Puck Love

by Carmen Jenner

  The lights go down, and a hush falls over the audience. “Why, thank you, kind sir. Okay, Kansas City, this song isn’t supposed to drop until next week, and my manager is standing over there shaking her head right now, but a wise man once told me to do what you want, to break the rules and to hell with the consequences. He has to be right, because he’s going to the Stanley Cup, so here’s me breaking the rules. I want you guys to record this. Film it, Instagram it, send it, share it—make sure you tag the Calgary Crushers in it and congratulate them on their win. And, Van, honey.” I shake my head. “I’m so damn proud of you. You better come see me soon, because I miss you like crazy, and I wrote this for you.”

  For the next three minutes, I pour my heart out to the whole world, and that stage feels like home. When I’m done, I stand and blow the crowd a kiss. “Thank you, Kansas City. Good night.”

  I practically skip off the stage. The audience roars as they stamp their feet and holler, “encore,” but I’m spent for one night. Besides, I have a hot hockey hero to congratulate. The last four months have been hell on the both of us, and we Skype as often as we can. Seeing him on a computer screen, though, is not the same thing as having him up close, and some days we both wonder if it’s all worth it. Nights like this one give us the answer to that question, though.

  Lana glares at me. “What the hell was that? I’m going to have the label chewing me out for ruining their spotlight.”

  “That was me living in the moment, and giving back to my crowd. Oh, and my man is going to the damn Stanley Cup.” I kiss her cheek and traipse away from the stage toward the dressing room.

  There are fans to greet and pictures to take, and I know he’ll be tied up in interviews and sponsorship drinks and all of that. There’s a good chance he’s already seen me congratulate him on the world’s stage, so I figure we can wait a little longer to speak to one another. I take a quick shower on the bus, and scrub my face clean of makeup, and then I find my phone. There are a hundred missed calls. I smile to myself and dial his number.

  “Country?” he says. There’s so much noise in the background I can barely hear him.

  “Congratulations, hockey hero.”

  “I saw your little song there, babe. Nice touch.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” I crow.

  “Wait. I gotta head outside.”

  “Okay,” I tell him, but it’s probably lost to the noise of the party.

  The racket dies down, and his sexy voice comes through crystal clear. “Baby, I miss you so goddamn much.”

  “I know. I miss you too.”

  “I’m coming to see you, as soon as I can. Coach has got us training these four days before the cup, but the second that thing is in our possession I’m coming home to you.”

  I smile and fall back on my bed. “Home, huh?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I like the sound of that.”

  “And I like the sound of your voice in my ear as you come.” He sighs. “I wish you were here, babe.”

  “Well, you know I may not be there to come in your ear, but we could always video call and watch one another.”

  He gasps. “Jesus, Stella, I almost dropped the phone. You can’t say shit like that.”

  “Sorry. I just miss that handsome face, and that great hockey butt.”

  There a beat of silence, and I wonder if he’s lost reception, but he clears his throat and I know I’ve just stunned him into silence. “Are you serious?”

  “Maybe?”

  “Fuck. I’m in a public restroom.”

  “Is there a locking door?”

  “In one of the cubicles, yeah, but anyone could walk in and hear us.”

  “No one has to know. We could be real quiet,” I tease.

  “Jesus Christ. I’m so hard just hearing that.”

  “I’m game if you are,” I whisper.

  He puffs out a huge breath. “Okay. Hang up. I’ll call you back via video.”

  “I love you, Van,” I say, in as sultry a voice as I can muster without feeling like an idiot.

  He groans. “I love you too, baby. So fucking much.”

  I enter the cubicle and lock the door behind me, then I slick my hand through my hair, undo my fly, because it could get kind of awkward trying to get my dick out with one hand while I’m watching Stella. I’m hard as fuck anticipating the show I’m about to get. My dirty little snuggle bunny about blew my fucking mind when she suggested we play while I’m in a public restroom. I should have said no, because if this ever gets out it could ruin her, but I’m on top of the world right now, and I miss her goddamn pussy so much that there’s no way in hell I’d turn down the chance to look at her.

