Puck Aholic: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  Her smile fades. “Well, the cigarettes I understand completely, and I certainly wouldn’t want to stink up the joint. Maybe pot could be confined to a discreet corner of the back yard?”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, but this is my sister’s place. She’s in the Air Force and about as straight-edge as they come. She’ll lose her shit if she finds out I allowed weed on the property.”

  Diana hums as she glances down at the counter, tracing a swirl in the marble with the tip of one finger. “Where is your sister?”

  “Deployed. She accepted a short tour to Korea. She’ll be there through the end of the year.”

  “That’s a long time.” Diana looks up, blinking innocently. “Some might say she would never have to know there was pot on the property, so long as the person with the pot moves out before Sis moves back in. I’m assuming you’ll want me out of here before then anyway, right? Since your sister will probably want her house back.”

  I prop my hands on my hips, letting out a long, slow breath. “You’re going to be a bad influence, aren’t you?”

  “No, not at all.” She grins again, making me realize how feline she looks when she smiles. Like the cat who ate all the special brownies. “I promise I’ll never tempt you to partake. I’ll keep my habit to myself, though I will remind you that recreational marijuana is legal in Portland and used medicinally to great effect by a significant number of people nationwide. I personally use it for headaches. I used to get nasty migraines almost every day, but I’m down to one or two a month now. And I never drive or text my exes after I’ve been smoking so…”

  “So you’re basically a saint,” I tease, unable to keep from flirting with her, just a little bit. Surely a little flirting never did anyone any harm.

  “No,” she says, her grin fading. “I’m not a saint. I’m your average, mostly confused, nearly-thirty-year-old person doing the best I can. And if we end up not getting along, I’m happy to move out. You don’t even have to give me notice. Just kick me to the curb. I’m good at rolling out on the fly.”

  “Why would I do that?” I ask with a frown. “That would be a dick move, and I’m not a dick, Diana. I’m actually a nice guy. I promise.”

  “I’m sure you are,” she says, in a tone that communicates she’s anything but sure.

  Clearly, she’s had her share of bad luck with men. I think “cursed” was the word she used last night, though my memory of our conversation is whiskey-smudged. But then, I’m not really surprised. The dating pool is full of assholes and douchebags, a fact that’s often made my life simpler. The jackasses of the world make it easy for a decent male human being to make a good impression on the opposite sex.

  The flip side of that, of course, is that the jerks can make it harder to win a woman’s trust in the first place. Once a girl’s been burned by a few nasty motherfuckers, she’s less inclined to let her guard down for anyone, even a guy whose intentions are honorable.

  The fact that every good thing has a dark side is something I’ve learned the hard way.

  The disorder that helps me excel at hockey—giving my in-the-moment brain something so fast-moving to focus on that I can’t get distracted—is the reason I struggled with the new system when I first joined the Badgers and spent half my rookie season on the verge of getting sent back to the minors.

  But thank God, that didn’t happen. I adapted, my game got stronger, and my contract was renewed for another year. I’ve got time, one more season to prove I’ve got what it takes to stay in this city that feels like home, playing the game I love. If I keep my focus laser sharp, by this time next summer I could be in a position to buy my own place and put down roots.

  Yet another reason to keep my focus on my game, not sexy beach pixies.

  I should end this right now. I should tell Diana that she can crash here for a few weeks, until she finds another place, and start looking for a roommate with a dick, who will offer no erotic distractions.

  Instead, I motion toward the patio. “Let’s start the tour out back, then. Since that’s where you plan to medicate.”

  “Sweet!” Diana heads to the French doors ahead of me. “I spend a lot of time outside, actually. I get claustrophobic if I’m cooped up for too long. Too much time spent in the woods, I guess.”

  “You worked for National Geographic?” I ask, vaguely remembering Chloe bragging about her Aunt Dee.

  “Oh, I wish! That would be amazing. No, I worked for the National Park Service,” she says. “Good gig, but limited advancement opportunities, so I decided it was time to move on. Now, I’m applying for jobs and working on my graphic design portfolio. Seems like most of the people looking for creative PR types around here want a background in graphics, too.”

