By the time we get to Tampa, everyone is bagged, so the first order of business is checking into the hotel, getting settled, and resting up for tomorrow’s practice.
Darren and I share a room. Our accommodations are standard: two double beds, a couch, flat screen, and a minibar stocked with water and energy drinks. Darren tosses his bag on the closest bed and gives me a look. I’m waiting for the questions. He’s never been part of the puck bunny scene. I envy his ability to say fuck it and fuck the guys. I wish I’d had a similar mindset at the beginning of my NHL career.
Darren grabs two bottles of water from the minibar and tosses me one. “So what happened?”
I crack the lid and drain half of it in two gulps. I’m dehydrated from last night’s activities. “Nothing.”
“Right. A giant hickey magically appeared on your neck.”
“Like I said, I met a girl in the elevator.” Normally, I’d be upfront with Darren, but the situation is complicated.
Darren shakes his head. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
He disappears into the bathroom. I’m not sure if he actually knows what I did or if he’s playing mind games. The shower turns on. His questions will wait; Darren takes long ass showers.
I check my phone for the tenth time today. I have twelve emails from my agent, Dick. He lives up to his name, but he gets the job done. I’m inclined to ignore his emails until I see one titled: ENDORSEMENT OFFER MUTHAFCUKA! I open it and scan the email. It’s not an actual offer, but it’s close. I’m a top contender for the Sports Pro Elite campaign. This is huge. It’s what I’ve been waiting my entire goddamned career for. This kind of endorsement could set me up for years, and it could bring more endorsements with it.
In my rookie days, I was passed over by another significant endorser. Ever since then, I’ve been aiming for the top as a big FU to the ones who didn’t believe I’d be more than a bench warmer. Dick rambles on about some Bachelor of the Year bullshit I don’t care about, until he mentions that it could affect the SPE campaign. I’ll do whatever it takes to win it. I’ll even pose in my damn jockstrap.
I send Dick a quick message in response, and we set up a phone call for the following day to hammer out the details. I’m riding the high as I check my missed calls.
I haven’t heard from Violet, so I decide to shoot her a text.
I instantly want to unsend it. I meant for it to be funny, not offensive. After a few minutes of staring at the screen, waiting for her reply, I dig out my iPad and tap into the hotel Wi-Fi. A search for Violet Butterson comes up with nothing. She told me what she does for a living but not where she works, so that’s a dead end.
Momentarily stumped, I consider my next plan of action. Facebook is a safe bet. Even my eighty-seven-year-old great-granny has an account. I locate Butterson in my friend list, and search his for Violet. Her last name is Hall. A friend request is out of the question; first I need to establish contact and maybe see her again. Also, pissing Butterson off more isn’t in my teams best interests. I can creep her instead. Unfortunately, her privacy settings are high.
Butterson’s feed and his photo albums are accessible. I find a few pictures of her with Sidney at what appears to be her work. I screenshot the image so I can look it up later. She’s bound to have an email address in their directory.
Next I search the album labeled Summer Vacation with the Halls; it looks promising. I’m right. It contains loads of pictures of Violet. They’re a few years old. Her face is softer, rounder, and her hair is different. She wears a variety of bikinis in most of them: pink and lime green striped, pale blue with ruffle-things on her chest, and a white lacy halter set.
Shouty caps in the comments draw my attention to another picture. A message from Violet to Buck reads: GET READY TO HAVE YOUR ASS KICKED, YETI!
I click on the image. It’s one of Violet from behind. The right side of her bikini bottom has ridden up, so half her ass cheek is hanging out. Butterson’s caption reads: Hungry? I can see why Violet might not appreciate the humor, considering it’s her bum eating her bikini.
Some back and forth ensues, all in shouty caps. Violet slings creative insults. I return to the album and continue to scroll. Whoever took these pictures spent a lot of time focused on Violet. She’s highly photogenic. There are a few of her with Butterson. I find one disturbing; he has her slung over his shoulder, and her ass is in the air with his huge paw of a hand wrapped around the back of her leg. What’s most concerning is how high his hand is on her thigh. Maybe he used to have a thing for her. It would explain their conversation at the bar.
