[Bad Motherpuckers 01.0] Hot as Puck

by Lili Valente

  “You were super hungover yesterday, I’m assuming,” I say, ready to change the subject.

  “So fucking hungover. It was miserable,” Laura groans, looping her purse handle over another hook and pulling out a small stack of DVDs. “I hit the dispenser outside of the drugstore and got all the new releases. You want some edgy horror that’s supposed to be great, sappy romance with a cheesy-looking dog in it, or some lame science fiction with a thin premise and people wearing too much green makeup?”

  “I’m guessing horror, since you made the other two sound so appealing.”

  “Wise man,” Laura says as she heads for the couch. “I would like three slices of whatever that is, please and thank you.”

  I set the pizza down on the kitchen island and stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows on the other side of my condo at the view of downtown and the mountains beyond, where dark storm clouds are rolling in to darken the bright autumn afternoon.

  Laura is right. None of my exes ever want to be friends, and that includes my old fuck buddy Kirsten, who, after finding her true love, George, decided she never wanted to see me again. I was not invited to the wedding, even though Kirsten and I worked at hockey camps together every winter growing up and were seriously tight all through college. And now when we run into each other at the parties of mutual friends, she just nods politely before finding someone else to talk to.

  As I fetch plates from the cabinet and grab a roll of napkins, I can’t help getting a little freaked out. I don’t want Libby to become one of the women who can’t stand to look at my face. I don’t want to lose her friendship, but I don’t want to live the rest of my life without knowing what it feels like to fuck her, either. I want to pleasure her in all the ways I had planned and all the new ones I’ll come up with between now and Tuesday night. I want to make her come, make her lose control, make sure she knows what it feels like to be completely erotically satisfied so that she never settles for another dud like Brett again.

  But do I want it bad enough to risk never seeing her smile again? To risk having Libby’s eyes go cold every time her path crosses mine, which, considering our parents still live next door to each other and her sister works for my team, would be pretty fucking often?

  I don’t know. I seriously don’t.

  Even after half a pizza and two movies—the horror and the sci-fi, which is as stupid as Laura suspected it would be—I’m still not sure. All I know is that I have some serious thinking to do. But hopefully I’ll be able to confine my thinking to the flight to Seattle. I’ve got to keep all non-game-related thoughts off the ice, or it’s back to five a.m. meditation sessions for me, and I really prefer to sleep a little later than the ass crack of dawn.

  “Want to start the romance?” Laura yawns as she stretches her socked feet out onto the leather footstool/coffee table.

  “Nah, you’re right; the dog looks cheesy.”

  “So cheesy. And I usually love dog movies, but seriously, pick a breed that doesn’t have a permanent grin on its face. I like my dog heroes to be able to project pathos, as well as happy-go-luckiness.”

  “I’m all about the pathos,” I agree.

  She snorts. “Do you even know what that means?”

  “A quality that inspires sadness, pity, or despair,” I answer, clicking off the television and rising to my feet. “I’m not dumb, Laura.”

  “I know you’re not,” she says. “Forgive me, I’ve been spending too much time with your less intelligent teammates. And of course Brendan, who refuses to speak in complete sentences with fans unless I stab him repeatedly with a fork. I feel for him, I really do, and I know he’s under a lot of stress as a single dad, but would it kill him to get friendly at promo ops once in a while?”

  “Maybe. You never know what straw is going to break a man’s back.”

  Laura hums beneath her breath as she rocks to her feet and starts for the door. “True. I’ll try to remember that the next time I ask him to smile for the camera and he glares at me like I stole his Bible and violated his sister.”

  I grunt. “I think his sisters all live in Canada, which would make that difficult, but you’re funny.”

  “I know. See you Saturday after the home game? I’m trying to get Libby to come out and play. If she doesn’t hook up with a hot tech billionaire, maybe the three of us could go grab ice cream or something?”

  “Sure.” I’m grateful for the darkness in the entryway so Laura can’t see the scowl bunching my forehead. Libby and a hot tech billionaire? What the fuck is that about? “So Libby’s going on a blind date?”

  “Nah, I’m arranging to have a few eligible bachelors thrown in her path so she can see what’s out there. She needs to start dating again. I know she’s got her heart set on this guy she works with, but if he’s too dumb to see how adorable Libby is, then she should move the hell on.”

  “Agreed,” I say, giving Laura a good-bye hug and telling her, “Drive safe.”

  When she’s gone, I start to text Libby, but then realize it’s too late and she’ll already be sleeping, and put my phone down. I try to convince myself to hit the sack early, too, but instead I end up back on the couch, watching the sappy romance and trying not to stress about Libby and I ending up on bad terms. Thankfully, the dog isn’t as bad as Laura and I thought it would be. The romance isn’t half bad, either. I’m not usually a fan, but tonight, love entertains, and by the time I head to bed I’m nearly too tired to jerk off.

  Nearly.

