[Bad Motherpuckers 01.0] Hot as Puck

by Lili Valente

  I nod, giving him a thumbs-up. “Right. I’m gone. See you Monday. Thank you so much for dinner.”

  And then I turn and hustle across the bar, past the big screen that is now showing footage of the game in progress. But as I pass I hear one of the commenters say, “Looks like someone’s got it bad,” and another joke back, “Not as bad as that poem. I think my five-year-old could write something better than that. But hey, whatever works. Hopefully this Libby person will realize he has other admirable qualities. Like one hell of a wrist shot.”

  “I liked the poem. Loved it, in fact,” I mutter as I push out of the bar and set off at a jog down the sidewalk toward the arena. It’s a good fifteen blocks, but I can’t stand the idea of waiting for a bus or a cab right now. I need to be in motion, on my way to Jus and the future and all the unexpectedly amazing things it will hold.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Libby

  At the arena, I head for the staff entrance, pulling out my phone to text Laura and beg her to come let me in, but when I round the corner my sister is already waiting for me, huddling in her puffy white jacket between two stoic faced security guards.

  When she sees me, her breath rushes out and a worried look tightens her usually elegant features. My sister is easily one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, but when she’s worried she looks like a mole that crawled out of its hole expecting the dark of night and found morning sun instead.

  “Okay, so this is happening, isn’t it?” She takes my hand, holding tight as she leads me toward the door. “You just did the romantic comedy heroine dash through the airport to catch the guy you love before he gets on the plane, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it was just the street. And that wouldn’t work anymore with airport security and boarding passes and stuff,” I say, still panting from my run. “But I do love him, La. I was lying to you yesterday. And myself. At least a little. I’m sorry.”

  She pulls me inside and shuts the door, closing us into the dimly lit hallway that leads to the staff offices and the locker room beyond. “You don’t have to be sorry. You just need to be sure you’re ready for this, Libs. You know he has a history. He’s sworn he has feelings for the rebound girl before.”

  “I’m not the rebound girl,” I say without a shred of doubt.

  Laura’s lips curve on one side. “No, you’re not. I’ve never heard him use the ‘L’ word, let alone write it down and whip it out for show-and-tell on national television. The guy legit has it bad.”

  “Me, too,” I say, a smile stretching wide across my face. “I can’t wait to see him.”

  “Oh, you’re going to see him.” Laura motions for me to follow her as she bustles down the hall. “But everyone in the stadium needs to see you, too.”

  “What?”

  “You two can’t start something like this in front of a stadium full of fans and hundreds of thousands of people watching across the world and then leave them hanging.” Laura snorts at the ludicrous idea of privacy. “They deserve to see the happy ending, Libby. What kind of PR manager would I be if I let you get away with giving Justin his answer behind closed doors?”

  My feet stop moving for a few seconds, and I end up jogging to catch up with Laura and her much longer legs. “What are you saying? You want me to go out there? On the ice?”

  “No! Not on the ice. That’s against regulations, and besides, you can’t skate worth a shit.” She covers her mouth as she pauses in front of her office door and adds in a softer voice, “Hey, no cussing in here, okay? I’m watching Chloe for Brendan. Her babysitter bailed at the last minute, and she obviously can’t stay in the locker room while the guys are showering after the game.”

  “As if I’m the one who needs to be warned to watch my mouth in front of children,” I say, scowling as I grab a handful of Laura’s coat and hold on tight. “But I still have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t want to make a scene, Laura, I just want to—”

  “Too late for that, babes.” She breezes into her office, where Chloe is stretched out on the furry white rug near Laura’s desk, drawing a truly excellent cat with long curvy whiskers that seem to have a life of their own.

  Chloe glances up, grinning and kicking her feet when she sees me. “Hi, Libby! Justin is in love with you! He used my markers to make his poem. And it had the word fart in it, and my dad thought that was a terrible mistake, but I thought it was awesome. Didn’t you think it was awesome?”

