[Bad Motherpuckers 02.0] Sexy Motherpucker

by Lili Valente

  Finally, I offer a soft, “But Brendan’s different. I really love him. I love him so much it would kill me to let him down. Especially when it comes to Chloe. She’s his whole world and—”

  “Maybe she has been,” Libby cuts in. “But that’s not true anymore. You should have seen his face when he gave me the note he wrote for you. You’re already a big part of his world, La.”

  “Note?” I set my fork back on my napkin, hunger vanishing again at the thought of a message from Brendan.

  Libby slips an envelope from her purse but doesn’t hand it over. “I want to say one more thing, and then I’ll leave you to read this privately and come back home whenever you’re ready. Justin took my car to drive Brendan and Chloe back to the city. He’s going to hang out with them for a while and then sleep at his place. I told Mom and Dad we’d both be spending the night here, so we can talk later if you want. Or we can watch Love Actually and eat popcorn and not talk at all. Whichever you think will make you feel better.”

  “How about Christmas Vacation instead?”

  “Right,” Libby says, nose wrinkling. “Sometimes dumb comedy is the best cure for what ails. I agree.”

  “So, what’s the one thing you wanted to say?” I ask, fingers itching to snatch the letter from Libby’s hand.

  “Remember when we were little and I was still stuttering a lot? And how protective you were anytime anyone made fun of me?”

  I nod, wishing I’d popped a few of those brats in the mouth instead of giving them a verbal lashing. I’m sure none of the jerks who used to torment Libs grew up to be decent human beings. What kind of person, even a kid-type person whose brain isn’t fully formed yet, makes fun a sweet little girl with a stutter and a lisp who just wants to play with everyone else?

  “I remember one time you yelled at Bart Wiseman until he cried, and then you took me home and played jewelry store with me all afternoon, even though you hated that game.”

  “It was a stupid game,” I say. “But you were sad, so…”

  Libby smiles. “And you promised me on the way home that you would always keep me safe. No matter what. Even though you were only nine years old. Even back then, you tried so hard to make the world a better, fairer place.”

  I shrug, uncomfortable with the compliments, especially now, when I’ve ruined a family celebration and hurt a person I love.

  “And while that’s very noble and sweet, it’s also impossible,” Libby continues. “The world is never going to be fair, and you can’t keep anyone safe. Not me, or Justin, or Brendan, or Chloe, or anyone else. Life is messy and dangerous, and so is love.”

  She pauses, holding my gaze with an intensity that is very un-Libby-like. “But it’s worth the risk. Because if you don’t go out on that limb or wade into that deep water and take a chance, you end up becoming one of the numb people. And sure, you won’t get messy with the ugly stuff—you won’t let anyone down or break anyone’s heart or have yours broken instead—but you won’t get messy with the good stuff, either. You know? Does that make sense?”

  I study Libby for a long moment before I nod, wondering when my little sister got so clever. And brave.

  “But that doesn’t mean you have to rush into anything you’re not ready for,” she adds with a smile as she hands over Brendan’s letter. “I have a feeling this man will wait as long as you need him to wait. As long as you give him some hope to hang his hat on.”

  I take the envelope and stand, pulling her into a hug as she slides out of the booth. “Thanks, Libby,” I murmur to the top of her head.

  “My pleasure.” She pulls away with a sparkle in her eyes. “It’s nice to be the sister who gives the advice for a change. I could get used to being the not angsty or confused one.”

  I roll my eyes. “No, way. I enjoy my role as the know-it-all big sister. I’m getting back to it as soon as possible.”

  Libby waves as she backs toward the door, wishing me good luck.

  I reclaim my seat, pulse thready with nerves as I open the letter and smooth the page of notebook paper flat on the table in front of me, hoping Brendan doesn’t hate me for running away.

  Dear Laura,

  I’m sorry. I fucked up. It was way too soon to spring something like that on you. I get that now, and I hope you’ll forgive me for putting a damper on the Christmas party fun.