  So she’s currently unemployed. Which means she’ll be around a lot, while I’m also around a lot during the Badgers’ summer hiatus. Which means I’ll have nothing to keep my mind off of my smoking-hot roomie except informal scrimmage sessions and a standing date with the gym.

  I’m making plans to add in an afternoon weight training session a couple times a week, just to get out of the damned house, when we turn the corner at the back of the bungalow and Diana spins to face me, eyes glittering.

  “A pool! You didn’t say you had a pool!” She bounces excitedly, setting her breasts to bobbing, confirming my suspicion that she isn’t wearing a bra.

  I clench my jaw, fighting to keep the semi I’m sporting from becoming something more embarrassing. “Yeah. We have a pool. And pool cleaners that come by every Monday.”

  “That’s incredible,” she says, toeing off her sandals. “The only thing better than being outside is being outside and in water. Want to go swimming?”

  “Right now?” I blink faster as she pulls the pencil from her bun and tosses it onto the grass, her curls cascading around her shoulders.

  “Why not?” She gestures down at her tank top and shorts. “Everything I’m wearing is waterproof. I like to be ready to swim at all times, don’t you?”

  “I don’t usually—”

  A splash cuts me off as she leaps into the water, allowing her body to sink all the way to the bottom before pushing off the blue tiles and swimming to the surface with strong, smooth strokes. She breaks the water with a happy gasp that sounds a lot like the sexy sounds she was making last night when I had my thigh wedged between her legs and she was rocking against me, getting so close to coming I could taste her release on the tip of my tongue.

  “Oh, this is lovely.” She makes more moany orgasm sounds as she flips onto her back, effortlessly floating, her fingers and toes wiggling in the water.

  But I’m not looking at her fingers and toes. I’m looking at her chest, where her “waterproof” shirt has now become completely transparent, inspiring an instant hard-on that’s impossible to fight off.

  Fuuuuuuck me.

  Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…

  How on earth am I supposed to resist the temptation of those beautiful tits? I need them in my hands, hot beneath my mouth as I trace each pebbled nipple in turn. I need to worship at the altar of her small but perfectly shaped breasts the way I need water and air and ample ice time every game to stave off the I’m-about-get-traded anxiety.

  “Tanner?”

  “Yes?” I reply, hoping I won’t start drooling before I find the self-discipline to turn and walk away from the restraint-killing mermaid frolicking in my pool.

  “Eyes up here?” She lifts a hand from the water to gesture to her face. “There’s nothing for you below my neck, Muscle Boy. We’re friends, remember?”

  Utilizing more will power than I would like to admit, I force my gaze to hers. “Your shirt is pretty useless right now,” I say, my voice rougher than it was before. “Just so you know.”

  “So? I could be naked and it wouldn’t matter, right? We’re friends and roommates. It’s already been decided.” She arches her back, causing the beautiful things I’m not supposed to look at to rise higher in the water, like two forbidden islands
occupied by hostile natives. “Consider me cake, and you’re on a diet.”

  “Cake,” I echo, scowling into her golden-brown eyes.

  “And I’ll consider you the same.” She waves a languid arm through the water, sending her spinning in a slow circle. “Though, I think I’ll pretend you’re nachos, if that’s okay. I’m not a big fan of cake.”

  “That’s fucked-up.” I’m not talking about not being a fan of cake, and to be sure she realizes that, I add in a take-no-prisoners tone, “Rule number two is that you keep your clothes on and wear a swimsuit in the pool.”

  Her expressive brows wiggle, making it clear she’s irritated by the remark, but when she speaks her voice is cool. “That would be rule number one.”

  “What?” I’m frowning so hard at this point that my forehead is starting to hurt.

  “Rule number one,” she repeats. “Because I already talked you out of the old rule number one. So this is the new rule number one, which I frankly find patriarchal, condescending, and overreaching. I mean, who are you to say what I have to wear when I’m in my own home? Not my father, the last time I checked. And even my dad knows better than to tell me what to do now that I’m a fully grown woman who pays my own bills.”

