Puck Aholic: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  As soon as I doctor my butt and do some Googling to ensure I’m not going to catch a deadly infection from a pig bite, I’m going to troll Craigslist for a new living situation. Or maybe I’ll troll for a car instead.

  I could live in the car and use it to drive to my fantastic new job I’m going to land any day now. I can pull that off. It’s summer, and the weather is sleeping-in-your-car friendly. And it will be an adventure, like the time I hiked halfway across Ireland with Amanda because she was too scared to get into the car with almost everyone who pulled over to offer us a ride.

  I consider calling Mandy to tell her how horrible Tanner is, but she probably wouldn’t pick up, and then I would have to leave a message. And I hate leaving messages.

  Answering machines make me feel lonely, like I’ve reached out to take someone’s hand only to have them turn and walk away, making it clear how pathetic and unlovable I am.

  My best friend has a phone phobia, and I have a message phobia. We’re opposites in just about every way, but we’ve been like sisters since we were kids.

  People don’t have to have a lot in common in order to get along, and I get along with almost everyone. I’m an outgoing person and I make friends easily. Tanner and I should be able to make this work. We certainly got along fine before we lived under the same roof.

  Maybe if I apologize for accusing him of having a hard-on for me, and promise to keep things purely friendly from now on, we could have a fresh start. It would be nice not to have to live in a car or in a hovel or in my brother’s guest room, where I’ll be exposed to so much love and happiness there will be little to no chance of not spiraling into a deep, jealousy-inspired depression.

  I’m about done sticking gauze to my injured cheek with tape and seriously considering an apology when I hear Tanner outside, talking in a cozy, affectionate voice. I cross to the window and look down to see him out in the yard, tossing a red ball across the grass, and Wanda running for it as fast as her pudgy legs can carry her.

  In seconds, she’s got the ball in her mouth and gallops back to Tanner, who greets her with a “Good girl! What a good girl, Wanda. Such a good pig.”

  I scowl, glaring at the jerkface and his evil spirit animal with enough intensity to set him on fire.

  He’s praising the pig.

  He’s praising and playing fetch with the pig that just ripped a hole in my backside.

  All thoughts of apologizing exit the thought-building, and my head is immediately filled with ways to get revenge on both master and swine. I’m rarely a vengeful person, but when I am…

  Postponing the Google search on death by pig bite infection, I call Justin, another hockey weirdo and my brother’s best friend.

  Unlike Mandy, he picks up on the second ring.

  “What’s up, Little Dee?” he asks. He is one of the few people who can call me “little” and not make it sound like an insult to my hypersensitive ears.

  “I need dirt on Nowicki, my new roommate,” I say softly. “Whatever I can use to make him squirm.”

  “Is he misbehaving with you?” Justin’s tone goes from light to deep and dangerous in a heartbeat. “If so, you don’t need dirt, sweetheart. I’ll be over there in ten minutes and his face and my fist will have a nice long talk.”

  “No, it’s nothing like that,” I say, experiencing a flash of guilt. Yes, Tanner is a jerk, but I don’t want to get him in the doghouse with a senior member of his team. And Justin, as sweet and goofy as he is, can be even more of a papa bear than my brother when he thinks someone he cares about isn’t being treated well.

  “It’s just a difference of opinion about where my yoga swing should go in the house,” I add, improvising. “But it’s nothing that can’t be solved by an attitude adjustment and some creative bargaining.”

  Justin laughs, a wicked, relish-filled chuckle. “Well, in that case, I’m you’re man, girl. I’ve got dirt on the Wickster for days. We were engaged in a brief but brutal prank war a few months back. I didn’t make him cry, but I got really, really close.”

  I click my pen, grinning as I position it over my yellow pad, gaze still fixed out the window to where Tanner and Wanda are celebrating their victory.

  Too bad that victory is going to be short-lived…

  “Give it to me, Cruise. I’m ready.”

