Pucks & Penalties: Pucked Series Deleted Scenes and Outtakes Version 2.0 (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  “Do you need anything before I put it away for you?” she asks. Her eyes drop to the bag. I want to keep the Imodium with me since I’ve been chugging it like beer at a frat party.

  “Yeah. Hold on.” I open the pack, find my phone, passport, and anti-shit serum, then zip it up and pass it over.

  Once she puts it away, she hands me one of those inflatable neck horseshoes. “If you need anything else during the flight, just let me know. I’d be happy to serve you.”

  It would be a normal thing for a flight attendant to say, except she ends it with a wink that makes it seem like she’s offering more than the usual services. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Takeoff is fine, apart from more stomach gurgling. Randy is in the aisle across from me, one seat back, still flirting with the woman from the lounge. If he’s honestly planning to mile-high it today, he should hit the bathroom and wash off his light saber. As slutty as I’ve been over the years, I’ve never done anything that gross. Not that I can remember, anyway.

  I’m reformed now. I have a girlfriend. Okay. Sunny hasn’t quite agreed to be my girlfriend, but we’re dating, and I’m not seeing any of the bunnies on my contact list. I’m not even answering their calls or replying to their Facebook messages, or tweets, or Instagram comments.

  Getting Sunny to believe I’m only into her is more of a challenge than I expected. Relationships are way more difficult than I remember them being in high school.

  During my first season in the NHL, I tried the girlfriend thing. It was long distance. I lived in Miami with the team I’d been drafted to, and she was at college in South Carolina. It didn’t seem that far. I had all this money, and I hadn’t learned how to manage it yet. I figured I could fly her out whenever I wanted.

  It didn’t turn out to be quite so easy. She met some guy in her program and broke it off with me at Christmas. After that, I decided it would be better not to get serious. There were plenty of girls who were cool with it just being about orgasms and no emotions. And I was good with that, until I met Sunny.

  Since we met, we’ve been talking on a regular basis. I’ve even flown out a few times to see her. The situation is a little more complicated because of Waters.

  This trip to Haiti didn’t happen at the best time. Things were already a little rough with Sunny before I left. I wanted her to come with me, but she already had plans to attend some conference on karma or chi or something like that. Sunny’s really into chi.

  Anyway, I got a little clingy—meaning I Facebook-stalked all the posts on her wall and maybe sort of kind of threatened to kick some guy’s ass for saying she looked great. I apologized, but I’m not a hundred percent positive I’m totally forgiven. Then I took a call from a bunny while Sunny was sitting right beside me.

  After ten days of no contact, apart from last night’s phone call, I’m thinking I need to start stepping up my game.

  As an NHL player, I can get pussy whenever I want. I’m not being an egotistical jerk. I’m just stating facts. I’ve been cashing in on this for the past several years, so I know. After a while it starts to get a little…I don’t know what the word is. Lonely, maybe? Boring? Hot sex isn’t quite as hot when it’s followed by selfies of me and the bunny in bed with captions like “I SCORED with Butterson!” Trophy, smiley face, celebration horn emotions included.

  So I’m giving this relationship thing with Sunny one more serious shot. It’s been five years since I made this kind of effort, but I figure she’s worth it. If there isn’t any real progress when I see her this next time, I’ll consider backing off.

  I want to charge my phone so I can do something useful, but unfortunately we’re on one of the few planes that still hasn’t been outfitted with wifi. Even if I can’t check my emails and calendar, I’d at least like my phone to work when I get home, but I think the cable is in my bag in the overhead compartment. We’re getting ready for takeoff, so I have to wait until we’re in the air now.

  A light tap on my arm draws my attention away from my dead phone. For the first time, I notice the woman beside me. Her smile is blindingly white. “I don’t mean to bother you…”

  I don’t know why people say things like that. She obviously does mean to bother me, otherwise she wouldn’t have tapped me on the arm in the first place.