  I hit the Skype app on my phone and stroke my dick while I wait for her to answer. Stella always comes like a fucking champion, so fast, and so breathtakingly beautiful that I don’t want to hinder her getting off because it might take me a little longer. Though I guess the more she comes, the more images I have for the spank bank.

  She’s already shirtless when her face flashes up on my screen. “Hey champ,” she whispers with a seductive smile.

  “Hey, country. Nice view.”

  “Oh, you like my tour bus?”

  “I meant your tits, baby. Fuck, I wish I was there right now. I’d totally slide my cock between them and give you a pretty little pearl necklace.”

  “Oh, why have we never done that?” She bites her lip.

  “I don’t know, but we’re gonna.”

  She chuckles. “You know it’s not really fair that you get to see me, and I don’t get to see you.”

  “Babe, I’m in a bathroom stall that I barely fit in. I can’t exactly remove my clothing without losing it.”

  “Okay fine. I’ll just have to sprawl out for the both of us.” She does, right across that big bed—or big for a tour bus anyway. It’s likely too small for me.

  “Put the camera up on something so I can see all of you.”

  “Okay, but there’s a chance it might fall. I am on a moving tour bus, you know.”

  “Remind me to buy you a damn selfie stick for future use.”

  She frowns a little at that, and I can tell immediately what she’s thinking because she hates this distance as much as I do, but that’s our lives, at least until my time in the league is up. I know it doesn’t last forever, and I know I need to start looking at things to do outside of hockey once I can no longer hit the ice, but for the foreseeable future, this is us.

  “Hey, don’t look so sad. We’ll be together soon, okay?”

  “I know.”

  “Now, I got a surprise for you.”

  Her eyes widen. “You do? I love surprises.”

  “I do,” I rasp down the line because right when I’m about to show her my dick, she places the phone on a shelf or a ledge, and I have a view of her entire bed, and the sweet little cotton panties she’s wearing. It’s not a thong, but that’s not really Stella. “Oh babe, just wait.”

  “What?” she says, pausing with one leg on the edge of the bed as if she’s about to kneel.

  “Just stand there a minute and let me look at you.”

  She bites her bottom lip, and my cock jerks. “Now take your panties off. Slowly.”

  She slides them down her hips and discards them on the floor. My eyes are glued to the screen. “Where’s my surprise?”

  “Jesus. It’s coming.” My suit pants are cutting off the circulation to my balls, and I fiddle one handed with the zipper.

  “Already?” Stella teases, as she climbs on the bed, completely naked, and I’d give anything to be with her right now. I angle the phone down so she’ll have a clear shot of my junk. “What am I looking at?”

  “Er, I don’t know.”

  “Oh, that’s your shoe,” she says. “And that’s the dirty bathroom floor.”

  “Shit, sorry. This cubicle is kind of small. I can’t really see what you can—I’m too distracted by what your camera’s showing me. Okay how’s this?” I
readjust my angle until I can see my cock filling the tiny box on the side of my screen.

  “There he is.”

  “He’s happy to see you, but he’d be happier if you were here right now.” I sigh. “Slide your hand between your legs.” I stroke my cock. Yeah. I don’t think I have any more worries about not coming fast enough. I may even beat Miss Thirty Second Orgasm here.

  Stella does as I instruct and shifts on the bed so she’s lying on her side facing me. “Babe, you’re gonna need to turn around so I can see that perfect pink pussy straight on.”

  “Oh no. I’m not doing that.”

  “Come on, what happened to ‘I’m game if you are?’”

  “Well, I didn’t mean I’d hold the damn phone in front of my vagina. I just meant—”

  “Come on, I’m all out here. I’m not hiding. Please?” I beg, because it can’t hurt. “Please, country?”

  “Okay.” She shifts and opens her legs, and there it is—her pussy. Slick, smooth, and as perfect as I remember.

  “Goddamn, woman,” I groan.

  “Are you almost there?”