  I laugh, even though I’m still extremely wary about whatever evil scheme La is working up. “Yes, I did think it was awesome. That drawing is awesome, too, honey. You are so talented!”

  Chloe shrugs. “I am. I might be an artist when I grow up. Or a human rights attorney like my mom used to be. Or a professional skier.”

  “That sounds amazing. Maybe you can be all three,” I say, chest tightening as I turn back to Laura and whisper, “I wish they could stay like this forever. By the time my kindergarten girls reach third or fourth grade the change in their confidence levels is so disheartening. The self-esteem of our girls in this country is a national crisis and I—”

  “Yes, I agree,” Laura says, patting my shoulder briskly. “And we should have a long talk about that later, but for now let’s concentrate on getting you camera ready.”

  “Camera ready?” I squeak, eyes going wide.

  “Your hair looks great, as usual—you’re so lucky to have such thick hair. But your nose is a little shiny,” Laura adds, moving around her desk. “Let me grab my makeup bag. I know your skin is darker, but I’ve got this great translucent powder that—”

  “Laura, I’m not going on camera. I’m going to text Justin to let him know I’ll be waiting for him outside the locker room when—”

  Laura pops up from behind her desk, clapping her hands together as her eyes light up. “Not a text! A sign! Like his, but with no farts in it because I agree with Brendan that there is nothing romantic about the F-word.”

  “Fart isn’t the F-word,” Chloe helpfully points out. “The F-word is—”

  “We know,” I say at the same time Laura says, “Don’t say it, Chloe, or your dad will kill me. And I don’t have time for death right now. I have people who love each other to bring together.”

  “No, Laura.” I cross my arms over my chest and shake my head. “I’m not turning this into some publicity stunt. This is important and private and—”

  “It’s not a stunt,” Laura says, whipping out her powder and dabbing a brush lightly into the lid. “It’s an act of celebration and inspiration, a beacon of hope for all of us still swimming in the rough waters of casual dating, getting mauled by sharks.”

  “Or pecked by seagulls,” Chloe says, coming to stand next to Laura as my sister fixes my face against my will.

  “Yes, or pecked by seagulls,” Laura agrees. “What was your dad thinking, taking you to feed seagulls? They are so freaking scary. They’re like sky rats, but bigger and meaner.”

  “You’re telling me,” Chloe mutters, eyes narrowing as Laura moves on to the blush. “Makeup is kind of like coloring, isn’t it?”

  “It is.” Laura smiles down at Chloe with affection. “You want to do mine for me sometime?

  Chloe grins. “Yes. Definitely. Tomorrow.”

  Laura laughs. “How about Tuesday? You can ask your dad to bring you to practice and we can hang out.”

  “This all sounds very nice for the two of you.” I hold up a hand as Laura whips out something called a moon glow rod that looks sticky, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want on my face. “And while I believe in spreading hope, I don’t think—”

  “Then you’re not thinking hard enough.” Laura drops the moon glow rod back in her bag and leans down, holding my gaze with an intensity that makes me blink in surprise. “I’ve been dating for over a decade, Libby, and I have never had a man look as hopeful and adorably desperate over me as Justin looked holding up that stupid poem for you. Hearts all over the country are breaking for that goofy, ha
ndsome fool, and when you go out there with your sign that says you love him, too, you’re going to put those hearts back together again. And you’re going to give them a reason to believe that maybe their own happily-ever-afters aren’t a hopeless cause after all.”

  I stare into my sister’s eyes, seeing the romantic dreamer hiding behind the PR guru, and sigh. “Okay. But I’m doing this my way.”

  Chloe takes my hand and nods seriously. “You should always do art your way. And you can use my markers. I have crayons, too, but they can be harder to see.”

  I grin. “Thank you, wise redhead number two.”

  Laura claps her hands together. “Wise redhead number one will get you cleared to head up the tunnel as soon as the clock runs out, and then be right back!”

