PUCKED

by Helena Hunting

  We’d been seeing each other for only a few weeks when he suggested meeting my parents. I was floored. Most guys avoid that business like the plague. So I introduced him to Sidney, who offered to watch him play. I went, too, just to be a supportive girlfriend, and discovered Steve was never going to be a good enough player to make it to a farm team, let alone the NHL. Sid took him aside and let him down easy. Still, a bruised ego is a bruised ego.

  A few days later I stopped by the coffee shop to pick up a latte between classes. I wasn’t surprised to see him. What did surprise me was the brunette cozied up on his junk. She was one of those skanky types, dressed in a super-short skirt with cleavage spilling out of her low-cut blouse. Her boobs were way bigger than mine.

  Now, let me be clear—I knew this relationship wasn’t going anywhere. In fact, I wasn’t really interested in seeing him anymore. Sex with him was, as mentioned previously, lackluster at best. His orgasms sounded like a hyena in heat and he was lacking below the waist. It was the ultimate in disappointing sex. At the time I was tired of being alone, and the unpleasant, high-pitched sex seemed better than nothing. It was quite the funk.

  Steve and the skank were snuggling on the couch. I was as annoyed as I was relieved until he pulled the shittiest kind of move in the history of dating. It will stick with me for the rest of my life—beyond the dog-whistle moaning sex.

  He looked at me as if he didn’t know who I was. He even asked if he could help me. Before I made an enormous fool out of myself, I told him he looked like some douche-whore with a small dick I used to know, and left.

  That was more than eight months ago. Since then I’ve been on a dating hiatus. Hockey players of any kind have been strictly off the table. Until Alex.

  The irony that I’m involved with a would-be manwhore-who-was-never-a-manwhore is not lost on me. In my defense I thought I knew what I was getting myself into. It’s not my fault all the rumors turned out to be false and Alex is a nice guy.

  Several members of Alex’s team wander into the lounge. Most sit on the couches and watch TV while they wait for the rest of the guys to finish cleaning up. They’re all wearing suits, looking refined. A guy named Spencer sets a brush and a ponytail holder in front of me. His hair is long and pulled back into one of those man bun things I’ve seen a lot of lately.

  “You look like you might need this.” His cheeks pinken as his eyes lift to my hair. I’d appreciate it more if I wasn’t so embarrassed.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  By the time I’ve brushed my hair into a semismooth ponytail, Alex returns to the lounge, freshly showered and dressed in a black pinstripe suit.

  “Leaving the locker room should be interesting, hey, Waters?” one of the guys says, nodding in my direction.

  It takes a few seconds for this information to process. I have to leave through the same door I came in. There are always camera crews waiting, even after the interviews are done. How the hell am I going to get out of here without the world finding out I’ve become Alex’s puck bunny?

  VIOLET

  Closing my eyes, I pray for the ability to beam myself out of the locker room. Unfortunately, when I open them I’m still standing here staring at Alex. He’s nice to look at, so that’s a consolation.

  “I can’t leave the locker room.”

  Someone starts to speak. I shush them with a karate chop through the air. This is unreasonable. I’m aware I’ll have to leave this room eventually. I’m so freaked out. I must look like those weird greeting cards with the animals whose eyes are half the size of their head. I don’t want pictures taken of me like this. Unable to contain myself, I pace around the room, continuing my mini-tirade, explaining why I can’t leave should Alex or any of his teammates within earshot be interested.

  “People are going to think I’m your hockey hooker. Or I’m gangbanging the team. Then you know what will happen?” Alex opens his mouth, but I cut him off. “I’ll tell you what’s going to happen. Some porn producer will try and put me in a movie. It’ll be called Hockey Hooker does the Hawks.”

  I suck in a deep breath. It’s not enough; I can’t get sufficient air into my lungs. I’m sweaty and clammy. If this is what a panic attack is, I never want another one. The room is dead silent, except for Kirk.

  “I’d totally buy a porno with you in it,” he says.