  “It’s cool.” I’ll be surprised if she recognizes me with all the facial hair. Her hand is still on my arm. I glance down, the contact is unexpected and kinda uncomfortable, considering I don’t even know her. She’s stroking my arm hair, which is getting out of control again. I need to tame that—along with everything else—as soon as I get home and before I head to Guelph. “Do you need to get something?” I point to the overhead compartments and the seatbelt sign. “I don’t think we can get up yet.”

  “No. No. I just. Well, God, I’m so sorry, but—”Her face turns a bright shade of red. Oh, shit. She’s going to proposition me. As if to prove me right, she stops stroking my arm hair and gestures to my lap. Leaning closer, she whispers, “You have a tear in your pants.”

  I check out the damage. “Shitballs.”

  I’ve been living out of a bag for ten days. I haven’t had access to hot, running water or decent laundry facilities. My sweats were the only semi-clean thing left, and only because I slept in them most of the trip. There’s a good reason why these are my sleeping pants. The sizable hole in the crotch leaves a lot of room for exposure. Sometimes I wear these at home and fondle my balls while I watch TV. Two days ago I ran out of underwear. It’s not boxers or tighty whities I’m showing her. It’s my ungroomed ball sac. She might have gotten an eyeful of head as well, but I’m not sure.

  I quickly rearrange my sweats. “Sorry about that. I didn’t mean to flash you.”

  She gives my knee a squeeze and winks. “I don’t think I’ve seen anything that exciting since before my second marriage, so there’s really no need to be sorry.”

  This is going to be a seriously long flight.

  Chapter Three

  This Isn’t the Mile High Club

  SHOWING OFF MY nuts seems to open the gate for conversation. My new friend, I’m calling her the Nut Peeper—she told me her name, but I can’t remember it—chatters away, complaining about the subpar service at her five star resort.

  “Where did you stay? Did you have good service?”

  “I didn’t stay at a resort.” I wish I had my headphones and charger. The stupid seatbelt sign is still on, though, so I have to wait. Besides, if I get up I’ll look like a jerk.

  “Oh? Did you stay at a bed and breakfast? That’s risky. You never know what kind of place it’s going to be. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories.”

  “Yeah?” I don’t ask questions, but she must assume I want to know all about it, because she keeps talking.

  “I had a friend who stayed in a five star B&B, and they didn’t even serve breakfast! That should be standard. I can’t imagine going somewhere for vacation where I had to prepare my own meals. Not unless it was a timeshare, and who wants to do that?”

  In my peripheral vision I see her hand creeping along the armrest, like a fleshy spider. I’d like to squish it.

  “Maybe people with food allergies?” I stupidly suggest, which gives her the green light to tell me her entire life story.

  “My best girlfriend’s allergic to gluten. I don’t know if I believe her, though. I think she wants to be skinny, and she thinks if she can’t eat bread then she can’t get fat. I don’t eat bread because I don’t want cellulite. I only eat meat and vegetables, and I haven’t gained weight in over two years. Except sometimes during the holidays, because I love rum and eggnog. But once I go back on my meat diet—poof!” She makes the accompanying hand gestures. “It’s all gone again. You must be able to eat anything you want.” She gives my bicep a squeeze. “Wow. You’re in incredible shape. Do you do the P90X workout? What did you say you do for a living?”

  The plane starts rolling, and a flight attendant appears to give us the usual safet
y speech. I’d much rather listen to her talk about inflating my seat if we happen to crash into a body of water than the chick beside me bitch about stupid things like eating a meat diet. In another life—maybe three months ago—I might have suggested she come to the bathroom with me so she could suck on my meat stick, but I’ve given that up. Kinda like people give up things for Lent—like chocolate, or swearing. Only this has been longer than forty days, and I don’t have a definite end date.

  Nut Peeper fidgets with her purse and produces a small prescription bottle. “I get nervous when I fly.” She struggles with the cap, and suddenly I feel bad, partly because I’d considered shutting her up with my dick in her mouth, but also because her word vomit might have less to do with her being annoying and more to do with her stress level.

  “Need some help?”

  “Would you? Sometimes these caps are so hard to get off.”