The next image is an action shot of Violet flailing followed by her landing in the water. Arranged in a slideshow, the progression of events appears like a flip book. The final shot is the best. Violet pulls herself up on the side of the dock, one knee on the edge, hair fanned out in a dark wave. Her cleavage is outstanding. I can imagine how hot the position would be if I was, say, doing her from behind against my kitchen island.
For someone so protective of his stepsister, Butterson doesn’t have any qualms sharing revealing photos on a highly public profile. I can’t mention it to him, or he’ll know I’ve been creeping Violet.
Before I consider my actions, I save the best pics to my iPad. My rationale? I’ve seen her in less. Even as guilt gnaws at me, I scan to make sure I’ve got all the good ones. Darren comes out of the shower, so I tuck away my iPad. My invasion of privacy is shameful. Everything I’ve done in the past twenty-four hours is reprehensible on so many levels. I’m disappointed in myself. But I’ll probably whack off to the pictures when I’m alone anyway.
VIOLET
My mother rises at the ass crack of dawn, even on the weekends. I’ve been asleep for less than two hours post stealth departure from Alex’s room when pounding on my door shocks me awake.
“Rise and shine, Vi! It’s time for shopping! We’re hitting the outlet mall bright and early!” Her shrill excitement is an awful way to wake up.
The clock on the nightstand reads seven thirty. On a Sunday morning. What the hell is wrong with her? “Go away!” I shove my head under the pillow.
As my mind wakes up, last night—or this morning—returns in a flash of orgasms. I had a lot of them. Judging by the soreness below the waist, I won't soon forget them, either.
“You have twenty minutes to get ready. Sidney wants to hit Denny’s before the breakfast rush, and we’re flying out this afternoon. We need to get a move on!”
My stomach rumbles, sharing the enthusiasm for breakfast. I can’t argue with Denny’s. Besides, my mom isn’t going to go away; she’ll stand outside my door and annoy me until I open it.
“I need half an hour,” I say through a yawn.
“If I don’t hear the shower come on in five minutes, I’ll get Sidney to bust down your door,” she replies cheerfully.
Despite the threat, I don’t get out of bed right away. Instead, I check my phone. I have a voice mail from an unknown number. My stomach flips as I key in the code and listen to the message. It’s Alex. His sexy-as-fuck sleepy voice wakes up my beaten-down beaver. Shit. He has my glasses and wants to return them. That seems to defeat the purpose of a one-night stand. Although, being Buck’s teammate also ensures I’ll see him again, anyway. I listen to the message a few more times and save it. Now is not the time to call him; I’m on too little sleep to make good decisions where Alex and his magic monster cock is concerned.
I get out of bed and wobble to the bathroom like a newborn foal. My entire body aches as if I climbed a mountain with a fifty pound weight strapped to my back and finished it off with an Iron Man. My beaver has its own pulse. Today is going to be rough.
After a marathon morning of shopping with my mom while Sidney hangs out with some of his coach homies, we catch our afternoon flight to Chicago. Shoved in the pocket in front of my seat, along with the pamphlet on plane evacuation procedures, is a gossip rag. I flip aimlessly through it, not really paying attention to the content until I come across
a picture of Alex. Some skanky, hot girl is wrapped around him, practically humping his leg. I check out the date on the cover; it’s from last week. Great. Now I’m the flavor of the week.
My mom grabs the magazine out of my hand. “Oh, he’s cute. Didn’t you meet him last night?”
“Who knows,” I grumble. “They’re all the same. Just a bunch of asshole players.”
“That’s not true. Buck’s a sweetheart.”
Sidney scoffs. “Buck’s about as sweet as a bucket of vinegar.”
