Since I’m not in my own house, I keep the boxers and T-shirt on. I don’t normally do underwear, but clubs are hot. They make my balls stick to my leg otherwise. I get comfortable on the couch. It’s white leather, which is a stupid color choice, but whatever. I flip open the pizza box, groaning at the sight of melted cheese and piles of meaty awesomeness.
When Sunny and I order pizza, there isn’t even cheese. She doesn’t eat anything with a face, or that came from something with a face. I don’t think I could live without cow in my life, but that’s me.
As I tear a slice free, the cheese clings to his brothers like he’s terrified of his fate. I lean over the box—I’m too lazy to go to the kitchen and get a plate—and take a huge bite. It’s hot. Like, out-of-the-oven hot, which is crazy because it’s clearly not just out of the oven. If I was less drunk, I might have paid attention to the puff of steam when I tore out the first slice, but I’m in too much of a hurry to get food in my belly.
The cheese scalds the roof of my mouth and strings settle on my chin, burning that, too. I drop the slice, half of it drooping over the edge of the box onto the coffee table and the most recent edition of The Hockey News. Cracking another soda, I chug half the can to cool my mouth. I suck at life tonight.
While I wait for the pizza to cool, I search for the remote. It’s not on the coffee table or under the pizza box. I find it stuck between the couch cushions along with a pair of panties. I leave those where they are.
Two in the morning doesn’t boast much in the way of quality programming. Other than infomercials and porn, I have a choice between sports highlights and old sitcoms or the music video channel. I flip aimlessly, pausing at some bad porn. I doubt I’ll have the energy to whack off later. I might be drunk enough to have whiskey dick, even though I don’t drink whiskey.
I settle on the music video channel and get back to the pizza, which is now cool enough to eat. I devour half the box and nod off on the couch. The only reason I wake up is because my phone rings. It’s in my pants, which are on the floor about twenty feet away, so I miss the call. I decide I’d rather sleep in a bed than on Lance’s couch. I’ve crashed here enough times since I was traded mid-season to have a room I call dibs on when I get too wasted to take my ass home.
I have no idea if Lance and Randy are still outside with the girls. If they are, there’s a good chance that hot tub is going to need a serious cleaning tomorrow. I almost trip over my pants on the way upstairs. I drag them with me to the second floor and crash into the spare bedroom.
Kicking the door closed, I pull my shirt over my head, drop my boxers, and fall face down on the mattress. Music still pounds through the speakers outside, making the whole house vibrate. It’s not pop anymore; it’s some cheesy love ballad from the eighties. It sounds like something Sunny would like.
Thinking about her makes my dick excited, which sucks because I don’t have the coordination to do anything about it. I hate that she doesn’t live closer. Canada isn’t that far from Chicago, but it’s enough distance that it makes this whole dating thing that much harder.
I want to call her. I know it’s a bad idea. I’m drunk, and she’s probably asleep, considering it’s after two in the morning. Or maybe it’s already five. I can’t read the clock. My logic filter isn’t working, so I feel around for my pants. They’re on the floor. I almost fall out of bed trying to get them. I dig the phone out of the pocket. The battery reads nine percent. It’s enough for a quick call. It’ll probably go to voice mail anyway.
As predicted, it rings four times, and I get her message.
“You’ve reached Sunshine Waters. I’m probably busy cleansing my chi, but when I’m done I’ll give you a dingle. Remember, karma is your friend!”
I hang up without leaving a message and call again. I get voice mail a second time. On the third try, she picks up.
“Hello?” Her voice is raspy with sleep. It’s similar to how she sounds when she comes. I’ve only been able to do that with my fingers so far. Sunny wants to take things slow. I need to get control of the puck before I can score my favorite kind of goal.
“Hey, sweets. Did I wake you?” It’s a stupid question. Of course I woke her; I called three times in the middle of the night.
“Miller?”
“I’m sorry. It’s late isn’t it?” I roll over onto my back and starfish, letting my balls breathe. The rustle of sheets filters through the phone. I imagine what she might be wearing based on our late-night Skype chats. She’s a baggy-shirt-and-shorts girl. Sometimes she wears one of those sheer shirts so it’s like she’s naked, but not. Sadly, she always wears a sports bra with it. Those things are the worst invention in the world. They ruin perfectly good cleavage.
“What time is it?”
“Uh,” I squint at the clock on the nightstand, as if that’s going to make it easier to read the numbers. I’m better with analog clocks than digital ones. “Pretty early.”
“In the morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Is everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
There’s a long pause in which neither of us speaks. “Were you out with the boys tonight?”
“Yeah.”
The softness in her voice is replaced by sharpness. “Who?”
“The usual. Randy Ballistic and Lance Romero. A few of the other guys showed up later.”
“So you’re drunk?”
I knew I shouldn’t have called. I wish I had someone around to stop me from doing stupid shit all the time. At least Randy kept the bunnies occupied and away from me. Most of the time Lance isn’t much help. He encourages bad decision-making.
“I had a few drinks. I wanted to hear your voice.” It sounds like a line, but it’s not. I really do want to hear her voice, even if that makes me seem whipped.