  Ten minutes later, I’ve got my own poem ready to go. It’s the quickest thing I’ve ever written, but it feels right. At moments like these, words don’t have to be elaborate or fancy or arranged in groups they’ve never been arranged in before.

  They just need to be true and from the heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Justin

  We’re up by six, with two minutes left on the clock, but I’m back on the ice again because apparently ripping my heart open and showing all the gooey insides to an entire arena full of people makes me score like nobody’s business. All I’m thinking about is Libby and whether or not she saw the poem and whether or not she’s happy or pissed or embarrassed or secretly hating me for taking something that should have been between the two of us and making it a big public deal.

  I should have fucking considered that before, but all I could think about at the time was reaching Libby before it was too late and she decided to end it via text as soon as I stepped off the ice.

  It didn’t hit me until the entire arena started cooing and cheering and clapping that I might have made a slight error in judgment, considering Libby enjoys the spotlight about as much as I enjoy getting my legs waxed—which I did once after losing a bet with Travers my rookie season, back before I realized that Travers seems like a big, cuddly teddy-bear type of guy, but is actually evil, never makes a bet he doesn’t know he’s going to win, and feeds on the shame of rookies like a blood-sucking vampire.

  Travers is a damned fine defender, however, and when he slaps the puck back across the line into goal-scoring territory, I’m right there to catch it and do my best to get that motherpucker into the net.

  I may be having a hard time thinking of anything but Libby, but I just scored two goals in the third period, after already scoring one in the first, and now coach wants me out here going for a “hat rack.”

  A “hat rack” is Coach Swindle’s non-thing that he’s trying hard to make a thing. But it will never be a thing because what the fuck does that even mean? A hat rack? A hat trick—three goals scored by a single player in a single game, originally coined when a cricket player was rewarded with a hat after hitting three wickets with three consecutive balls—is obscure enough. But at least it has history and tradition and people generally know what the hell you’re talking about.

  A hat rack could have any number of hooks or padded pillows or whatever it is you hang hats on. And who, in these modern times, own enough fancy hats to necessitate a hat box, let alone an entire rack?

  But I know better than to talk sense to people who have their hearts set on naming things that don’t need to be named, and scoring another goal might keep my mind off Libby for another fifty seconds…

  Forty seconds…

  Thirty seconds as I dart around Nowicki, who for once is actually paying attention during the tail end of a period, but it doesn’t matter. Because he is a normal guy playing hockey, and I am a demon possessed with the need for this game to end so I can find Libby and tell her in person that I need her more than I’ve ever needed anything. More than I need to hit a scoring goal this season, more than I need that endorsement deal Brendan assures me is going to help me negotiate a bigger salary, more than I need my family to stay healthy and my friends to be happy and the people I care about to believe their dreams can come true.

  Fuck, I want to believe dreams can come true.

  Twenty seconds…

  I cut around the defensemen and circle behind the net, going so fast I’m balanced on the edge of one skate and about to lose purchase on the ice. My blade chatters, but I stay upright long enough to see Nowicki clear and coming in fast. I saucer pass the puck, which does a double bunny hop, and lands right in front of Nowicki, like a finely wrapped box of chocolates.

  Ten seconds, and that rookie slaps the shit out of that beautiful present I hand-delivered to his stick, but the goalie is a fat bastard with a stupidly fast right leg. The puck bounces off his toe—off his fucking toe. God the goal is so close I can taste it, salty and tempting in my mouth, and I pounce on the juicy rebound.

  Five seconds and the puck is mine, all mine, and I whip that black biscuit right between Big Bastard’s legs. It hits the net a split second before the buzzer sounds and the crowd loses its damned mind. Wild, roaring, rabid-Badger-fan victory sounds fill the air like sweet, extremely loud music, and I thrust my stick in the air with a “Hell, yes, Portland!”

  Soon I’m surrounded by the rest of my team, who pound my back and knock affectionately on my helmet, while more hats rain down onto the ice all around us, proving that maybe there is something to the hat rack thing, after all.