  I laser-beam holes through him with my eyes. I guess he means it as a compliment. I look over at Alex, ashamed for enjoying the murderous glint in his eye. Primal yet sophisticated in his suit, he bares his teeth at Kirk.

  “I’m not going to be in a porno.” I try for indignant, but my voice is shrill and choked.

  I’m full-on panicking. Alex better fuck me into oblivion later tonight so I can forget about this fiasco.

  It doesn’t matter if I look like a hooker or not, I’ll be tarred as one if I leave the locker room with the team.

  Buck’s hockey bag has to be in here somewhere. I’ve seen it enough times to recognize it. Better yet, maybe I can find Alex’s bag. Those bags are huge, and I’m small. If his crap isn’t in there, I can most certainly fit inside. Buck can wheel me out and no one will be the wiser.

  I stride into the other room, ignoring the eyes on me. I have a goal: avoid the walk of shame from the locker room into the paws and jaws of the media slores. I unzip Buck’s bag and I’m almost knocked over by the smell.

  “Holy hell, Buck. I think something died in here.” I lift his sweaty jersey, searching for a rodent corpse, or human remains.

  “Those are my lucky socks. I won’t wash them until we lose a game.” As if luck is going to stop them from smelling like a carcass.

  “How do you not have trench foot from wearing these things? Have you checked to make sure you have all your toes?”

  He crosses his arms over his chest. “Really? You wanna get on my case right now?”

  I shove the offending sock back in the bag and zip it up. The smell is so putrid my eyes water. Even my nose hairs feel singed. I look around the room and spot Alex’s bag. I know it’s his because it says “WATERS” in huge red letters. Rushing over, I open it up. Everything smells sweaty but not vile, so I’m willing to make a temporary home of it. I start unloading the contents, surprised by how much stuff fits in there.

  Alex kneels beside me. “Violet, baby, what are you doing?”

  I pull out his skates and a couple of the bigger items, making room to climb in. It doesn’t smell bad at all; hanging out in his hockey bag should be manageable for a few minutes.

  “This is how you’re going to get me out of here.” I mean, isn’t it obvious?

  “No one’s going to think you’re a prostitute.”

  “Really, Alex? You’re being awfully naive if you believe people aren’t going to think I’m a super slut when I walk out of this locker room with the entire team behind me. Or in front of me. Or surrounding me.”

  He flashes a dimple. “You’ll be with me.”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “And that’s better how? People already believe you’re a player. How will I avoid the puck bunny label if I saunter out of here looking like an expensive prostitute hanging off your arm?” I add the expensive part to make myself feel minutely better about this whole situation.

  Alex puts a hand on my arm, his hurt evident by the sudden slump of his shoulders. “You don’t need to do this.”

  “This is already complicated. I don’t want to create more problems for myself.” The hockey bag will be cramped, similar to how I imagine a body bag would feel except with smelly equipment.

  “There’s another exit.”

  “There is?” I haven’t seen one, but then again, I’ve been pretty preoccupied up until now.

  He nods slowly. “There is.”

  “That’s a much better option than snuggling with your jockstrap.”

  Alex tells the coach we’ll meet them at the bus. He opens the emergency door, otherwise known as the “back door.” I put my hand over my fac
e and peek through the slits between my fingers. No one is waiting to ambush us. I take Alex’s extended hand and follow him down the deserted hall to the exit. He pushes the release bar, and we step out into the cold, Canadian winter night.

  Alex wraps his arm around my waist. “See? Much better than riding around in my hockey bag.”

  “Agreed.” I huddle into his chest as he guides me across the parking lot, staying in the shadows. He keeps me curled into his side as a few reporters appear out of nowhere to chase after us. The driver opens the door, saving me from potential additional embarrassment. Once we’re on the bus, I realize my parents and Charlene have no idea where I am. I pull my phone out, turn it on, and check my texts. There are twenty-seven. Alex sent fifteen between four in the afternoon and just prior to the start of the game. The rest are from my mom and Charlene.