  But I manage to work up the energy to tug one out to mental images of Libby riding my cock, her hands braced on my chest and her breasts bouncing fetchingly each time she slams home. It’s not nearly as good as coming in Libby’s hand this afternoon, but it’s enough to send me off to sleep, where I dream of Libby under the mistletoe at a holiday party, kissing a man in glasses who isn’t me, and refusing to so much as glance my way.

  Chapter Fifteen

  From the texts of Libby Collins

  and Justin Cruise

  Libby: Are you in Seattle yet?

  Justin: Yeah, we just landed a few minutes ago. We’re waiting on the bus to the arena. What’s up?

  Libby: Nothing. I just wanted to wish you good luck. I know you had a bad practice the other day, and sometimes things like that get under your skin. But there’s no need to get weird or superstitious or start thinking the rest of your career is going to suck or that you’ll be mocked for the rest of your life for having the worst scoring drought in NHL history.

  Justin: This isn’t making me feel better, Libby.

  Libby: Well, it should. I have complete faith in you.

  You’re going to have an amazing game. There’s no doubt in my mind.

  Justin: And what if I don’t? What if I miss every pass and fuck up every shot?

  Libby: Then you’ll do better next time.

  Either way, I’m still going to do naughty things to you tomorrow night.

  Justin: Oh yeah? Want to describe some of them to me?

  Libby: LOL. Are you trying to get me to sext with you?

  Justin: It would help quiet my nerves so I can score goals, and I know you want me to score goals, don’t you, Libs?

  Lots and lots of goals…

  Libby: You wanted that to sound dirty, didn’t you?

  Justin: Absolutely.

  Now sext me, Collins. Use those sweet fingers to tell me all the wicked things you’re going to do to my body tomorrow night.

  Libby: Well, I’m going to get you naked…

  Justin: Yes?

  Libby: And I’m going to get serious…

  Justin: Yes?

  Libby: And then I’m…

  I’m probably gonna…

  Ugh! I don’t know how to do this! I’ve never sexted before!

  Justin: YOU’VE NEVER SEXTED BEFORE?

  Libby: NO, I HAVEN’T! DON’T MAKE FUN OF ME!

  Justin: I’m not. LOL.

  Libby: And don’t laugh! I’m fully capable of sexting with the best of them,
buddy.

  You just caught me off guard. But by the time you finish the game tonight, I will have written you lots of excellent sexts. You just wait.

  Justin: I look forward to reading them.

  And I can’t wait for tomorrow, beautiful.

  Libby: Me either…

  I dreamt about you last night.

  Justin: Good dreams, I hope.

  Libby: Filthy dreams. I’m going to use them as inspiration for my sexts.

  Get ready to have your mind—and your dick—blown, Cruise.

  Justin: I’m hard just thinking about it.

  Libby: Good. That’s the way I like you.

  Justin: Nice sass level, Libs.

  Libby: Thanks! I told you I’m going to be good at this. I minored in English Lit, man. Me and words on paper—or on a screen—are all good. So please have an amazing game and return to your phone refreshed and ready to fully appreciate my dirty brilliance.

  Justin: Will do. And thanks for texting. I appreciate the vote of confidence.

  Libby: Of course! That’s what friends are for.

  I’m always here for you, and being friends with benefits for a little while isn’t going to change that.

  Justin: That’s really good to hear, babes.

  And you don’t give yourself enough credit, you know. As far as I’m concerned you always know the right thing to say.

  Libby: Well, it’s easy with friends. Especially good ones.

  Now go kick some Canuck ass.

  Justin: Will do.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Justin

  I have a new good luck charm, and her name is Libby “The Sexting Goddess” Collins.

  After our pre-game texting, I scored on my first shift of the game, slamming the puck into the vulnerable, quivering Canuck net within seconds of hitting the ice. I followed up with an assist in the first period and another goal in the second. Then, during a scrum in the third period, I managed to gouge the Canadian motherfucker who nearly broke my arm last year in the gut without getting caught—because Scorpios never forget, asshole; remember that the next time you think it’s a good idea to slam your stick repeatedly into someone’s radius.

  All in all, it is a glorious fucking game, and I skate off the ice feeling fine.

  And then Libby’s texts get me feeling even finer.

  Text from Libby: In my dream, I woke up in the middle of the night and the shower was on in the master bathroom. At first I was scared, but then I remembered that you were sleeping over, and I decided that I needed to touch you again.

  Immediately.

  So I crawled out of bed, stripping off my nightgown as I tiptoed to the bathroom door then eased inside as quietly as I could. I wanted to surprise you, but you turned around as I crossed to the shower.

  The moment you saw me through the glass, you started to get hard. You dropped your hand, touching yourself, stroking up and down while you watched me open the door and step into the spray. We smiled, but neither of us said a word. We didn’t have to, because we both knew what we wanted. So I dropped to my knees in front of you and you pushed inside my lips, over my tongue, while I sucked you deeper inside my mouth.

  And in my dream, you tasted so good, and I knew exactly what to do to make you come so hard you could barely stand when you were finished.

  Can’t wait to see if reality mirrors fantasy…

  Have a safe trip home tomorrow, and here’s a little something to keep you company tonight.