  “Yeah.”

  Her laughter fills my ears. “Wow, you must really miss me.”

  “So fucking much.” I jack it faster.

  “What would you do if you were here?”

  God, is she kidding me? She wants me to talk dirty when the sight of her practically renders me stupid? I let out a ragged breath and say, “I’d slide off the bed, put my mouth on that sweet pussy, and eat you out until you came.”

  “Oh.” She moans. Her fingers glide up and down the length of her delectable cunt. “And then?”

  “And then, when your legs were shaking, I’d climb up on the mattress, spread your thighs, and plunge myself inside you so hard you’d see stars.”

  “Van, I think I’m close to that already,” she breathes, focusing her attention on her clit.

  “No, you’ve never seen stars like these. And just when you were ready to explode, I’d pull out, slide off the bed, and fuck you with my mouth until you begged me to make you come again.”

  “And then?” she moans. A blush sweeps over her face and chest, and I know she’s close. “And then, Van? What next?”

  “And then I’d slip back inside, slowly this time, giving you time to adjust to my huge cock. You’d dig your nails into my back as I pistoned my hips and my balls slapped against your ass.”

  “Oh, Van, oh, god, I’m coming.”

  “Me too,” I hiss into the speaker. “Jesus, country, keep moaning like that. Stella, fuck. I wanna marry you, baby.”

  Come shoots out the end of my cock, spraying the wall and the cistern, but at that very moment as I’m roaring my orgasm like a goddamned lion, the bathroom door opens and my coach shouts, “Jesus Christ, Ross.”

  “Oh fuck!” I drop my damn phone. I wait for the sound of the glass shattering, but it doesn’t come, because it hasn’t fallen on the floor. It’s in the toilet, swilling around in some other asshole’s piss. The screen turns pitch black. Shit. I just proposed to my superstar girlfriend in a seedy bathroom toilet while I was whacking the monkey, and now I have no idea what her response was because my phone is sitting in the bottom of a bowl full of someone else’s urine. My dick is slowly leaking come and flopping all around the outside of my pants like a sad elephant trunk, and the icing on the really shitty cake that is my life means my coach just heard it all.

  Fuck my life.

  I slink out of the bathroom, sweaty, reeking like another man’s piss, and feeling like I’m going to puke up my guts. I know there’s no way my phone is starting up again, and there’s no way in hell I’m sticking this shit in a bag of rice, but I couldn’t leave it in the goddamn bowl. I’ve got nudes of Stella on there, and I don’t think she’d appreciate explaining that to the media if some jackass managed to find it and recover those pics. They’re for my eyes only.

  The problem is, I’m now carrying a phone wadded up in toilet paper, jammed in my pocket and leaking piss down my trouser leg, and I don’t have Stella’s number. I can’t call her and explain what the fuck just happened. I don’t know how to get in touch with the ballbuster either, assuming she’d even pass my number on to Stella. I am fucked every which way from Sunday, and all I know is that I have to get out of here. I have to call Stella somehow, but when I set foot back in the bar, I’m accosted by Eli and Torres, and forced to guzzle a beer from a glass that looks like a cheap replica of the Stanley Cup.

  “Dude, you smell like piss . . . and come.” Eli glowers at me. “What the fuck, man? Are you cheating on Stella?”

  “No. I had an accident.”

  He laughs. “What?”

  “I was whacking it in the bathroom with Stella on Skype, and I dropped my phone.”

  “And?”

  “I dropped it in the bowl, full of piss.” He laughs, and for the briefest second, I find humor in it too, until I remember I sort of proposed to her. “Oh, it gets better. Coach walked in.” That confession sends Eli over the edge. “It’s not fucking funny.”

  “It’s a little bit funny.”

  “I proposed to her.”

  He leans in, clearly unable to hear me over the noise of the bar. “What?”

  “I proposed to Stella while I was whacking it,” I yell, and at that very second, the music cuts out, and several people stare in my direction.