  I’m about to snap, “It’s not your home, it’s my home, and there is no way I’m going to subject myself to this kind of torture on a daily basis, so please get the fuck out of the pool and go put on some not-see-through clothes,” but I manage to keep my mouth shut.

  If I say any of that, I’ll not only be acting like the douchebag I swore I wasn’t—as long as she’s paying rent this is her home as much as it’s mine, and only a jerk would behave otherwise—I’ll also be making it obvious what she does to me. That she makes me crazy. That she transforms me into a panting, sweating, drooling man-wolf cartoon of a person, incapable of thinking clearly simply because she’s beautiful and has lovely breasts that I can see through her shirt.

  If I utter another word, she’s got all the power, and fuck me if that’s going to happen. I’m not going to become a pathetic, sex-starved, doofus in the eyes of my new roommate.

  At least, not on the first day.

  So with a herculean exhibition of personal fortitude, I force a smile and nod as calmly as possible considering my blood pressure is through the roof. “Fine. Suit yourself. I was just trying to help.” I motion toward the eaves of the blue house visible over the fence. “Our neighbor is an old bastard who spends his free time at his window with a camera and zoom lens, but you’ll probably be safe. Most perverts prefer women with more up top, right?”

  A sharp bark of laughter erupts from her pink lips. “Oh no, you insulted my breast size! Whatever will I do? I guess I should crawl into a hole and cry for a few years because my body isn’t curvy enough to make me a top-shelf sexual object to men who see me as a collection of female parts instead of an actual real-life person.”

  “I see you as an actual real-life pain in the ass,” I say pleasantly. “So I’m going to head to the gym and let you finish showing yourself around. That work for you?”

  “That works just fine,” she snaps. “And who knows? Maybe I’ll be gone before you get back.”

  “Suit yourself.” I shrug, ignoring the voice in my head that shouts for me to apologize and make this better before I scare her away.

  Let her be scared away!

  It’s better for everyone—Diana included. This is clearly not going to work out. The chemistry was five-alarm hot last night, yes, and I cop to finding her weirdness adorable after a few shots of whiskey. But the longer I talk to her in the harsh light of day, the more I think that I don’t like this woman very much.

  Right, and the raging hard-on is because you find her so fucking repulsive…

  “Shut up,” I mumble to the inner voice. Back in the house, I grab my keys and head for the door without bothering to change into gym clothes. I’ll swing into the club store and buy something. Anything to get me out of this house even a few minutes sooner.

  Hopefully, after a grueling workout, a sauna, and a cold shower, I’ll be in a better frame of mind to either get to know my new roomie, or tidy up the spare room after she’s removed her things.

  I tell myself I don’t care either way.

  But I’m a dirty, rotten liar. And when I get home at eight o’clock—after three hours at the gym and another two hours shooting pool with some buddies I ran into in the parking lot—I’m absurdly pleased to hear the soft strains of the Shins emanating from her bedroom.

  I hesitate in the darkened hall, hand raised to knock on her door, but after a wavering moment, I go back downstairs to take care of Wanda instead. Better to get off to a fresh start tomorrow. I’m not sure what I should say, anyway, though an apology would probably be a solid place to start.

  As I harness Wanda for a walk, take her for a trot around the block, and dole out the nightly cup of pig food, I do my best to compose a good “I’m sorry, let’s try the friends thing again” pitch and head to bed to feeling okay about my chances of getting off on a better foot moving forward.

  But when I wake the next day, Diana is already gone and there’s a note on my espresso machine—Rule number one is fine. Sorry I was short with you. Yesterday was a crap day, and I wasn’t on my best behavior. Have a good one, and I’ll see you later.

  It’s a perfectly pleasant note, but I can’t help wishing I’d caught her before she left. I should have been the one to apologize. Or to apologize first, at least. Then maybe this fresh start would have been a warmer one.

  “Warming things up is the last thing you need,” I remind myself as I crumple the note in my hand.