  Having checked before I left for the Great White North, I discovered roaming charges were super expensive, hence the reason I shut my phone off. I quickly shoot a text to Charlene and one to my mom to let them know I haven’t been kidnapped by a serial killer. The plan is to meet up with everyone at the bar to celebrate the win.

  When I’ve finished texting, I look over at Alex. He’s staring at me.

  “Why didn’t you respond to any of my messages today?” He sounds like I kicked his pet beaver.

  “Do you have any idea how expensive the roaming charges are in Canada? It doesn’t even make sense. Canada’s kind of like a huge state in the north. I know it’s a commonwealth and all, but wouldn’t it be more convenient if we had the same money and government?”

  Alex’s mouth hangs open. I fear I may have insulted him. “Every text I send costs seventy-five cents outside of the US, and I didn’t buy a package. I figured I’d see you soon enough, and if I sent you messages I’d tell you I was coming, and I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say any of that shit about Canada being an extension of the US, Violet. I know you don’t mean that.”

  Ooooh, I definitely offended him. I’ll bring it up again later. It would be the perfect way to get him all riled up before we get naked. He might smack my ass for it. Interestingly enough, the possibility gets me a little excited.

  The driver takes the bus around to pick up the rest of the team. Buck is busy answering questions from reporters. He’s concentrating hard. It makes his forehead scrunch up.

  “What did the guy say to you on the ice, anyway?”

  “Eh?” His expression is carefully blank. I’m sure he knows what I’m referring to.

  “What did he say to provoke you?” I recall what his violent outburst looked like, and I regret to say the question comes out a little breathy.

  “I don’t remember. He was being a dick.” It’s an evasive answer at best, and I don’t buy it for a second. He’s too tense. He’s lying; I just don’t know why. His phone rings, saving him from more questions. He digs it out of his pocket and checks the screen. “Shit. It’s Dick.”

  “Who’s Dick?”

  “My agent.” Alex silences the call and shoves his phone back in his pocket.

  “You’re not going to answer?”

  “Not tonight. I don’t need him jumping down my throat about the fight or the locker room.”

  His teammates pile onto the bus, thwarting my ability to ask more questions. Buck’s agent runs a lot of interference for the stupid things Buck does on a regular basis. I assume Alex’s agent must do the same.

  Alex’s teammates razz him about the fight on the ice the entire way to the bar. No one so much as mentions the locker room. Regardless, Alex becomes increasingly annoyed as they give him hell for being so hotheaded. While I’m a fan of an irritated Alex, I don’t want him to be in a pissy mood for the rest of the evening. Even if it might benefit me later.

  I’ve never experienced the team’s arrival from this perspective. It’s overwhelming. The media slags and excited fans are all over the place, flashes from cell phone cameras go off like strobe lights. They yell at Alex, asking about the fight and me, wanting to know if the locker room rumors are true. I cower into his side, disturbed by how quickly news travels. As the lone female among the throng of giant males, I stick out like a pair of boobs in a sea of dicks, just as I feared.

  I grip Alex’s arm tightly. “Please tell me there aren't any pictures.”

  He shakes his head. “It’s all speculation.”

  His response doesn’t do much to alleviate my concern.

  Through the spots in my eyes from the flashes, I search valiantly for my parents and Charlene in the crowd. All the faces are indistinct blurs.

  Alex takes my hand and leans down so his mouth is close to my ear. “My family is here. I want to introduce you.”

  Oh God. I have to meet the parents. I’m thankful I had time to manage my hair, otherwise I’d still be sporting the freshly fucked look. What if I say something dumb? This is me after all; I have a propensity for spewing idiocy. What if Alex’s mother hates me? What if rumors of the locker room lovin’ have already reached her?

  My palm is sweaty as Alex slides his fingers between mine and gives it a squeeze. I squeeze back, unable to let up on my grip.

  He pulls me close and kisses my temple. “They’re going to love you.”

  We’ll see about that. Immediately after we enter the VIP section, a woman my mother’s age throws her arms around him.