  Chapter Six

  Tanner

  Breakout drills are important. They’re not as fun as shooting drills or breakaway drills, but sometimes the puck ends up behind the fucking net, and you have to get it out from behind the fucking net, and so you practice.

  You drill.

  I accepted this fact a long time ago, but that doesn’t make it any easier to focus today. Not when I’m sleep deprived, sanity deprived, and tormented by the ghosts of the filthy dreams I had about my captain’s little sister last night.

  Thankfully, Brendan doesn’t seem to be a mind reader. He’s even more laid back than usual, practically humming with affability as he slaps the puck behind the net to start the drill.

  Petrov retrieves the puck and skates it up the ice, moving fast. I take my position for the outlet pass, but suddenly Adams is there, circling me like a rabid shark, fast and furious and annoying as fuck. I adjust my position to get my stick open and Petrov, as always, makes a perfect tape-to-tape pass. But Adams is quick to pounce. He’s an aggressive little bastard, but there are dangers associated with coming in hard.

  All I have to do is chip the puck up the boards around him, and I’m off to the races. In my peripheral vision, I spot Petrov in support position and prepare to make my move. But instead of going where I tell it to go—where I have very clearly guided it with my stick—the puck ends up in Adams’ skates.

  Adams dances over it, takes control, and slaps the disc into our open net.

  I curse, Adams laughs, and Petrov swoops back across the ice like a large, dark, disappointed bird of prey that’s been denied his kill.

  “Try to make him work for it next time, Nowicki,” Brendan shouts, amusement in his voice. “Next group!”

  I head back to the bench, cursing sleep deprivation and misbehaving pucks.

  “You okay?” Petrov drops onto the bench beside me, still breathing hard but not as hard as I am, making me wonder how much cardio he does every day. He’s five years older than I am and carrying at least thirty extra pounds, but he sure as hell doesn’t move like it.

  “Fine. Just didn’t sleep for shit last night.” I stretch my neck to one side, keeping my focus on the ice as Brendan skates by, cruising into position for the next set of drills.

  When I was invited to join my captain and a few of his friends from the team for informal summer skates to help keep my skills sharp during the break, I was flattered. Now, I wish I’d failed whatever test made me scrimmage material and trustworthy enough to cohabitate with Brendan’s sister.

  I’m never going to survive living with Diana Daniels. We’re either going to kill each other or Brendan is going to kill me when he realizes I’ve got a hard-on for his sister that won’t quit.

  I spent the entire night tossing and turning, hyperaware of the infuriating sex kitten down the hall, dividing my sleepless hours between replaying every moment of our make-out session on the beach and imagining all the filthy things we could get up to in that yoga swing. If it even has anything to do with yoga, which I doubt. Installing a sex swing in my living room that she intends to use with someone else simply to torture me seems like the sort of thing that the devil in hot woman form would find amusing.

  “What do you know about aerial yoga?” I ask Petrov as our second group of three launches in the breakout drill and Brendan shouts coachy things from the other side of the ice.

  Petrov gives one of his Russian shrugs, the ones that could mean “everything” or “absolutely nothing.” I never know unless he speaks. Petrov was born in this country, but he’s got a hint of an accent and an Eastern European caginess about him. Suffice it to say, I wouldn’t be surprised to find he’s a secr
et agent for one side or the other.

  “It’s like stretching with circus tricks,” he says, pointing to the rink’s ceiling. “They hang fabric from the ceiling and then do flips in it. My ex was into it for a few months last summer, but she ended up with bruises on her arms from getting the tension wrong, so she quit. Said she didn’t want the people where she worked to think I beat her.”

  I grunt. “That’s a nice conclusion to jump to.”

  Another Russian shrug. “I’m a big, scary-looking guy who has a rep for losing my temper on the ice. I get it.”

  “Why did you and Eva break up, anyway?” I ask, trying not to think about Diana doing sexy circus tricks in that hot-pink swing. “I thought things were good with you two.”