  Near my feet, Wanda grunts in agreement. I toss the note in the trash and fetch a cup for coffee, determined to go about my business like nothing has changed.

  But everything has changed, and as I pack up for another gym trip, the girl with the golden curls keeps drifting through my head, floating on the surface of my thoughts as easily as she spun through the pool water, where she remains for the rest of the day.

  Chapter Four

  From the texts of Amanda Esposito

  and Diana Daniels

  *

  Diana: Where have you been?

  I thought today was your day off?

  I’ve been calling you all afternoon!

  *

  Amanda: I’ve been at home, waiting for you to text like a normal person. You know I hate talking on the phone.

  *

  Diana: BUT I HAVE THINGS I NEED TO SAY IN A LOUD, ANGRY VOICE, AMANDA! TEXTING MY RAGE IS NOT NEARLY AS SATISFYING!!

  *

  Amanda: Lol. What are you ragey about? I thought you were enjoying the fun and exciting things the big city has to offer. Like cupcake shops, alcoholic ice cream, museums, and making out with sexy strangers on the beach.

  So jealous of that last part, by the way.

  There are no sexy strangers or beaches here.

  It’s all boring all the time.

  *

  Diana: How many times do I have to tell you that boring is good?

  Boring means nothing bad is happening to you, like having your first apartment rental fall through so you end up living with your brother’s friend, who also happens to be the sexy stranger you hooked up with the night before.

  *

  Amanda: What?! OMG you’re living with Sexy Stranger?!!!

  *

  Diana: I’m living with Sexy Stranger.

  Only he’s not sexy at all.

  He’s a bossy misogynist asshole jerkface!

  *

  Amanda: In his defense, you tend to think most men are misogynist asshole jerkfaces.

  *

  Diana: That’s because THEY ARE, Amanda Marie.

  Have I mentioned lately how your inability to see the oppressive fist of the patriarchy is mind-boggling and frustrating beyond belief?

  *

  Amanda: Not lately, but thanks for reminding me that I’m not completely lovable and perfect.<
br />
  *

  Diana: Well, of course you’re completely lovable and perfect. But you’re also way too nice to men who do not deserve the slack you cut them.

  I assume you and Wonderdick are back together already?

  *

  Amanda: We are not back together.

  We haven’t talked in four days actually.

  *

  Diana: Oh, good! Wonderful! Fantastic, even!!

  Keep it up, girl! Oh, I really hope you stay broken up this time.

  He’s the worst.

  *

  Amanda: I thought we were talking about your love life for once…

  *

  Diana: Well, we aren’t. Because I have no love life.

  I HATE this guy. Seriously hate, Mandy.

  I hate him so much I’m installing my yoga swing in the middle of his living room just to piss him off. And because it’s the only place with a beam high enough, but mostly to piss him off.

  Get this—yesterday he tried to make a “house rule” that I had to wear a swimsuit in the pool and then insulted the size of my chest!

  *

  Amanda: Dare I ask why you were skinny-dipping in front of a man you barely know? I mean, aside from having made out with him for hours the night before?

  *

  Diana: I wasn’t skinny-dipping. I had on shorts and a tank top. The tank top was a tiny bit see-through when wet, it turns out, but it wasn’t like I was trying to be naked. And even if I had been, where does this guy get off making fun of my itty bitties? What is this, junior high?

  *

  Amanda: No, in junior high you didn’t have breasts yet, you lucky duck.

  *

  Diana: DO NOT START THIS AGAIN, MANDY!

  I am never going to be grateful to be flat chested, and every time you try this with me, I want to stab you. Repeatedly. Preferably in one of your voluptuous DoubleD-Cups.

  *

  Amanda: And I’m never going to understand why you aren’t grateful for cute, perky, manageably sized boobs! Seriously, I have a rash on my chest I can’t get rid of because my boobs create their own evil, swampy, rash-inducing eco-system, Diana. And they hurt when I run unless I’m wearing enough spandex to knit a giant slingshot. And if I didn’t personally know a doctor who lost a patient while she was getting a boob job, I would have them reduced in a freaking heartbeat. Half a heartbeat.