  At the bottom of the string of sexy-as-fuck texts is a picture of Libby’s hips and thighs, her skin bare except for a pair of black lace panties.

  They are relatively modest, covering more of her than most two-piece swimsuits, but it doesn’t matter. Knowing her sweet pussy is beneath that lace is enough to get my blood pumping nearly as fast as it was out on the ice.

  Back at my lonely hotel room, I read over the red-hot lines at least a dozen times and am finally forced to jerk off, yet again—apparently I’ve reverted to my fifteen-year-old self—to a fantasy involving me returning Libby’s oral favor to convince my buzzing brain to go to sleep.

  Due to the late hour, I can’t text her back immediately, but as soon I wake up, I brew a tiny hotel-room-size pot of coffee and sit down to craft something appropriately filthy in response.

  Thankfully, however, I have the sense to remember where Libby works before I hit send.

  Sexting and elementary schools do not mix. Libby’s probably up to her elbows in markers and glue, or helping a small person learn the alphabet. The last thing she needs is a raunchy text about how many times I’m going to make her come tonight popping up on her phone while she’s reading The Day the Crayons Quit. (Great book. Libby suggested I give a copy to Brendan’s art-loving daughter, Chloe, for Christmas last year, and it’s still her favorite bedtime story.)

  Exercising incredible restraint, I refrain from responding until exactly three o’clock, when I’m back home and I know Libby’s kids have all boarded the bus and the woman herself will be alone in her classroom, tidying up before she heads home for the day.

  Then, and only then, do I shoot off my response,

  Text from Justin: Dear Sexting Goddess, let’s talk about those lace panties and how much I want to rip them off of you. Your texts were hot as fuck, Libs. All I could think about after the game was how much I needed to touch you, taste you, and show you how much I appreciate your filthy mind by eating your pussy for at least a solid hour.

  Please arrange to be wearing as little as possible when I get to your place.

  See you—and your pussy—around four?

  I wait a few moments, hoping she’ll text back right away, but my phone remains quiet. She must be in a meeting or something.

  Tossing my cell on my bed, I jump into the shower even though I took one at the hotel this morning. I am not an overly stinky man-beast—though you don’t want to get anywhere near my skates after a game—but I want to smell soapy and clean for Libby. At least until I find out if she’s as much of a freak for a little stink as I am.

  I scrub the grundle until it’s gleaming like the softly wrinkled skin of a freshly washed baby elephant, complete my manscaping so that the stick and pucks are presented to their best advantage, and dress in soft jeans and a softer flannel in order to be tactilely pleasing if Libby ends up undressed while I’m still clothed. It’s easier to resist the temptation to move too fast when wearing pants, and I don’t want to rush a minute with Libby tonight.

  I want to take my time, savoring each step on the road to discovering everything that makes her curvy little body hum.

  Half an hour later, I’m clean, coiffed, shaved, and ready to roll, but Libby still hasn’t responded to my text. I’m about to shoot her another message, when my phone rings.

  A smile curving my lips, I answer with a husky, “Hello, sexy. Are you home and naked yet?”

  I’m answered by a sniffing sound. “No, I’m not. I’m driving and trying not to cry. I totally screwed it up, Justin.”

  “Screwed what up?”

  “Everything. After last night and the other day in the park, I was feeling so confident in my not-repulsiveness that I decided to ask Roger what he was doing on Saturday. To see if he wanted to come to the game with me. You know, just as friends or whatever.”

  “Okay,” I say, the revelation making me grumpy. I know I have no claim to Libby, but I’m not ready to share her. I want her pussy all to myself, at least for a few weeks, before I have to come to terms with the fact that she’s going to put her newfound sexy skills to use with another man. “Why is that so bad? What did he say?”

  “He didn’t say anything because as soon as I knocked on the door to his office, I choked. He asked me what was up, and I said something about the toilet paper dispenser in the kindergarten bathroom being too high for the kids, and he told me to talk it over with the janitor.” Libby makes a groaning, growling sound. “The toilet paper dispenser, Justin! What the hell was I thinking? It’s like my brai
n picked the least sexy thing it could think of just to humiliate me. I swear, sometimes it feels like my brain is not playing on my team.”

  “Brains are tricky like that.” I plop down on the couch, trying not to sound happy about Libby’s failure to secure a date with stupid Roger. “But that doesn’t sound so bad, Libs. So you struck out this time. You’ll do better next time.”

  “No, I won’t,” she says, breath hitching. “Because after the brilliant toilet paper dispenser comment, I stood there in the doorway staring at him, trying to get my lips to form words about Saturday night. The silence stretched on for so long that Roger finally asked me if I was feeling okay with this “why are you being so crazy, you crazy person” expression on his face. So I mumbled something about it being a long day and made a run for it, but on the way past his secretary’s desk, I tripped on the carpet and fell flat on my face.”

  “Ouch,” I say with a wince. “Are you okay?”

  “No, I am not okay! I’m so embarrassed I’ll never be able to step foot in the office ever again.”

  “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. So you fell down. People trip on things, Libby. It’s part of life. I’m sure Roger has fallen down once or twice.”