  “She wants kids someday. It got to the point where we had to start taking stuff like that seriously, so we did. And we broke up.” He tips his water bottle up, squeezing a stream into his open mouth. I figure that’s the end of it, but then he adds, “That’s the last time I put that discussion off until five months in. Next time, I’m laying it out there on the first date. No sense in getting involved with someone who wants things I’m never going to be able to give her.”

  I’m tempted to ask why he’s anti-kid, but keep my mouth shut, instead. It took me a few years to adjust to being surrounded by other men instead of a family of women, but I’ve learned to take it easy with the personal questions. If Petrov wants to talk about why he doesn’t want kids—or maybe can’t have kids—he will.

  But he probably won’t. Petrov keeps his cards so close to his chest I’m not sure he’s even playing the game.

  “So, I heard you let Daniels’ sister move in with you,” he says, surprising me. I hadn’t realized the news was getting around. “How’s that working out?”

  I let out a long, slow sigh and am surprised again by the soft rumble of Petrov’s laughter.

  “I figured. I’ve met Diana,” he says with a smile. “She’s a firecracker.”

  “That’s one word for it,” I grumble.

  He laughs again before nudging me with his elbow and adding in a softer voice, “Just be careful. It’s not a good idea to get involved with someone with close ties to the team. Brendan’s one of the most solid guys I know, but he’ll still make your life fucking miserable if you put your hands on his sister.”

  “No danger of that.” I snort. “She hates my guts. And I’m not too fond of her, either, honestly.”

  Petrov shifts on the bench, studying me through narrowed eyes, like a surgeon deciding where to make the first incision.

  “What?” I finally ask, because there’s only so much of the Russian stare I can take before my scalp starts to itch.

  “There’s a thin line between hate and fucking like rabbits,” Petrov says, tossing his water bottle back into his bag. “A very thin one.”

  “No way, man,” I huff. “She’s made it clear she’s not interested. Not even a little bit.”

  Except when we were making out like horny teenagers and she said she would want a lot more than kissing if she went back to my room with me…

  Petrov’s frown becomes a full-blown scowl, as if he’s read my mind and found the thoughts there less than comforting. “She needs to find a new place to live. Yesterday. You can crash at my place until she’s out if you need to. The pool house is empty.”

  “Thanks, but it’s going to be fine. I doubt Diana will stick around much longer. She has a job interview today. Once she’s got a steady gig, she’ll be out as soon as she can throw her shit back in her bags. Not only does she hate me, but she and Wanda are pretty much sworn enemies.”

  Petrov grunts. “Where I come from, pigs are for eating.”

  “It’s my sister’s,” I say defensively. “She’s serving her country. The least I can do is take care of her pig until she gets home.”

  “Well, if you change your mind, I have experience curing meat.” He stands, preparing to head back onto the ice for the final scrimmage. “You could welcome your sister home with prosciutto and applewood smoked bacon.”

  I shudder, making the bastard laugh again.

  “You’re going soft, rookie,” he says. “You’ve fallen in love with a pig.”

  “I have not fallen in love with a pig,” I protest, but the truth is that hearing Petrov talk about turning Wanda into bacon has soured my stomach.

  I can’t eat an animal I’ve taken for walks, let alone one smart enough to figure out how to pop the lock on her gate, obey fifteen different verbal commands (when she’s in the mood), and hold a grudge against my new roomie—because even Wanda can sense that Diana and I are not “just friends” material.

  Back on the ice, we line up for a two on one drill. I’m one of the attacking players who will be doing my damnedest to score against Saunders and Wallace, who’s playing goalie. Petrov starts the drill, carrying the puck up the ice. I get to an open spot near the boards and he throws a beautiful saucer pass that spirals through the air, past Saunders, to land right in front of me. I cradle the puck with my stick and head for the goal. Petrov, anticipating the play, skids into position for a back-door tap in.

  I move in hard, prepping for the pass, Saunders hot on my heels. But I’m ahead of him. I’ve got this, there’s no doubt in my mind.

  I’m a split second from slapping the puck to Petrov when I feel something hard jamming into my armpit. I realize it’s Saunders hooking me with his damn stick, and then suddenly I’m off balance, scrambling to get my skates under control before I land flat on my back.