  In my defense, I think I’ve been too happy to think straight. After so many years of going through the motions, feeling half-alive and scared and clenched up tight waiting for something else to go wrong, I’m finally awake again.

  Loving you feels so right, Freckles. And beautiful. Even more beautiful than it was with Maryanne, in some ways, because now I know how precious this is.

  And how easily it can all be taken away.

  That’s the reason I bought that ring—I don’t want to waste a second with you. I want to squeeze in all the love and laughs and coming and happiness I can get because I know how fast the good times fly by.

  But I should have realized that you’re in a different place and that loving me is more complicated than vice versa.

  Chloe adds another dimension to this thing between us. You wouldn’t just be signing on to deal with my cranky ass, but her occasionally cranky, hard to handle ass, too. And I know you love her, and I personally believe you’ll be a phenomenal parent, but becoming a stepmom is a big step.

  I should have thought about that, too.

  I wish I could rewind this afternoon and give you more time, but obviously, I can’t. But I can promise you this—there is no rush at all on my side to move from dating to something more. Take another six months, a year, two years. Take as long as you need to be sure. I’ll wait. And I’ll be happy as a pig in shit while I do it. I don’t need to put a ring on your finger to feel damned lucky to be the man you come home to every night.

  But…

  Well, I do want more eventually. I want you to be mine. The “until death do us part” kind of mine.

  So if you don’t want that, if you know deep down that you’re never going to be ready for the long haul with Chloe and me, then we should probably say our good-byes. It will hurt like hell, but better to end it sooner than later. Less confusing for Chloe. And for me, too.

  Just know no matter what you choose, I’ll always be grateful for what you’ve done for me. You reminded me how incredible it feels to love someone full-out, no holding back.

  It’s scary as fuck, but worth it. Worth anything, really.

  So thank you.

  I love you.

  And…I’m not sure what else to say.

  Take some time to think, and hopefully we can meet up to talk in a week or so. I’ve decided to take Chloe up to visit my parents until school starts again, so we’ll both be out of your hair. If you need more than a week, that’s fine, too. Just let me know. Though, I will miss you. A lot.

  Sorry again that we didn’t get the holiday party right this time.

  Maybe next year, beautiful.

  Love,

  Brendan

  My first instinct is to rush to my car, jump in, and drive back to the city as fast as the speed limit and Christmas Eve traffic will allow.

  Simply reading a note from him is enough to fill my head with his voice and his smell and his touch and a hundred other sense-memories of this man who is already a part of me. Right now, from this distance, my worries seem crazy. He loves me, I love him, we both love Chloe—surely we can figure everything else out as we go along.

  But the fact remains that I ran from his proposal.

  No matter what Libby thinks, I’m not a runner. At least, not like that. If I’m going to bail on a relationship, I consider all the options and alternatives, weigh my choices carefully, and extricate myself from the situation with as little drama as possible. My breakup with Henry was the first and only time I impulsively ordered someone out of my life in a knee-jerk reaction.

  Seeing your boyfriend’s hairy balls cradled tenderly in your blue satin panties will do t
hat to a girl…

  But a proposal isn’t an emotionally or visually scarring event. Even a jump-the-gun proposal. Yes, Brendan and I have only been dating for a month, but we’ve been friends for much longer.

  Though, now that I know the real Brendan—the relaxed, open, sexy, generous, funny Brendan—that cranky guy I used to work with seems almost like another person. He’s changed. And maybe that’s part of the hesitance.

  What if he changes back again, the way he did after our weekend at the beach?

  That’s why you should move in together and give it a trial run for six months or so before you start talking lifetime commitment.

  He said he would wait, so what are you waiting for?

  Go find him and put you both out of your misery.

  But instead, I sit staring at the uneaten half of my donut, thinking about deep water and inching out on limbs and how terrifying it was to watch Chloe ski down that run in front of me and know there was nothing I could do to save her if she took a tumble. I couldn’t keep her safe. I can’t keep anyone safe. Libby’s right, and deep down I’ve known that for a long time.

