PUCKED Up

by Helena Hunting

  The first girl I ever groped I met at hockey camp the first year I was a junior counselor. My buckteeth—thanks to my thumb-sucking as a kid—were finally en route to being fixed. And by kid I mean ten years old, still trying to break the habit. I started after my mom died, according to my dad. I didn’t do sleepovers with friends because there was a damn good chance I would wake up with my thumb in my mouth. It was fucking embarrassing.

  Anyway, this girl was dorky, but she was amazing at hockey, and she had great legs, so I liked her. We were walking from the lake to the mess hall, and she pulled me off the trail, behind some big evergreens. Then she laid one on me, just crushed her mouth against mine and rammed her tongue right in there.

  I didn’t know what to do. Well, that’s not true. I’d watched enough movies and checked out the magazines my dad had hidden in his workshop to understand the mechanics, but she took me by surprise. When I recovered from the shock I full-on groped her and kissed her back.

  It was close to dark, and the mosquitoes were terrible. I was covered in bites when we came back out five minutes later. It was worth it, since I managed to go right past first base and directly to second. Sadly, I found out later that night that Slutty Shellie—that was her nickname, not created by me—had kissed almost every single junior counselor in the camp. At least I got in the extra boob grope.

  I imagine the number of guys she made out with might have been a bit of an exaggeration. Either way, it took some of the shine off the moment.

  I think about that Michael kid, and how his future is up in the air. If treatment doesn’t work, he might never have the chance to get past first base. All those experiences, the good and the bad, will only ever be ideas in his head. Sometimes the world sucks.

  My phone vibrates with an alert. There are new pictures. Some are posted by Patchy Bushman, but there are also a few from Lily and two new ones from Sunny. They were all added a few minutes ago. In one, Bushman has his arm around Sunny’s shoulder, his hand perilously close to her boob. It’s a selfie. They’re holding up bottles of beer. Bushman is staring right at her while she looks at the camera. In another, posted by Sunny, she’s in the middle of a Lily-and-Bushman sandwich. They’re, hugging her from either side. He’s not groping her, but it doesn’t seem particularly innocent, either.

  At first glance she looks happy, but upon closer inspection her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are blotchy. I can’t tell if it’s the quality of the picture or not. Still, they’re smiling, and I’m not there to stop whatever might happen later in the night. And she hasn’t bothered to call me.

  My phone rings. It’s not Sunny; it’s Violet.

  I don’t have a chance to say a word before she yells, “Why are your disfigured balls all over the Internet?”

  I’m going to drown Randy in the lake when I find him.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ALWAYS WITH THE OVERSHARE

  I roll off my bunk and limp-run to the porch so I can get some privacy.

  I go with the most logical reaction. Denial. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your inflated balls are everywhere, clogging up my feeds.”

  The next step is deflection. “How would you know it’s my balls, unless you’ve been looking at that naked spread I did a couple of years ago? It’s okay, Vi. You can tell me.” I never did a naked spread. I was asked; my agent thought it best not to go there.

  “You’re the most disgusting person in the entire world, Buck. Seriously. I’m going to assume they’re yours because you were tagged. Plus the shrinky-dink seems about the right size for you.”

  “My balls are swollen. It makes my dick look way smaller than it is.”

  “So it is a picture of your dick!”

  “I didn’t say that!” Shit. I hate it when Violet gets up to her trickery.

  “Yes, you did!”

  “Didn’t.”

  “Di—I’m not playing this game with you. It’s your dick. I recognize the shorts. You wore them the last time I saw you, jerkface. What I want to know is how and why it ended up all over social media. You’re supposed to be at a camp, not flashing your balls all over the place. Plus there’s another picture of you in the same damn shorts with a Sunny look-a-like hanging off you. She’s been posting the picture everywhere, which wouldn’t be so bad if the one of your damn balls wasn’t right beside it. You better not be messing around on Sunny. Alex won’t have to kick your ass. I will!”