By the time we land in Chicago, I’m exhausted. Sex and shopping wear a girl out. I’m all for going directly to bed, but Charlene’s car is parked in the driveway behind my SUV. I grab my suitcase and head for the pool house while Sidney carries all of my mom’s overnight bags to the house.
Charlene clearly used her spare key since I find her sitting on my couch, watching hockey highlights.
“Why haven’t you messaged me? What the hell is going on? You need to explain this.” Charlene holds up a full-color printout of two people playing tonsil hockey.
I grab it out of her hands. “Where did you get this?” It’s not one picture; it’s an entire stack.
“From the Internet, where else? I can’t believe you made out with Alex Waters and didn’t bother to text me or send an action selfie.”
I flop on the couch. My glasses don’t seem like such a big deal anymore, not compared to this. I’ve been in the paper before. I’ve even inadvertently appeared in magazine spreads. Until now I’ve always been in the background—a vague blur of female form. Not this time. Me and my tongue are front and center in Alex’s mouth.
Booze is the only way to manage this. I go straight for the liquor cabinet. I have two bottles to choose from: vodka and Sour Puss Apple. Vodka tastes terrible straight, so I opt for the Sour Puss. I set up three shot glasses and pour the electric green liquor before downing two and passing one to Char.
“What in the world happened at the game?”
“The pictures are pretty self-explanatory. We were mouth fucking.”
“‘Mouth fucking’?”
I grin despite the mess of a situation. “Like that?”
“I think you should try to slip it into casual conversation tomorrow.” Charlene tips her shot glass and makes a face as she swallows. “What else happened?”
“I had sex with him.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Her shock is reasonable; it’s totally un-me.
“Twice.”
“You’re not kidding.” She holds out her shot glass, so I pour her another and two more for myself. “Were you drunk?”
“Not so drunk I didn’t know better.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“So? Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” My stomach turns. I’m not so sure I want to hear Alex-inspired rumors.
“The ones about his junk.”
The hockey hooker discussion I overheard regarding the size of the teams’ man units comes to mind. Usually rumors are a bunch of crap. This time they’re true.
I keep my face impassive. “He has a finger penis.”
“Liar. You wouldn’t have had sex with him twice if he had a finger penis.” Her eyes light up. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”
I turn away and pour more shots to avoid her excitement. “Alex’s junk is not up for discussion. It’s not like I’m going to see it again anyway.”
“Look, Violet, if these kinds of pictures turned up of me with, say, Darren Westinghouse, I’d tell everyone how awesome he was in the sack, even if it was only a partial truth.” She points a finger. “Except you. I’d tell you if it sucked, so don’t you think for a second you can hold out on the details.”
I sigh. “Fine. He has a monster cock.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Charlene sputters.
“It’s a monster.”
Her nose scrunches in disgust. “You mean it’s deformed?”
“No. I mean it’s huge.”
“How huge?”
“Unnaturally huge.”
“Like a porno dick?”
“Exactly.”
She holds out her shot glass. “I need another one of these.”
We polish off the bottle of Sour Puss while surfing the Internet for pictures of Alex and me mouth fucking. There are a shitload of images, including thousands of Alex with various women. It appears the magazine spread I encountered on the plane and this weekend’s adventures aren’t isolated events.
Alex Waters is popular with the ladies. Based on media reports, he’s been with a hell of a lot of them. I find a two-minute long YouTube montage of him making out with various women. He’s stuck his tongue in a lot of mouths. I also discover Alex has been in several promotional ads beyond the milk one. I know with certainty he isn’t storing a sock in his boxer briefs.
Sometime around midnight, my phone rings. Charlene grabs it and checks the number. “It says unknown. Is it him? I bet it’s him!”
Before I can tell her not to, she answers the call. Char’s eyes go wide, and she covers the receiver with her hand, mouthing talk to him with an excitement I’m not sure I share.
I hold out my hand, take a deep breath, and put the phone to my ear. “Hi?”
“Violet?”
