Puck Love

by Carmen Jenner

  “I just want to be alone.”

  “You’re always alone.”

  “I wonder why,” I snap, and then feel bad because it’s so uncharacteristically like me.

  “Honey, I know you care about him,” she says, but I put my hand up to stop her.

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  Within twenty minutes, we’re pulling up to the front of my house. I climb out of the car, not waiting for my driver to open my door, and I don’t look back when I walk up my porch stairs and through my front door, locking it behind me. I know Lana only has my best interest at heart when it comes to my career, and I respect that, but just for one day I wish she could walk a mile in my shoes. I’m miserable without him. So how can any of this be for the best?

  I go inside and strip off my clothes, leaving the designer jeans and heels I’d worn along with my Preds jersey in a heap on the floor. I grab a tub of ice cream from the freezer and switch on my giant flat-screen in the lounge. And there he is, the handsome face of number sixty-nine, gliding across the ice toward the net. He shoots, the puck flies past the Preds goalie, and the siren sounds. Crushers fans leap to their feet as Van’s perfect face flashes up on my screen.

  I drop the spoon into my carton of ice cream, and my tears trail off my face and fall into the minty goodness with fat, heavy splats. I’m pathetic. I know it, and yet I don’t care because for the first time in two months I was in the same room as Van Ross. My eyes never once met his, but it felt as if my heart stopped beating the entire time.

  Eli falls onto the bed closest to the window. “Dude,” he says, folding his arms under his head. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  Good question. I stand in the small entryway of our suite, my bag slung over my shoulder as I stare at him. I toss my belongings on the other bed. I can’t sit down though. I’m antsy. I feel like shit, which is to be expected after a physical game, but not when we win. “You played one hell of a game, Ross.”

  He’s right. I did. I had three goals and one assist. Eli had the other one, and Gagnon—the douche canoe captain—had the other. He also hogged the puck and took several shots that he could never make, but who’s counting?

  Eli pulls his phone from his pocket as I pace the room. A beat later he says, “Hey, check it out. Those super fans that drove us around the last time we were in Nashville wore our numbers to the game. They tagged us on Instagram. I wonder if Stacey got . . .” Eli trails off, narrowing his eyes on me.

  I’m sweating. More than I usually would this long after a game. My heart jackhammers against my ribs, and both excitement and fear churn in my gut. “I gotta go,” I say, thumbing my hotel key.

  “Oh no, no, no, no.” Eli’s off the bed and attempting to block the door, but I get there quicker.

  “I have to go do . . . something.”

  “Van, no! Think about this, buddy.”

  I shove him away from me. “I have to see her. I need to hear her voice.”

  “How are you gonna get there? It’s not like she lives in downtown Nashville.”

  “I’ll get an Uber.”

  “I don’t like this, man.”

  “Eli, I have to go.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s your funeral. When Coach finds out, he’s gonna fucking kill you.”

  “Cover for me.”

  “Get your ass back here before the bus leaves for the airport.”

  I raise my brows in confusion. “The bus leaves in four days.”

  I don’t even know if Stella will see me, let alone invite me in for a sexy slumber party. I sure would like to fill her stocking on Christmas morning though.

  “Yeah, and I remember what it’s like when you two are in a room together. You lose your fucking heads.” Eli walks over to the mini bar, rifles through the contents, and pulls out a scotch. He doesn’t bother with a glass, just twists off the tiny cap and raises it in the air. “Merry Christmas, asshole.”

  Not yet, but I’m hoping like hell it will be.

  I grin and grab my bag, flipping him the bird as I leave. I take the elevator—which is far too fucking slow—down to the lobby and I walk with my head bent low so no one will recognize me. A couple of my teammates are already drinking it up in the bar, celebrating our win. They shout to me as I walk past, but I ignore them. If I acknowledge them now, I’ll never get away, and I can see Coach is standing there, too. I have no desire to talk to him right now.