  “Hold on.”

  “Don’t tell me to hold on—”

  I take the phone away from my ear. I can still hear her giving me shit as I type in a search of my name + dick. The first link is a medical site with the picture Randy took, along with the question. “What kind of spider bite causes this sort of swelling?”

  After that is the group photo with me and my unfortunately swollen nuts. My balls are circled in red, and Sunny’s Doppelganger has reposted it, along with the ball pic. And she’s also posted one where she cropped everyone else out but the two of us and made it her damn profile picture. So much for her concern about me. It’s amazing how quickly pictures I don’t want circulating can go viral within the span of a couple hours.

  There’s nothing I can do to stop this trainwreck now that it’s happened. I go to my own social media profiles to find I’ve been tagged by an insane number of people. There’s loads of bunny love offering to come take care of my balls for me, and wishing me a speedy recovery.

  “It looks bad, doesn’t it?”

  “Bad? It looks like you’re messing around on Sunny with someone who looks like Sunny! How am I supposed to help you when things like this keep showing up?”

  I scrub a palm over my face. “This relationship is doomed to fail.” I explain what happened with the whole spider bite fiasco.

  “Well, I see what you’re saying, but I still think maybe you’re right,” she mutters. “It’s doomed if you keep pulling stunts like this. I don’t even know what to say to you anymore.”

  “Thanks a lot, Vi. You’re an awesome source of support.”

  She sighs. “I love you, Buck, but sometimes you make it harder than it needs to be. Why aren’t you posting pictures of you with all the kids at the camp? You must have taken a million of them by this point. You always do. You need to jam your feed with something positive, not all this garbage about your balls being swollen.”

  “It takes the altruism out of it if I post the pics of the camp.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Not even a little. All those kids’ families sign a waiver for that purpose.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I read the emails Amber sends me. We’ve been over this before. I get that this is personal for you, but it doesn’t help anyone if you aren’t more vocal about all the good things you do. How do you expect to inspire other people if you keep it to yourself? All the positive things get shoved under the blanket of hockey hooker pics. Your life isn’t a frat party, but that’s the only version of you that people see. You’ve got all these great plans, but you’re not doing anything to promote your goals—unless your plan is to set up a hockey hooker support group.”

  I stare up at the sky, a million stars winking at me. Violet has a point. Amber has been on me about this for a long time. She’s been asking me to be more of a spokesperson for the charities I support. I need to put some energy into following through. The offseason is a good time to get this ball rolling, and do something on my own. My end goal is to create a foundation so fundraisers for deserving kids and their families are ongoing.

  “Okay, Vi. I hear what you’re saying. I’ll put a few posts up about the camp. I also have an idea where I want to start with a project I manage. I’m thinking a charity game might go over well, especially preseason. I’ll talk to Amber, and we can start planning when I get back to Chicago. And I’ll email Dad and get him in on it since he’s got so many contacts.”

  “This sounds so much better than hockey hooker support. You need to do something that showcases your g
enerosity beyond sharing your yeti love.”

  I roll my eyes. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “I really can’t. I should go.”

  “Wait. I have another problem.”

  “Not the kind that might make Alex try to break your dick off, I hope.”

  “Pfft. Waters couldn’t break my dick off if he tried. It’s made of straight magic, like a unicorn horn. Except not sharp. And made of flesh instead of whatever mythical substance unicorn horns are made of. But it’s unbreakable.”

  “Have you been smoking the greenery while you’ve been up there in Canada?”

  “No. Why? Never mind. So you know how Sunny’s on that camping trip with stupid Bushman?”

  “You mean Kale?”

  “Yeah. I’m worried she may have forgotten about my superior snuggle skills, or how fun naked movie-watching was, because there are pictures of him all over her like a horny dog.”

  “There’s so much about that sentence I don’t even want to think about. I don’t need an overshare right before bed.”