  Once she lets him go, I take in the rest of her. Holy shit. If there happened to be a Cougar Component for a beauty pageant, she’d be a prime candidate. Her stunning face and delicate features are overshadowed by her hair. It’s huge.

  The complexity of the teased style must be held in place by seven cans of hairspray. If I lit a match within a ten-foot radius of her head, she would burst into flames. I just can’t get over it. As I stare in horrified awe, I snap my mouth shut and attempt a natural smile.

  Alex is beaming. It would be cute if I wasn’t so damn stunned by the pageant queen before me.

  “Mom, this is my girlfriend, Violet. Violet, this is my mother, Daisy.”

  “It’s so nice to meet you,” I say through my plastered-on smile.

  How adorable. We’re both named after flowers. Her name is completely at odds with her crazy Aqua Net hair. Daisy is a name I attribute to flower children who wear tie-dye and smoke weed.

  Beyond the hair and the discordant name, Alex introduced me as his girlfriend again. To his mother. At least he doesn’t have to tell her I’m not a prostitute, but this is crazy. I didn’t even get the chance to say I wanted to be his girlfriend—he just applied the label. Don’t people ask those sorts of questions nowadays? Or is it assumed once we reach the stage of weekend getaways? Does this qualify as a weekend getaway? I have too many questions.

  “I had no idea Alex had a girlfriend.” She looks at Alex. “Why would you want to keep this one a secret?”

  Oooh. I’m not liking Mrs. Waters so far.

  “I haven’t been keeping Violet a secret.” He’s smiling, but there’s an edge to his tone and a warning in his eyes as he stares his mother down.

  I can see the moment she decides I’m not good enough for her son. She extends her hand and gives me a limp-noodle handshake, like I have a disease. This is going so well.

  Alex is either oblivious to the estrogen landmine we’ve dropped into, or he’s looking for a way to save me, because he introduces me to his father. Holy vowel sounds. Alex may have his mother’s eyes and hair color, but he has his dad’s looks. Mr. Waters’ is pulling a hard-core silver fox. His eyes are a stunning shade of blue. This family has been blessed with amazing eye genes. And everything else. His choice of clothing is something else. He’s sporting a pair of worn jeans and a white button-down. The top three buttons are undone, exposing a band T-shirt. He’s also wearing Birkenstocks—with socks.

  He leans in so he doesn’t have to yell. “Don’t mind Daisy. She thinks she needs to know what Alex had for breakfast. She doesn’t like to be left out.�
� He winks and straightens. “I can see why he might be trying to keep you all to himself. You look feisty enough to keep him in line, which he seems to need after the stunt he pulled tonight. Fighting is for rookies, son.”

  I hold in my sigh of relief, glad he’s not referring to the locker room.

  Alex’s father is much warmer than his mother. His name is Robert, but he goes by Robbie. He’s all chilled-out and relaxed. He slings an arm over Daisy’s shoulder, and she rests her rock-hard hair on his chest. She doesn’t look like she wants to kill me anymore, maybe just maim me.

  As Robbie asks me questions about how I met Alex, a girl closer to my age comes sauntering up to the bar with a fruity drink in her hand. She throws her arms around Alex’s neck.

  My first inclination is to grab her by the hair, but I recognize her from the photos last week. She’s Alex’s sister. I have nothing to be jealous of. Apart from the fact that she’s all legs and has long, flowing sandy blonde hair. Damn her and her near perfection. She’s wearing distressed jeans and a T-shirt that says “100% Recycled Material.” She’s also sporting Birkenstocks with rainbow toe-socks. Alex’s sister is a certified hippie. She and her father are two peas in a pod.

  “The amaretto sours are best!” she says to no one in particular.

  Daisy looks at one of her hot pink nails. “Don’t get drunk and make a fool out of yourself.”

  Alex’s sister either ignores Daisy or doesn’t hear her as she chugs the rest of her drink and finally notices me. “Oh my God, you’re the make out girl!” Her shriek is so loud all conversation around us stops. “You’re even prettier in real life! I can totally see why Alex stuck his tongue down your throat.”