  I try to read the label as I twist the tiny cap, but the word is really long, one of those “blahblah-a-blahblah-pam” jobs. I don’t take medication unless I’m severely injured. I’ve seen enough players develop issues with painkillers, and I never want to go that way. I tend to stick to the basics like Tylenol or Advil if I’m hurting. It’s only when the game’s at risk and I need to get back out there and play that I’ll let the team doc give me a shot of something stronger.

  I pop the cap and pass it back.

  “Thanks. Want one?” She asks like she’s offering candy.

  “I’m good.”

  “I might fall asleep. If I lean on you, just push me to the other side.”

  “Sure thing.”

  I don’t know how many she takes, but ten minutes later she’s sawing logs and trying to snuggle with my bicep. I get the flight attendant to bring blankets and an extra pillow, and then I rearrange her so she’s no longer using me as her personal bed.

  I don’t need medication to put me to sleep. I’m exhausted, and my body hates me, so I pass out a few minutes later. I’m not sure how long I’m out for, but I’m jolted awake by a tickling feeling on my beard. I rub it and give it a scratch, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in there apart from some grit and leaves and possibly leftovers from meals that didn’t get washed out thanks to the limited water supply and quick, semi-cool showers.

  Nut Peeper is up and flipping through a magazine. Her head bobs a couple of times, as if she’s fighting to stay awake. The guy across the aisle is catching flies with his mouth. Randy and his seat friend are snuggled under a communal blanket in the row behind him.

  I settle back in my chair and close my eyes. After a few minutes, it becomes clear I’m not going to fall back asleep, so I root around for my phone. The seatbelt sign is off, so I grab my bag and dig through it. I find my headphones, but not my charger. I pull everything out of the bag, including all the kid arts and crafts, but I’ve got nothing. I can’t listen to music, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been on the plane. I can’t play mindless games on my phone to pass the time. I’ll give Randy ten more minutes before I bother him for his charger. He doesn’t need it since he’s occupied.

  Somewhere in my bag is a paper calendar. I find it at the bottom of the bag. It’s soggy from the gel pack incident earlier, and the ink has bled so the words are impossible to read. There will be another paper copy at home and also one in my email, but I have to wait to check all of that. Amber’s awesome at leaving plenty of reminders since I mix up dates and times a lot.

  I’m a little worried about what the next couple of weeks are going to look like with her off the grid. She’s going on some portaging trip in the middle of nowhere. She says she’ll have her phone with her, but I can’t be sure she’ll have reception the whole time. Plus, she needs a break from my shit.

  I shove my earbuds in and pretend to listen to music so Nut Peeper will leave me alone. I’ve just closed my eyes to settle in when the stomach cramps hit me again.

  I don’t waste any time. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I head for the bathroom, but the occupied sign taunts me with its red, annoying glare. I hope I don’t shit my pants. I look around first class, checking to see who’s missing from their seats. I don’t see Randy, or his friend. Goddamn him. He has to be in the bathroom, boning that chick.

  I move in close to the door to check if I can hear any noise inside. Oh, he’s definitely fucking her. I can hear high-pitched moans. I rattle the door, hoping it’s going to make them hurry the fuck up, but all I get are more moans. They’re muffled this time.

  “Randy, you asshole, I’m going to shit my damn pants,” I whisper-yell.

  I doubt he can hear me, but I knock again. It’s another minute before the door finally opens and the chick steps out. Her face is flushed, her lipstick is smeared all over her face, and her hair is a mess. Her clothes are in similar shape. I don’t think she has a bra on anymore. Her boobs must be fake, because her nipples are pointing right at me.

  I’m standing in her way, so she can’t leave the bathroom unless I take a step back.

  She pats her hair and giggles as she weaves down the aisle. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s drunk on the fumes in the washroom or because she’s freshly fucked and it’s hard to walk.

  Randy’s still zipping up his pants as he leaves the bathroom. “I left you a present.”

  He pats me on the shoulder and struts down the aisle. I’m practically holding my ass as I launch myself into the bathroom. There’s pee all over the seat. Randy’s or someone else’s I don’t know, but his gift is a spent, splooge-filled condom in the sink. Fucking asshole.