  I head outside and pull up the Uber app on my phone, then I punch in my destination. I have only one driver willing to take the job, and judging by the sporting paraphernalia on his back bumper when he pulls up, he’s a Preds fan. Shit. I could get driven to the middle of nowhere and hacked all to pieces. I shrug. Still be worth it.

  I keep my hat pulled low as I climb in and the conversation short so he doesn’t recognize me. About ten minutes into the drive, though, he asks if I live at Brentwood. Shit.

  “Ah, no. I’m visiting a friend.”

  “Really?” He frowns as if he doesn’t believe me. “Lot of celebrities live in Brentwood.”

  “Do they?”

  “Yep. You got Tim McGraw and Faith Hill, Billy Ray Cyrus, Wynonna Judd, and . . .” He pauses. I’m pretty sure it’s for effect. “Stella Hart.”

  “Wow, that’s great. I’m not really into country though,” I say, and regret it instantly once he turns a murderous glare on me.

  “You’re not visiting a friend, are you?”

  “Sure I am.”

  “Does this friend know you’re coming? Because I don’t do getaway driving.”

  “Yeah.”

  He chuckles. “You know, you’re a better hockey player than you are a liar.”

  I take off my ball cap and scratch my hair. “You knew who I was all along, didn’t you?”

  “Pretty much.” He grins and pulls up to Stella’s gate. “Good game tonight. I gotta give it to you, kid. You can sure-as-hell play.”

  “Thanks. Sorry about the loss.”

  He guffaws. “No, you’re not.”

  I shake my head. “It’s true. I’m really not.”

  “Well, let’s just hope our queen of country is nicer to you than she was last time you showed up unannounced,” he says. I grimace. There’s nothing like the tabloids to capture every humiliating second of your life and broadcast that into the homes of the entire world. “You want me to wait?”

  “Nah.” It might be a little stupid to send him away, but I’m going with wishful thinking on this one and I just hoping to fuck she lets me in.

  “Suit yourself.”

  I open the door and stare up at Stella’s house. My driver takes off as I walk over to the huge iron gate. I don’t try climbing it this time. Instead, I press the buzzer and hold it down like an asshole, until her voice comes over the intercom. It’s scratchy, as if she’s having an issue with her throat. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me,” I say. There’s a long pause. The speaker crackles, and I wait. When it’s apparent she’s not going to say anything, I decide it’s now or never. “Country, let me in . . . please? I gotta see you.”

  I wait with bated breath, and it feels exactly like those seconds between taking the slapshot and seeing it land in the net. The gate buzzes, and I don’t hesitate. He shoots, he scores.

  I’m smiling ear to ear when she opens her front door. She’s in sweats and a baggy T-shirt, her hair pulled up on top of her head, and her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. Nothing at all like the woman who delivered a perfect performance of both our national anthems just a few short hours ago. She stands in the doorway and doesn’t look like she’s going to budge.

  “Hey,” I say, softly.

  “What are you doing here, Van?”

  “I told you I had to see you.”

  “You saw me at the stadium.”

  “You know it’s not even remotely the same thing.” I sigh. “Are you gonna make me stand out here all night, country, or are you gonna show me some of that southern hospitality I hear so much about?
”

  She presses her lips together and stands back from the door to allow me to enter. Her house is so different from mine. It’s all white polished surfaces, clinical, and not at all her, but something an interior decorator picked out of a catalog. Even the artwork is modern and pretentious, and not my Stella. This is the Stella everyone wants her to be.

  “Nice place.” I raise my brows. “No cameraman today?”

  “My manager is renegotiating our contract. It wasn’t working out.”

  I walk down the hall. It leads to a huge kitchen that I have no doubt Stella has never used a day in her life. The house is surrounded by trees and it looks out on a landscape so different from the one beyond my living room windows. “No surprise there.”

  “You didn’t come here to talk about my reality TV show, Van.”

  “No, I didn’t.” I drop my bag on the floor. Her eyes follow the motion, and she swallows hard as she stares at it a beat too long.

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Why didn’t you stay to watch the game?”