  “Can we not debate what constitutes an overshare right now? I don’t know how pissed I should be.”

  “Sorry. Okay, tell me about these pictures. She’s not naked is she? Alex will flip his lid.”

  “He’s got his arm around her.”

  “While she’s naked?”

  Sometimes Violet is frustrating. “No.”

  “Is he fondling her boob over her shirt?”

  “No.”

  “Under her shirt?”

  “No.”

  “So he’s trying to kiss her or something?” She sounds disgusted, which would make me feel justified in my anger, if that was the case.

  “No.”

  “He’s got his dick hanging out?”

  “Jesus. No. He’s got his arm around her.”

  “Oh. Well, what’s she doing?”

  “Smiling. They’re both holding beers. She posted it recently. They’re at a bar.”

  “There’s no inappropriate hand placement?”

  “Fuck no. I’d be on my way there right now.”

  “Hold up there, Ragey McRagerson. Think about what you’re saying. Some guy has his arm around her shoulder, and you’re considering driving eight million hours north into the middle of nowhere to do what? Yell at him? Yell at Sunny? Throw her over your shoulder and move to a cabin in the woods with no running water and an outhouse so you can keep her in a cage and take her for walks on a leash?”

  “You’re making me sound like a caveman.”

  “If the loincloth fits . . .”

  “He’s her ex. They dated for four years, Vi. What if she gets drunk and decides his tiny dick is better than my above average, magical unicorn dick?”

  “I think you need to stop worrying about your mythical man unit and focus on the real problem. You’ve made some mistakes with Sunny. She has legitimate reasons to be wary about getting into this relationship with you. It sucks. I know that. But you have lots of redeeming qualities. You’re awfully considerate and sweet when you’re not out whoring your dick. Which you haven’t been, but it still looks bad, and your reputation precedes you.”

  “I can’t take back all the bunnies.”

  “Nope, you can’t. Which means you have to work a lot harder than most to earn her trust.”

  I contemplate that. “I get what you’re saying, but I don’t think it’s fair that I take all the heat on this. All those pictures since we’ve been dating haven’t been intentional.”

  “Do you think these are?”

  “What if she’s letting him take all these cozy pictures to get me back?

  “You mean to make you jealous?”

  “I guess. People do that sometimes, right?”

  “Sometimes. I don’t see Sunny being vindictive about it, but you need to talk to her. Maybe it’s intentional, maybe it isn’t, but unless you have that conversation, all you’re doing is spinning your wheels, making up worst-case scenarios.”

  Vi’s right. I exhale loudly into the phone. “Are relationships always this hard?”

  “Not always. But the ones that are worth it are the ones you have to fight for.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  VIDEO KILLED THE BATHROOM STALL

  I’m half a second away from calling Sunny when my phone rings. At first I think it’s Violet calling back with some final insult of the night, or parting words of wisdom—both are equally likely. But it’s Sunny, and she’s on a video call.

  My first thought is phone sex. I don’t know why. I have no real privacy here. I’m kinda pissed at her, and we’ve never had it before. Also, my balls still hurt. I have a feeling it would be almost impossible to get a hard-on, let alone come.

  I answer the call. The screen remains black for several seconds before Sunny’s tear-stained face appears.

  My anger dissolves into worry. “Sunny? What’s wrong?” I try to assess her surroundings, but she’s holding the phone close to her face.

  “You promised!” She’s drunk. I can tell by her slur and the heaviness of her eyes. I’ve seen Sunny tipsy a couple of times. She was cute and fun and touchy. That’s nothing like she is right now.

  I can only assume she’s seen the pictures of my dick. “Sunny, baby. I can explain.”

  “You can always explain! You’re so good at it. Why do you have to look so good? Why do you have to be so sexy and sweet and good at sex? You’re all I can think about and—and—and—” She breaks down in a fit of tears.