  I don’t know, I only know that as I skate back toward the bench to grab a seat and see if I’m going to make one of the three stars of the game—yes, I realize it’s pretty likely, but I prefer to keep shit humble until my name’s called over the PA—that I only have eyes for the woman on the other side of the rain of Badger ball caps.

  A woman in a red coat and a white pompom hat, holding a sign that says:

  Roses are red, violets are blue,

  Guess what, Cruise?

  I love you, too.

  A strangled sound rips from my throat—I’m so fucking relieved I literally choke on it a little—and I break from the rest of the team, zipping across the ice like I’m gunning for another goal.

  And I am. But it’s a different goal, a better goal. It’s Libby, my Libby with her silky hair falling around her shoulders and her brown eyes glittering just for me and a smile on her face that tells me she’s every bit as crazy about me as I am about her.

  Around me, I’m dimly aware of the change in the quality of the shouts and cheers coming from the crowd, and I realize we’ve been spotted. But I don’t bother playing it cool or dialing back my happiness to a more respectable level or worry about what kind of show we’re putting on for the fans. A few thousand people might be watching, but this moment is all for Libby and me.

  I skid to a stop in front of her, snowing on her boots, and reach for the sign.

  “I didn’t have time to write a better poem,” she says softly, letting me take the sheet of paper and toss it onto the rubber floor at her feet.

  “What are you talking about, Collins? That’s the best fucking poem I’ve ever read.”

  She bites her lip. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” I say, slipping my hands around her waist. “As long as it’s true.”

  “The truest thing I’ve ever felt,” she says, her words becoming a yip of surprise as I sweep her into my arms, spinning in a circle on the game-ravaged ice as I kiss her, holding nothing back.

  There are skate scars and ruts beneath my feet that make for a bumpy ride, the crowd is cheering so loud that the air around us vibrates like a train is rumbling by inches away, but for me there is only Libby. Libby’s lips and her taste and her tongue dancing with mine. Libby’s curvy body pressed to my chest and her arms clinging tight to my neck and her heart beating in perfect rhythm with mine.

  “I love you, Elisabeth Collins,” I mumble against her mouth. “Will you be my girl?”

  “I will. On one condition.”

  “Anything,” I say, knowing it’s true. I will do anything for this g
irl, this woman who has taken my black and white world and shot it through with heart-stopping color.

  “We keep the same rules. No lies, no holding back…” She pauses, before adding in a softer voice, “And if it ends, we do our best to make it easy on the other people we love.”

  I gaze into her eyes and jump right into the “no holding back” water, head first. “And what if it never ends, Libs? What if I want to spend the rest of my life being the lucky bastard who gets to come home to you?”

  She blinks faster and her lips part. “Well, I…I guess that would be okay, too.”

  “Okay?” I scowl, and she laughs as she kisses me.

  “Better than okay,” she murmurs. “So much better than okay that you should take me home right now so I can show you how much better.”

  I squeeze her tighter. “Give me five minutes. I was so stressed out about losing you that I scored a bunch of goals in the last period and probably need to get back to the bench so they can start calling the three stars of the game.”

  She arches a brow as I set her back on her feet just inside the tunnel. “Sounds like you don’t need a Sext Goddess for good luck after all.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” I say, as I skate backward. “And I’m going to show you how much as soon as I get you alone, Collins.”

  I cruise backward toward the bench, eyes locked on a smiling Libby the entire time, while the crowd continues to cheer because the only thing better than a hat rack is a hat rack followed by romance on the ice. And when my name is called as number one star, it’s great, but not nearly as great as the moment when I get back to the tunnel and get to kiss Libby some more while my teammates hustle by giving us good-natured shit for being grossly, publicly, disgustingly in love.

  But in between the calls to “get a room” and “let her come up for air, Cruise” I hear Chloe calling out to Brendan, “Daddy! Daddy, I did it! Justin and Libby are in love because of my paper and markers and because art is magic!”