  “How do you know I didn’t?”

  “Because when my eyes weren’t glued to the puck they were glued to the box.” I take my phone out of my pocket and shake it. “Plus TMZ reported you leaving as the first puck dropped.”

  “I just didn’t want to incite any more talk.”

  “Then why sing the anthems?”

  “Because they asked me months ago. I didn’t know you’d be playing.”

  I narrow my gaze. “Why not pull out?”

  “Because that would have set more tongues wagging than staying for the game,” she says, and she almost looks guilty. “Look, it’s a small world. We’re both in the public eye, and we’re bound to run into one another from time to time. I think the best thing we can do is just be cordial and professional, and stay out of each other’s way.”

  “Is that your manager talking, or you?”

  “Why are you asking me so many damn questions?”

  “What are you running from?” I say, echoing the me from several months ago when this strange and beautiful creature had arrived on my doorstep, lost, and seeking refuge from a world that might have destroyed a lesser woman.

  She takes several steps back until there’s nowhere left to go but on top of the counter. “I’m not running from anything.”

  I press against her. She’s stiff as a board. That makes two of us. “I miss you, Stella. I jack it every day thinking about you, sometimes twice a day. I want you.”

  “You can’t have me, Van.”

  “Bullshit,” I hiss. I slide my hand into her hair, and pull her closer. I lean in, but I don’t kiss her. “Tell me you miss me. Tell me you’re thinking about me, too.”

  “I don’t . . .” She shakes her head, but her breath is hot and heavy against my face. “I’m not.”

  I close my eyes and rub my cheek against hers. My stubble is likely scratching her delicate skin, but she doesn’t pull away, and I slide my hand under her shirt. She’s braless. I groan. All those long days and nights she tortured me at the cabin by wearing only my flannel shirts with no bra, and probably no panties either, for all I knew. This little cock tease needs a taste of her own medicine.

  I roll my thumb over her nipple. It beads beneath my touch. I pinch. It isn’t hard, just enough to let her know who’s in charge. Stella throws her head back with a moan, exposing her neck to me. I kiss a trail over her jaw, and down her neck to the collar of her shirt. When the fabric doesn’t stretch as far as I want it to, I lift it over her head and devour her full, luscious tits with my mouth. She drives her hands into my hair, and I trail my lips lower until I’m at the waistband of her sweats. I yank them down and slide them off her feet. She steps out of them and kicks them away, and I know she’s mine, at least for tonight. I know she won’t ask me to leave. Which means I get to touch her, taste her, and fuck her the way I’ve wanted to for months.

  There’s a wet spot on her cotton panties and I slide my fingers over it, savoring the way her hips move towards me reflexively. I cover her with my mouth, panties and all, and then I yank them out of the way with my teeth—or I try to—but they snap back against her, and she cries out. I do it again. I hook my fingers into the sides of her underwear and slowly slide them down her hips. They fall at her feet and Stella discards them, but I snatch them up, bring them to my nose and inhale.

  A strangled gasp escapes her, and with a grin I tuck them into the back pocket of my jeans and cover her with my mouth. I don’t give a shit if I just freaked her out. I’m keeping them. I shove her legs apart and fasten my mouth to her clit, sucking gently, and judging by the way she moans, she’s forgotten all about my panty fetish.

  Her hands tug at my hair, and if I didn’t know any better I’d think she was both trying to pull me away and push me closer. I eat her delectable little pussy until her breath turns labored, and she’s begging me to make her come. My dick throbs, my balls ache with longing, and I gotta get inside. My woman always comes first, though. I alternate between licking and sucking, and when she’s riding my face and begging me not to let her come just yet, I slide two fingers inside her warm wet heat and hook them towards the front wall of her vagina.

  Stella doesn’t make a sound as her orgasm rips through her body. She jolts, her legs shake, and she drives her hand into my hair and pulls me closer, riding out the high before she collapses against me. The tremors continue, and a sob escapes her. I stand and take her face in my hands. “Hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

  “I want you to leave.”