  I can’t see her face anymore. I think I’m looking at her hair, but it’s hard to tell. Music gets loud and then quiet again. Voices in the background sound male. I wish I had my earbuds. Sunny’s a loud crier, and sound carries around here. Even with the buffer of forest surrounding the cabins, our private conversation is public.

  “Sunny Sunshine, take a breath. It’s okay. I wish you would’ve called me or messaged this week, then you’d know you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “We didn’t have very good reception. Well, I didn’t. I shouldn’t have gone with the cheaper phone package. I mostly only had one bar. Sometimes I could see your texts, but I couldn’t reply. Lily’s reception wasn’t any better. I tried to use her phone, and there were all these pictures—” She hiccups.

  “Let’s talk it out.”

  She lifts her head and looks blearily at me. “Your penis is all over the Internet. It was supposed to be my penis.”

  “It is yours, baby. I’m sorry about the picture. I got bit by a spider today. I didn’t know Randy was gonna put that picture up.”

  “I don’t care if everyone sees your penis. It’s a nice penis. Except your balls looked really big. Like, not-right kinda big, which I guess is from the spider bite? It was the comments on your wall. I didn’t like them. I can’t—” She hiccups. “Did you know there’s a hooker bunny group dedicated to you?”

  I sure do. I stumbled on it one day when I searched my own name. I created a fake account under the name Beaver Bunny and joined so I could see what they posted. There were a lot of selfies, many of them with me sleeping and the girl giving the thumbs up. Sometimes there were pictures of my junk hanging out. None of that is going to help make things better between me and Sunny.

  “Baby, you don’t want to look at that stuff. You know how people like to skew things.” As for the comments on the picture of my balls, I can’t control bunny condolences.

  Sunny sits up straighter and flips her hair over her shoulder. She twirls a thin braid between her fingers and rubs it over her lips. “I didn’t try to join the group. I know what you’re like. I know, and I still—” She sighs. “Lily and Benji are fighting a lot. I was going to sleep in the tent last night, but there’s bear poop around the site so I didn’t. I don’t think Kale is over me. Are you over me?”

  I’m definitely worried about how drunk she is, based on her inability to stick with one train of thought. I’m also concerned about her location. I have a million questions, such
as where the fuck is she sleeping if she’s not in the tent close to the bear poop, and what exactly has been going on with Patch McBushman for her to say he’s not over her. I’m back to being pissed, but I recognize that expressing my frustration is useless with her in this state.

  I address the last question, because it’s the most important and likely the only one she remembers. “No, of course I’m not over you. Why would you think that?”

  Her eyes drop along with her voice. “We had sex. I figured once you had the milk you’d throw away the cow.” She looks up again, tears sliding down her blotchy cheeks. “Why do you think I held out for so long?”

  “You thought I wouldn’t want to see you anymore after we had sex?” This is definitely not a conversation I want to have on the phone.

  “Well, yeah. You’re so good at the sex, and I’m not. I bet the hooker bunnies are good at it. I bet they give blow jobs. I should’ve given you a blow job. You’re amazing at sex. I already told you that didn’t I? I think I’m kinda drunk.” She blows her hair out of her face. When it doesn’t work she pushes it away with heavy, uncoordinated fingers. “If there was a Stanley Cup for orgasms, you’d definitely get it. I could make one for you in my pottery class. I miss you. I’m so mad at you. You promised no more bunny pictures and poof!” She snaps her fingers sloppily. “One magically appears. She looks like me. Do you think she’s prettier? She was wearing makeup. Should I wear makeup?”

  Her honesty makes me feel ill. There’s so much about what she’s said that’s unsettling. This isn’t how I want things to be between us. I didn’t push for sex because I didn’t want her to think that was my only reason for being with her. I thought I’d made that clear. But again, she’s not in any condition to have that talk. “I think you’re gorgeous without makeup. And that wasn’t a bunny. It was one of the camp counselors. Sunny, baby, where are you? Where’s Lily?”