  By the time I recover, the puck has glided harmlessly away toward Wallace, who slaps it into the corner.

  “Do you have eyes today Nowicki?” Brendan shouts from center ice.

  I spin, jabbing a finger at Saunders. “That was a dirty play. He hooked me!”

  “If you hadn’t been holding on to the puck like it was your baby, he wouldn’t have had the chance to hook you,” Brendan says. “Plus, dirty shit happens, and the benefit of the doubt on penalties rarely falls to the rookie. You have to be ready for more experienced players to take advantage, and play through it. That’s just the way it is.”

  “Fuck the way it is.” I tap my stick hard on the ice in front of me. “A fucking penalty is a fucking penalty.”

  “Well, sorry to break it to you, but life ain’t fair.” Brendan frowns, cocking his head. “What’s up with you today? Everything all right at home?”

  The words send a cold rush of anxiety sweeping through me, taking the edge off my anger. Fuck, does he know? Has Diana said something about what a shitty roommate I’m proving to be? Is that why he’s riding my ass and letting Saunders get away with being a shit?

  And if so, how much more irritated will he be if he learns that I’ve already made out with his sister and devoted far too many hours to fantasizing about all the wicked, wonderful things I would like to do to Diana if we could stop hating each other for more than ten minutes.

  I clear my throat. “No. Just woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, I guess.”

  Brendan’s eyes narrow, but after a moment he nods. “All right. Take a lap and we’ll try it again.”

  I push off, gliding around the net on the opposite side of the ice, promising myself that I’ll make this right before it’s too late. I’m not sure how to pull it off just yet, but there’s no question about it now. Diana has to go. She has to go somewhere far, far away, before we cross that thin line from hate to fucking like bunnies and I end up setting off a dirty bomb in the middle of my career, one year into my first NHL contract.

  Chapter Seven

  Tanner

  I take my time on the bike ride home from downtown, brainstorming exit strategies. The easiest option would be to tell Diana that I’ll stay with Petrov for a couple of weeks while she finds a new living situation.

  But there’s no way Petrov will put up with me bringing Wanda along for the visit. And if I leave Diana and Wanda alone, one or both of them will end up dead, and I don’t want tha
t on my conscience.

  I could bundle Wanda into the car and take her to Santa Barbara to visit my mom and stepdad, but the pig requires more travel bags than my other sister’s two kids, and I’m not up for extended family bonding time right now. My mom is psychic when it comes to the emotional state of her offspring. The second I set foot in the house, she’ll be able to tell that I’m lonely and worried about how my second season as a Badger is going to pan out.

  If Diana sticks around, it’s going to pan out like a batch of shit brownies. You were a fucking mess on the ice today, and it’s all that woman’s fault.

  It’s not all her fault—it takes two to whip up a steaming hot, suffocating, focus-shattering batch of sexual tension—but I know myself too well to think the way I feel about Diana is going to change. Yes, I may shift back and forth from finding her amusing to infuriating, but I’m always going to want to get her naked and make her moan. Whether she’s being silly and charming or a sarcastic pain in my ass, she’s sexy as fuck.

  She’s even sexy when she’s crying, I realize as I glide into the driveway to find Diana sitting on the porch steps with red eyes, blotchy cheeks, and a tissue balled into a wad in her fist.

  I grit my teeth, praying Wanda hasn’t attacked again before I’ve figured out how to implement the behavior corrections I read about last night. Yes, I need to get Diana out of the house, but I don’t want her to be scared away by the threat of repeated pig violence.

  “What’s up?” I swing off my bike, letting it fall to the grass in the front yard.

  She glances up, her eyes widening, and turns as if to stand…only to sag back onto the top step a moment later. “Sorry. I would have gone to my room to cry, but Wanda’s out of her pen again and I didn’t feel like being chased by a bottom-chomping goblin. I barely made it out of the house this morning without getting attacked, and that was when I was young and full of hope.”