She makes a little noise, like maybe she’s stretching or trying to get comfortable. It goes straight to my dick, inflating it like a helium balloon.
“That’s sweet, Miller,” she says on a sigh. I love that she uses my real name instead of my nickname. “But don’t you think it would be better to call when you’re sober and it’s not the middle of the night? You interrupted a nice dream.”
“What kind of dream? Was it a sex dream?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“It was, wasn’t it?”
“I’m not saying anything.”
“It’ll be a million times better when you let me get you naked in real life.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Butterson.”
“I’m just sayin’, when you let it happen, it’s gonna be awesome times a billion.”
She sighs.
“Sweets?”
“You should sleep off whatever you drank. Are you still coming tomorrow?”
“I’ll come for you right now, baby.”
There’s a knock on the door. I hear Randy’s voice followed by a giggle. I cover the receiver, at least I think I do, and shout, “I’m sleeping!”
“Are you at home? Who’s with you?”
“I’m at Lance’s.”
After a sharp inhale she asks, “Are you staying there overnight?”
“Natasha’s coming in the morning.”
“Who?”
“Our trainer. We’re using the pool for plyometrics.” I’m way less slurry now, so I can get that word out without messing it up. “Plus my car’s here, and I’m being responsible by not driving.”
“Are there girls there now?”
“Lance invited some friends back. I’m in bed.”
“How many friends?”
“A few.”
“Are any of them your friends?”
“No, baby. The only friend I have right now is my left hand.”
A long silence follows.
“Sunny? You still there?”
“I’m here. I should go, though. It’s late. I have to teach yoga first thing in the morning.”
“You sure you don’t want to tell me about that dream yo
u were having?”
That gets a half-hearted laugh. “You’re impossible. You should lock your door. ‘Night, Miller.”
My phone dies before I can answer her. I don’t have a charger handy, and I’m too tired to put clothes back on and look for one. Instead I shut my eyes and picture Sunny in her bikini—that’s the least amount of clothing I’ve seen her in—and grab onto my kinda-hard dick. I don’t have enough coordination, brain power, or energy to keep the image in my head and rub one out, so I just hold my handle in one hand and my dead phone in the other.
Then I pass the fuck out.
CHAPTER TWO
DICKFACE
My head hurts, and my mouth tastes like ass. I try not to move, but I can hear horrible music coming from somewhere outside my room, and it’s ruining my sleep. I crack a lid and cringe at the brightness coming through the curtains. The first thing I notice is that I’m not in my own bed. It takes me a while to remember I’m at Lance’s. I have a very vague recollection of a limo ride and lying on the floor in the living room. I remember a condom and a bare beaver and panic sets in.
The other side of the queen bed is empty, so I’m taking that as a good sign. My raging case of morning wood and my aching balls are also solid indicators that I didn’t put my dick anywhere I shouldn’t have.
A few months ago the unused pillow would have been occupied by a very satisfied, very well-used puck bunny. I used to be a dog. I probably still qualify as one, but I’m working on becoming reformed. It’s not that easy. Women want to ride my dick all the time. Not bringing honeys home is like passing by McDonald’s during training camp: you know you can’t have it because it’s not part of the meal plan, so you want it even more.
Instead of sex, Sunny and I text or have video chats. I like those best, especially when it’s late at night. She hangs out in her bed, and I can ogle her while we talk.
Eventually I’m hoping we’ll graduate past conversation to Skype sex. We haven’t even had real sex yet, so there’s no damn way I’m asking her to have not-real sex with me over video chat. I need to get past third base and all the way to home first. Until then, I’ll keep up with the post-Skype-ogle whack-off sessions. It’s frustrating, even though I like that she’s not slutty like the puck bunnies I’m used to.
All this means my dick has gone unused for the last few months. We’ve done some groping and making out, and she’s had her hand down my pants and vice versa, but that’s it. It’s weird. I’ve never not had sex on the first “date.”
Before Sunny, if I needed company, all I had to do was pull up my contact list, go to my honeys, call one, and wait. Usually said honey would arrive within half an hour; the ones who wear too much makeup take longer. It’s almost like ordering pizza.
It wouldn’t matter if I’d just come home from a workout or practice. I didn’t even have to shower. I could be sweaty and gross, or eat a goddamn head of garlic raw, and they’d still come and bounce on my dick.
Now that I’m trying to get Sunny to be my girlfriend, that’s not an option, so I’m stuck with my hand. In theory, if I can go without eating wings for a few months, I should be able to go without sex. It’s a lot harder in practice.
I lie in the bed that’s not mine, trying to remember the end of my night. I have a feeling I might have drunk-dialed Sunny. I hope she didn’t answer the phone. From the little I remember, I wasn’t in very good shape.
Off season is like this—late nights, lots of partying, drinking, and eating shitty food, then regretting it all when hardcore training starts again. I reposition my pillow over my head to drown out the bad music.
I’m drifting off when there’s a knock at the door. “Natasha’s gonna be here in twenty. Get your ass out of bed, Butterson,” Randy yells.
I peek out from under the pillow and stare at the numbers on the clock, willing them to stop moving around so I can read them. It’s after nine. My phone alarm should’ve gone off half an hour ago. Usually I hit the snooze button a minimum of four times every morning. I hate waking up almost as much as I hate asparagus pee. And pop music.