  So instead of adding to the list of people it would kill me to lose, I’ve slipped away in the nick of time, before “I love you” could become “I don’t know what I’ll do if I can’t keep you. Keep you safe. Keep you whole. Keep you with me when you decide you would rather leave.”

  I stab my fork into my Damn Dirty Bastard and let it stick there like the marker on a grave, and walk out of the donut shop, carrying all my stupid issues with me.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Brendan

  The crowd is alive—roaring, swearing, cussing, screaming because they hate the dicks from D.C. as much as we do. And then one of the head dicks slams into our goalie, “accidentally” sending them both tumbling into the net, and the crowd howls in protest.

  Immediately Petrov rushes the goal crease, hauling Head Dick off our man, giving him a face wash, an earful, and a few well-deserved jabs to the ribs, while Head Dick shouts abuse into Petrov’s red face, something highly original about Petrov being a “whiny pussy.” The rest of us surge toward the scrum, which shows signs of getting uglier before it gets better, while the refs wail on their whistles and the skinny one gets a handful of Petrov’s jersey, tugging him backward, doing his best to maintain control on the ice.

  I’m circling the situation, wanting to make sure Petrov doesn’t escalate things by shoving a ref or refusing to let go of Head Dick before he gets another jab in, when there’s a flash of red in my peripheral vision. A second later, the butt-end of a stick slams into my stomach, knocking the wind out of me.

  My muscles contract and my mouth fills with a sour, foul taste as I spin to see Dirty Rotten D.C. Dick, an asswipe I’ve hated since we briefly played on the same minor league team years ago, grinning like the dog who barfed in your shoe.

  I spit on the ice, fighting the urge to chase after him and show him that I’m not nearly as level-headed as he’s assuming I am.

  I’m clenching my stick tight, seriously considering answering goonery with goonery, when the refs send Petrov to the penalty box, letting Head Dick off scot-free, and my line heads back over the boards so the penalty-killing unit can work their magic.

  I collapse onto the bench—hot, sweaty, and pissed as hell—and reach for my water bottle, tipping it up fast. But instead of a stream of water into my mouth, the top of the bottle hits my face. The flood hits a second later, dumping half a liter of ice water down the neck of my jersey, over the front of my uniform, to pool between my fucking legs.

  Laughter erupts from farther down the bench.

  My head snaps left to see Nowicki and Saunders high-fiving each other, clearly pleased with their fucking hilarious prank. On their captain. In the middle of a close as fuck game. At the end of a hard as fuck week during which I’ve barely resisted, no fewer than three times, the urge to swing by Laura’s place and beg her to let me in.

  We texted Christmas Eve and agreed to meet up on New Year’s Eve day to talk, giving each other space to think things over until then.

  But I don’t want space.

  And I don’t want to lose her.

  And I don’t want to lose this game or be covered in fucking ice-cold water for the entire third period because a twenty-something dickwad doesn’t know when to leave the pranking well enough alone.

  I start to stand, some not nice or level-headed words rising in my throat, but Justin grabs my arm and pulls me down.

  “After the game, man,” he says. “If you yell at Nowicki, his focus will be screwed, and our offense will be in even more trouble than it’s in already. We’ll get him in the locker room. I promise.”

  For a second I’m tempted to tell Justin that he’s not the fucking captain of this team and that I will yell at idiot rookies whenever I feel like it, but I’ve never yelled at Justin, not even when he was the rookie being a pain in my ass. That’s not my style. I keep my cool, choose my battles, and if I need to drop the hammer with a teammate, it happens in private, and sure as hell not during a game.

  I’m letting my personal shit onto the ice, and I’ve been around long enough to know that’s always a mistake.

  So I grit my teeth, compartmentalize my anger with Nowicki into one corner of my brain and my worry about how things are going to work out with Laura into another, and take the sports drink Justin fetches from the cooler. It’s some kind of purple shit that looks like Barney jizzed in the bottle and tastes like old Halloween candy, but it takes the edge off my thirst. And when our line is up for the next shift, Justin, Adams, and I burst onto the ice focused, driven, and mean.