  I wipe my face on my sleeve. “What?”

  “I need you to leave. I can’t breathe when you’re looking at me like that. I can’t breathe when you touch me.”

  “Country,” I say, and even I can hear how dejected my voice sounds.

  “Just get out!”

  “No. You may get to order a whole bunch of people around, but darlin’, I’m not one of them. I’m not leaving until you tell me what the hell is going on in that pretty head of yours.”

  “God, Van, don’t you get it? We can’t be together.”

  “Who says?”

  “Everyone. The whole goddamn world. You live in another country, and I’m here, and—”

  “And where has that gotten you, huh? Living here. Sure, it’s a nice house, full of all the best shiny sparkling things, but is it home? Is your life really as perfect as you want the world to believe?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Do you think about me, Stella?”

  Tears run down her cheeks and she sobs. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Answer the fucking question.”

  “Yes, okay? Yes, I think about you all the time.”

  “And just now, when I touched you, did it feel right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then fucking kiss me, babe. Forget about what everyone else wants, what the world wants. If you want me, I’m yours.” She doesn’t say a word. A tear glances off her jaw, and I wipe it away with my thumb. “Please? Put me out of my damn misery, country.”

  Her features crumple, and tears glide down her perfect face as she leans up to kiss me. I don’t question it. I just slide my hands beneath her ass and lift her so that she wraps her legs around my waist.

  I walk us into the lounge. I lay her down on the plush white sofa that practically swallows her whole, and I unfasten my belt and pop open the button on my jeans. She jumps up and shoves my hands out of the way so she can take over what always seems like such a menial task. Her hands unzip me.

  Stella pushes the denim off my hips. She squeezes my ass while she’s back there, and my dick bobs and practically slaps her in the face in excitement.

  She chuckles and slides one careful hand up my shaft while she lowers her mouth to my dick. She draws the head between her lips. I groan and grip her hair, resisting the urge to fuck the back of her throat. I have to count to ten and force myself to think of priests and dead beavers and my teammate
s’ sweaty junk in the locker rooms to keep from coming down her throat. It does the trick—a little too well, unfortunately.

  She looks up at me with big aquamarine doe eyes. “Am I not doing it right?”

  “No, baby. You suck me so good.”

  “Then why are you going soft?”

  I can see the disappointment in her gaze, and I cup her chin and whisper, “Because I was thinking about my teammates.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh . . . um is that maybe something we should discuss? I mean, I’ve never had a problem with men and other men, but I would like to keep you all to myself.”

  I chuckle. “Oh country, I’m not gay, and if I was I certainly wouldn’t be fantasizing about my fucking teammates. They’re animals.”

  “Then I don’t understand . . .”

  “I was trying to keep from coming down your throat.”

  “Oh, well, I already told you I’d swallow,” she says with a grin, and I can’t help it. I shove her back against the soft couch and kiss her stupid.

  I snuggle into the huge body that’s currently serving as my pillow, and pull the blanket closer to my neck. We never did make it upstairs to my bedroom, but instead fell asleep on the couch after several long hours of rediscovery. Van groans and wraps his arms tighter around me. “What time is it?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m guessing it’s Christmas Eve, though.”

  “Mmm,” he murmurs. “I think Christmas came early last night.”

  I chuckle and burrow into his chest. “Several times. Happy Christmas Eve, Van.”

  “Merry Christmas, baby.” He sighs contentedly. “Naw, shit. I didn’t get you a present.”

  “Yes, you did.” I kiss his chest. “It showed up on my doorstep around nine p.m. last night.”

  For a minute we’re quiet, as he strokes my back with gentle fingertips. Van turns his head and stares at the twinkle lights on my Christmas tree. “Oh baby, that’s a sad tree.”

  “My tree is not sad.”

  He laughs, and it resonates all around his chest. “Look at it—it’s miserable. It’s white, for god’s sake.”

  “What’s wrong with a white tree? It should remind you of home.”