His voice is its own orgasm. “That’s me.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
There’s a long pause in which neither of us speak, and Charlene makes flailing hand gestures while mouthing things I can’t understand.
Alex breaks the awkward silence. “How are you?”
“Uh, pretty good. How about you?”
“Better now. Sorry I’m calling so late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Just hanging out.”
Charlene points to her crotch and makes jerking motions. I turn away so I don’t start laughing.
“Are you in your jammies?” His voice is so low it’s almost a rumble.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, nothing. I didn’t mean to ask that. It just came out. I’m sorry.”
And here I thought I was the awkward one. Maybe Alex is drunk dialing me. I go with it, lowering my voice to what I hope is a sultry whisper. “Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”
“Yes. No. Is this a trick question? Only if you won’t hang up on me for saying yes, otherwise no.” He’s cute, even for a manwhore.
“I’m wearing a black lace thong and a matching lace bra.”
He sighs into the phone. “Really? I didn’t take you for a black lace kind of girl.”
“No. Not even close. It’s fun to pretend, isn’t it?” I’m thankful he can’t see my face right now. It’s hot, so it’s probably blotchy. “I’m in jeans and a T-shirt. I was thinking I’d lose the bra soon.” I shouldn’t be entertaining him after what I’ve seen on the Internet and that magazine spread.
Charlene smacks me with a pillow. I fight her off while trying to keep the phone to my ear.
“Is the shirt tight?”
I check out my rack. “Um, I guess. It’s a small. If I wasn’t wearing a bra I could probably see my nipples through it.”
There’s more heavy breathing on the other end of the line. I roll off the couch, run to my bedroom, and lock the door so Charlene can’t get in. “Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you whacking off?”
“God, no.”
“Okay, that’s good. I think.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. As soon as I hang up, Charlene is going to lose it on me for being such an idiot. “Did you call to find out what I was wearing?”
“No. I called to apologize.”
What a kick in the nonexistent nuts. Apologies after sex are never good.
He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures by now . . .”
“Oh, yeah, those.”
“I hope Butterson doesn’t give you a hard time. There’s always someone at the bar snapping photos.”
“No worries. There are way worse pictures of Buck. Besides, there are plenty of other pictures of you out there, so I’m sure these ones will be buried soon enough.” I cringe at the way it sounds, and because it’s most likely true.
“I wanted to explain—”
“Anyway, I got your message and the text. My beaver’s fine, by the way, nothing a long bath won’t fix, and don’t worry, I have another pair of glasses, and contact lenses, so lots of backup.”
“I’d still like to drop them off when I’m in Chicago.”
“You really don’t need to go out of your way. You can mail them if you want. I can give you the address.”
He repeats it back to me. “I’d still prefer to bring them by, if it’s okay with you.”
The prospect of seeing Alex again makes my beaver all drooly. “Um, sure.”
“Great. Awesome. I’ll see you when I get back.” He sounds almost giddy.
“Okay. Well . . . talk to you later, then.”
“I sure hope so. Night, Violet.”
Charlene is waiting on the other side of the door. “So? What did he say?”
“He wants to drop my glasses off.” While part of me is excited, the other part is wary. According to media reports, Alex Waters is a player, and I don’t want to get played.
Despite the low alcohol content of Sour Puss, I’m mildly hungover the next morning. Char and I consume copious quantities of water as a means to flush the sugar out of our systems and follow it with a pot of coffee.
Too lazy to deal with my hair, I pull it up into a high ponytail, exposing marks on my neck. I have a hickey. No, wait. I have—let me count them—four hickeys. How I haven’t noticed them until now is beyond me, but there they are: faint, pinkish-purple reminders of my failure of a one-night stand.
I find an infinity scarf, which Charlene arranges artfully around my neck—i.e. she loops it twice—and covers up my misdemeanors.
Carrying my travel mug and messenger bag, I open the door and nearly have a heart attack. A guy holding a huge bouquet of flowers stands on my front steps. It’s colossal in the most preposterous way.
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