A few minutes later there’s another knock at my door. “Buck?”
It’s a female voice this time. It’s vaguely familiar. I ignore it.
Another knock. “Randy told me you need to get up.”
I still don’t answer. There’s whispering and giggling on the other side, followed by the sound of the doorknob turning. It’s unlocked. I’m out of bed in a flash, slamming my shoulder into the door to hold it closed. I’m naked. With morning wood. And my head hurts like hell.
I slide to the floor, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m up. I’ll be down in, like, ten.”
More giggling follows and then the patter of feet as they move on down the hall, yelling, “He says he’s up!”
I’m still sitting on the floor with my head in my hands several minutes later when Randy comes knocking. “If you’re not down there in eight minutes, Natasha’s gonna make you do suicides.”
“I’d like to see her try.”
Natasha’s been my trainer since I was traded from Miami to Chicago. She’s tough, but awesome. Sometimes I hate her for it. The threats are enough to make me pick my ass up off the floor. I flip the lock, though, in case someone else decides they want to barge into my room.
I check the nightstand for my cell, but it’s not there. It’s not on the floor either, so I sweep my hand across the comforter to see if I accidentally brought it to bed with me. I find it under the pillow. I take it to the bathroom with me, pushing the button so I can key in my password and check my messages, but the screen stays blank. My battery must have died. I set it on the back of the toilet and flip up the seat. I’m hard, so it’s almost impossible to pee.
If my phone wasn’t dead, I’d pull up a picture of Sunny and take care of my problem like that. Instead, I have to use my imagination. This morning sucks worse than usual. Since I haven’t seen her naked yet, I have to cobble together images of her mostly naked in her bikini and imagine what her bare tits would look like. Eventually I give up and grab one of the trashy magazines from the rack on the floor and flip it open. It lands on a hot blonde with fake boobs. It’ll do.
When I’m about to blow, I brace my hand on the wall and let my shins rest against the toilet seat. My knees buckle at the end, and my aim is off, so I hit the back of the toilet lid. The whole unit shakes with my weight, and my phone shifts forward.
I’m too slow to catch it. It bounces off the seat, and instead of landing on the floor, it falls straight into the bowl.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I reach in and grab it, not caring that I’m sticking my hand in toilet water and my own jizz. Shaking it off, I grab the closest towel and wipe it clean. The battery’s already dead, so I have no idea if I’ve ruined it or not.
And of course, that’s when there’s another goddamn knock on my door. I stalk my way across the room, holding the potentially ruined phone in a hand towel. I throw open the door.
“Dude, are you—” Randy stops mid-sentence.
There’s a girl behind him. She looks vaguely familiar. She’s sporting last night’s makeup and wearing Randy’s too-big shirt, and possibly nothing else. Her eyes drop below my waist.
“Oh my God!”
I’m naked and still half-hard after the whack-off session. I cover my junk with the hand towel. Randy puts a hand up to cover her eyes. She tries to pry it away, but Randy has huge hands, and he’s way stronger than she is, even if he is hungover as shit.
She points in my direction even though she can’t see me. “You have something on your—”
“Baby, why don’t you go downstairs and see what the girls are doing?”
“But—”
“I got it covered.” He whispers something in her ear. One of his hands slips under the shirt. I look away, because I don’t want to see as much of her as she’s seen of me.
She laughs and takes off down the hall, yelling, “I saw Buck’s dick, and it�
�s huge!”
“Seriously, man?” Like I need this shit.
“You’re the one answering your door like this.” He motions to my lack of clothing. “The world isn’t your locker room, Miller.”
“My fucking phone fell in the toilet!” I hold out the hand towel with my phone still wrapped in it.
“Facebooking on the shitter again?”
“Laugh it up, asshole. All my contacts are in there.”
“Does it work?”
“The battery died, so I have no idea.” He throws me a pair of swim shorts.
“Put these on and bring it downstairs. I’ll get a bag of rice.”
“What the hell’s rice gonna do for my phone?”
“Calm your tits, dude. It’s supposed to dry it out or something. We’ll charge it and put it in rice. Hopefully it’ll be working in a couple of hours.”
I pull the suit on, tuck my deflated junk away, and follow him downstairs. Randy doesn’t look nearly as rough as I feel this morning.
Two girls—the one who announced the size of my junk to the entire house, we’ll call her Dick Yeller, and another one I vaguely recognize from last night—are sitting at the breakfast bar with coffees. Another one lounges on the couch in the living room, clicking away on her phone. The girls at the breakfast bar stare at me, then drop their gazes to their cups, shoulders shaking.
“Showing off your jewels again, huh, Miller?” Natasha, our trainer, says from the other side of the kitchen, focused on the fruit she’s throwing in the blender. She seems like she’s in a mood, which means our workout is going to be extra painful today.
“Not on purpose.”
She’s got one hand on top of the blender and a finger poised over the button. She looks up as she hits the switch. I don’t have time to cover my ears before she lets it rip. It’s like a bomb going off in my head.
PUCKED Up Page 2