  Eli loses his shit completely. A roar goes up from Torres and my teammates, and I don’t even try to explain. For the next three hours, I drink myself into a stupor and vow to find Stella’s number and call her in the morning. How we wind up in the pool at some Ottawa mansion is anyone’s guess, and one of alcohol’s great mysteries.

  “Van?” I say tapping the screen of my phone as if it could bring him back. But all I get is a Skype message saying our conversation has terminated. “Shit.”

  I flop back on the bed, completely naked. The air con is set to freezing, so I climb under my covers feeling a mixture of elation and terror. Surely he didn’t mean it? There’s no possible way he just . . . It’s too soon. He was caught up in the moment, and the excitement of today’s win.

  I grab my phone and try calling a bunch of times, but it goes to voicemail, so frustrated and wired, I switch off the lights. I don’t sleep, though, and sometime two hours later in the dead of the night as our bus flies along dark highways toward Grand Forks, I get dressed and quietly tiptoe from my room to make a hot tea with honey. I think about Van, and how every second since we met has been one huge learning curve. It’s been one surprise after the other, and tonight is no different.

  I sit at the small table and scroll through my messages. Nothing.

  The curtain above Lana’s bed rustles, and she pokes her head out. She might be in satin pajamas with an eye mask pushed up on her forehead like a headband, but she’s wide awake and the glow from her laptop illuminates her bunk. On most tours, the talent gets their own bus, but that seemed like an awful waste, and I don’t feel right about making her sleep on one of the other buses for the roadies. They’re all really good people, but Lana isn’t the kind of woman who can share close quarters with men who don’t get the chance to shower every day.

  “Sorry.” I smile apologetically. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

  “I wasn’t sleeping. Have you—”

  “Van proposed.”

  “What?”

  “I . . . it was weird. We were Skyping and . . .” I’m sure she doesn’t really want to know the details, but given my lack of experience with men, I feel like this is an important one to not leave out. “We were . . . fooling around via Skype and—”

  “You were what?”

  Shit. I forgot about her ‘no nudity near any devices with a Wi-Fi connection’ rule. It’s something she’s drummed into me from day one. Don’t be one of those idiot girls with nudes or a sex tape to haunt me. I took that rule one step further and wore boy shorts under every skirt because I did not need a wardrobe malfunction.

  “Er .
. . we were Skyping.”

  “Naked?”

  “Yup,” I say quietly.

  “Oh my god, Stella.”

  “It’s okay. No one could see it; he was in a cubicle.”

  “You were sex Skyping an NHL player in a public restroom?” A teeny tiny wicked vein pops out in her forehead, and I’m pretty sure I can hear teeth grinding. Yep. Definitely grinding her teeth.

  “Chamomile?” I ask offering up my tea to the slaughter.

  She snatches the cup from my hands, and I rise and walk over to the kitchen counter to make another. “It’s not like it was just any NHL player, you know? It’s Van.”

  “Who has a reputation longer than the Declaration of Independence.”

  I flinch. “Okay, well, yeah, maybe his past isn’t so great, but we’re moving past that.”

  “Have you checked his Instagram feed tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Honey, I think the last thing you need to be worried about is a half-baked marriage proposal. I think you and Van have bigger things to discuss.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There were photos.”

  Dread fills me, and I swallow hard. I’m almost afraid to ask. “What kind of photos?”

  “Photos with bunnies, I guess. Look, I didn’t want to say anything because I know how these things come across. When I was with Drew the football hookers were everywhere, and he always swore it was worse than it looked.”

  “And he was cheating on you.”

  She nods. “That doesn’t automatically mean that Van is—”

  “Show me.” Van wouldn’t do that. Right? I mean, why would he propose marriage if he was getting busy with whatever little puck bunny came along? “Show me, Lana.”

  She grabs her laptop and rests it on the table between us. I sit down heavily on the seat and scroll through his Instagram feed. There’s a bunch of photos of him and Eli celebrating, and the rest of his teammates drinking, but then there’s a shot of him cannonballing into a pool, and several more of Eli and Torres posing in front of it.