sure the world was going to have something to say about that. After those red-carpet interviews at the CMA awards, there’s already been talk on TMZ and in the tabloids about the two of us meeting up in Nashville, but it’s all bullshit. I’m here to play a game and win. So when I take to the ice, the lights dim, and a commentator says, “Please welcome Stella Hart to the ice to sing the national anthems,” my chest gives a pathetic little flutter, but when the cameras pan to her and then across my face before showing the rest of the players with their hands pressed to their hearts, I stare ahead as blank-faced and as emotionless as possible.

  When she sings “Oh Canada,” I’m taken back to the night in my living room, where she’d saluted my dick with the national anthem. I wince and remember too late that my face is likely being telecasted into every house between here and the middle of Australia right now. I exhale and clear my mind, and when the puck drops, I’ve forgotten all about Stella Hart.

  Once I leave the ice, I’m spirited away through the back corridors of the stadium. I’ve grown pretty fond of hockey since I met Van. I haven’t missed a Crushers’ televised game since, so the fact that I’m going to miss this chance to see him play live actually hurts. But I can’t stay. Not with the cameras—not with everyone following my every move, my every expression.

  Security leads me out to a waiting SUV. Lana and I climb inside and are driven away from the arena. When we’re on the road, Lana turns to me. “You could always watch from the box, you know? We could go back.”

  I shake my head. I just want to go home.

  “Well, why don’t we go over the notes for your interview for Nashville Mornings?”

  “It’s four days away.”

  “Yes, and that gives us four days to prepare.” Lana shoots me a caustic smile.