  I grab a handful of toilet paper and rush to clean off the seat because this has gone from a level-one to a level-five emergency. I dry heave over the strong smell and the feel of pee soaking through the paper. I’m going to eat asparagus and piss in Randy’s hockey bag the first chance I get.

  My stomach cramps again; I’m out of time. I drop my drawers, grateful for the lack of underwear and sit my ass down. I don’t even care that the seat is still slightly damp. There’s no time for anything but relief as the first wave hits me. I lean my head against the tiny metal sink. I don’t care about the germs or the stink or how badly I need a shower and maybe some medicated pads to soothe my ass. I feel like the new guy in prison right now.

  I’m not sure how long I spend in the bathroom, but I triple flush. At some point there’s a knock on the door and someone asks if I’m okay. I might be groaning. I have the cold sweats again. I just want it to be over. I want my own bathroom and my bed. I want my girlfriend. Well, maybe not. I don’t want Sunny to see me in this state, but if we’d been dating longer, and I had the flu instead of this, it’d be nice to have someone comfort me.

  Since it was just me and my dad growing up, whenever I got sick he’d make me instant chicken noodle soup. I could go for a cup of that right about now, even if it might come back up, or out, depending.

  Eventually the cramps pass, and it feels safe to leave the bathroom. I can’t hijack it for the whole flight. Plus, the smell in here is making my stomach turn in a different way.

  I pry myself off the seat and wash my arms up to my elbows in the sink made for dwarves or elves, or whatever small creatures can use these stupid things effectively without getting water everywhere. I check my pockets to make sure I haven’t lost anything, palming my phone in the process. Randy’s damn well gonna give me his charger for making me deal with pee all over the seat.

  I steady myself and open the door, aware I’m about to do the gastrointestinal version of the walk of shame. I’ve been in here longer than it takes most people to join the Mile High Club.

  At the same time as I try to leave the bathroom, the plane jerks with turbulence. The woman standing outside the door, who incidentally happens to be Nut Peeper, is thrown inside with me. Most of the time I have excellent balance. Today I don’t. She falls into me, grabbing my shirt as I stumble back.

  In the melee, I lose my grip on my phone, along with my footing. The phone hits something metal with a con
cerning clang. I say a prayer to the phone-preservation gods that it doesn’t break, as every last important thing in my life is on that phone.

  The door automatically shut me and Nut Peeper in together when she fell on me. These bathrooms are barely big enough for me, never mind adding another body, so maneuvering around in the cramped space is even more difficult. Plus, I’m a little claustrophobic, which is unfortunate since I’m big and it makes most spaces feel small.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” She flails around. It’s the opposite of helpful. I have to brace myself on something to stop her from ending up with her face in my crotch. I put my hand down, and of course it ends up in wet spot. I don’t even want to know if it’s pee.

  “It smells awful in here!” She tries to clamp a hand over her mouth and nose, but it manages to get caught in my shirt. All she ends up doing is mashing her face into my diaphragm and knocking us off balance again.

  “I ate something bad last night,” I say, as if an explanation is necessary for why it smells like a manure field and a dead skunk combined with whatever crap they put in here to help mask the smell of people’s bodily functions.

  I’m going to need to Purell my entire body when this episode is over.

  Using the surface I’m braced against for resistance, I wrap my free arm around her waist to stop the flailing and manage to get us into an upright position. She’s still fisting my shirt even though there’s no reason anymore. I grab both of her arms, not caring that the likely-pee on my hand is getting all over her. If it wasn’t for Nut Peeper, I wouldn’t have it on my hand in the first place.

  “Stop moving!” I order.

  She freezes.

  “I dropped my phone. I need to find it before one of us steps on it.”

  “Oh, no!”

  “Oh, yeah.” I let go of her, confident she won’t move, and scan the floor. It’s a tiny space, but I can’t see the device anywhere. Checking over my shoulder, I spot it. It’s in the worst place possible: sitting in the goddamn toilet. It’s got one of those protective cases, but I doubt it safeguards against chemically treated toilet water and poop particles.