  It’s a mean game. The other team has been taking liberties, pushing around our smaller players, and the refs seem determined to punish us for defending ourselves. But Justin and I aren’t small, and Adams is so fast no one can line him up for a heavy check.

  Ten seconds into our shift, we’ve got control of the puck. Justin completes a sweet pass as I’m headed full-speed through center ice, and I carry it across the line, cutting hard to my right as Adams swoops to the left, gliding into position in front of the net just as I’m clear to knock the puck his way. The pass connects, Adams scores, and the fucking tie is broken.

  Now if we can hold onto our lead for another forty seconds, this game is ours.

  The D.C. Dicks call a time out, and we skate up to the boards, getting our end of game strategy from Coach before heading back to center ice. The dicks win the face off, and their goalie slinks off to the bench while an extra attacker jumps over the boards.

  D.C. dumps the puck into the corner and gives chase, but Adams anticipates the play and snatches the rubber out from under them. Jus and I streak to center ice, giving Adams two options for the pass. Jus is the chosen one, and Adams pushes the puck up the boards. It slams into the tape on Justin’s stick and then we’re off, gunning for the unprotected goal, where, after Jus passes the puck my way, I take great pleasure in slamming it home.

  A roar of satisfied bloodlust fills the arena because our fans know now it’s only a matter of running out the clock.

  I’ve scored the game-securing goal, but I don’t give a fuck. I am still a cranky bastard who wants nothing more than to smear spitty, sweaty ice into Nowicki’s smug face.

  But I force myself to wait until the post-game chaos and showers are complete and Nowicki is headed for the exit before I call his name.

  “Tanner, come see me for a second.” I pat the cushion beside me as I lean back on the old leather couch where Chloe likes to sit and color when she’s allowed to hang out in the locker room with me.

  I haven’t seen her in six days, either. She’s having a blast at my mom and dad’s, but the house is so quiet without her. Quiet and empty, making me long for the chaos of six a.m. wake up calls and the hustle of getting lunches made and both of us out the door to get her to school on time. Loneliness is contributing to my foul mood, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to take it ea
sy on Nowicki. He needs to get a clue about when it’s okay to fuck with someone and when it’s not.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Nowicki sags onto the couch beside me, running a hand over his shower-damp hair.

  “Don’t pull shit like that with me again,” I say calmly. “Especially not during a game. I don’t have the time or patience for games aside from the one I’m getting paid to play out there on the ice.”

  Nowicki frowns as his head bobs up and down. “Okay… So, I’m supposed to take it, but I can’t dish it out? Is that what you’re saying? Because, I mean, yes, I’m a rookie, but I’ve played on enough teams to know no one is supposed to be above this shit. Pranks are the great equalizer. Doesn’t matter if you’re a rookie, a vet, team captain, or the fucking coach. You still pull your feet out from under the table for shoe check, right?”

  “I’ve been a Badger for nearly a decade,” I say, fighting not to lose my temper. “I’ve paid my dues. I get to be done with the adolescent bullshit.”

  “But you gave Justin the mannequin idea. I know you did. I haven’t told anyone but you that I have a phobia about those fucking things.”

  I nod. “Yeah, I did. It’s tradition to do something epic for the rookies, once it becomes clear that they’ve got what it takes to stick around. It’s a rite of passage, not an act of war or anything personal.”

  “Yeah, well, it felt personal,” he mumbles, jaw working as his gaze falls to the floor. “But at least someone thinks I’ve got what it takes to stick around. I’m not sure Coach is on board, but…”

  Fighting back a sigh—why do attitude adjustments always become counseling sessions with this kid—I clap him on the shoulder. “That’s the way Swindle does business. Believe me, if he wasn’t happy with your performance, you wouldn’t be seeing the ice time you’re seeing. Everything’s fine. Just keep your head down, skate hard, and keep your hands off my water bottle, and you’re going to be fine.”

  He grunts, his lips quirking as he glances my way. “Thanks. And sorry about the soaking. It won’t happen again. At least, not because of me.”