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

by Helena Hunting

  “Lance?”

  He spins around. I can see he’s struggling to focus on me, he’s so drunk.

  “Poppy? What’re you doin’ ’ere?”

  “I wanted to talk to you,” I say meekly.

  He shakes his head vigorously and waves the bottle in his hand around, sloshing amber liquid onto the floor. “You shouldn’t be here.” He trains his unsteady, angry gaze on Randy and he stumbles through the debris toward me. “You shouldna let ’er in.”

  As I survey the wreckage, I have to wonder if I can handle any of this. This is a broken man I’m dealing with. He’s not a fifteen-year-old boy kissing me in a closet for the first time. He’s a grown man whose past haunts him in a way I still don’t understand and it makes him volatile. It’s right for me to worry that one day I’m going to end up on the receiving end of his hostility. And then where will I be? Who will I be but a victim that allowed herself to become one?

  I should leave. I should walk away.

  But I don’t.

  Because it’s what he expects me to do, and if I abandon him now, I’m leaving everyone else to clean up the mess. One I’ve helped create.

  I step carefully around broken glass, and when I’m close enough, I take the bottle from his hand and set it on the closest table. “Let me see your hands,” I say softly.

  He holds them out for me. His knuckles are shredded and bloody.

  “You shouldn’t have come back. You were right to go. I’m not a good person, Poppy. My head—” He taps his temple. “—It’s all messed up.”

  I ignore the part about him being messed up. I don’t know if he’s referencing his current state or if he means in a more permanent way. The things I know about this man lead me to believe it’s the latter, and it makes me sad that he feels this way about himself. “We should get you cleaned up, don’t you think?”

  I gently take his hand and lead him toward the staircase. I’ve never been to his room, although I know exactly where it is in this house, having stood outside the door wishing I could get my things and go that night over a year ago.

  Lance doesn’t protest. He just lets me guide him to his room. He’s unsteady on his feet, bumping into the wall and me as we go. His room is mostly tidy, although a small pile of clothes lies in a rumpled heap on the floor near his closet. A towel hangs over the edge of his huge king-sized bed, and the sheets are messed up on one side, like maybe he’d taken a nap.

  I keep going, walking all the way to the other side, to the bathroom. “Do you have a first aid kit in your bathroom?”

  His nod is sloppy.

  I push the door open and flick on the light. Shaving instruments are scattered on the white marble top. Towels lie discarded on the floor after a shower. His toothpaste has the cap left off, another sign he was distracted or in a rush, or maybe it’s not something he cares all that much about.

  I flip the toilet seat lid down and give it a pat. “Have a seat.”

  “I should clean up.” He waves a loose hand over the counter.

  “You can worry about that later.”

  “You need me to do anything for you?” Randy asks from the doorway. His hands are shoved into his pockets and he looks uncomfortable standing where he is.

  “Maybe just the mess downstairs. I’ve got Lance from here, right now.”

  He hesitates for a few seconds, his gaze flicking between Lance and me, maybe assessing whether he’s going to lose it again. I’ve yet to bear witness to his outbursts, but I’ve seen enough of his fights on the ice to know what his rage looks like.

  “I can manage this,” I assure him.

  He leaves Lance and me alone. I turn on the water and move the shaving stuff aside. “We should wash your hands.”

  Lance steps up behind me, pressing his chest against my back. He wraps his arms around me and drops his face into my hair. I freeze for a few prolonged seconds, staring at our reflections in the mirror. He’s massive compared to me with a good foot and a hundred pounds of sculpted muscle filling out his frame. For the first time, I wonder if I should be afraid of him, and the thought makes me sad.

  I lift my hands, covering his thick forearms as he tightens his hold on me, burying is face deeper into my hair. He’s muttering something, but I can’t make out what he’s saying.

  “Lance?”

  He makes a sound into my neck. And then I feel the press of his lips. All the right, corresponding parts respond accordingly. My nipples tighten, my stomach clenches, and warmth floods low and heavy between my legs.

  Nothing is going to happen between us tonight. He’s drunk and uncoordinated, not to mention emotionally on the edge. But I let him hold me for a little while longer before I coax him to loosen his grip and move his bloody hands under the warm spray. I pump out some soap and run my palm gently over his knuckles.

  Lance keeps his face buried in my hair. His lips are still against my neck and now I can feel his hard-on against my lower back. I ignore it and keep working, switching hands to get rid of the dry, crusted blood so I can properly assess the damage.

  When I’m done, I pat them dry with the hand towel. He starts to wrap them around me again, but I put my arms up to bar the action.

  Lance lifts his head, finally, and gives me a bleary, questioning look. There’s anger under the surface, but sadness and rejection dominate.

  “Let me take care of your hands.”

  He drops them and steps back enough that I can turn around, but not without brushing against him. When I do, his hard-on rubs against my stomach through his pants. He looks anything but apologetic as he stares down at me. There’s a wall up right now, guarding emotions he fights to contain. I see that now. I see a lot of things I didn’t want to until now.

  His fingers brush mine and then his palms travel up my arms, a barely there whisper of touch. Up, up, up he goes, sweeping my hair back over my shoulders. His fingertips skim the sides of my neck, and then he frames my face with his hands—not touching, just hovering. They’re shaking. I can feel the vibration against my skin every time they make accidental contact.

  “You’re so perfect,” he mutters. “I’m not good enough.”

  “Of course, you are,” I whisper.

  He gives his head a slow shake. “I’m really not.” With a heavy sigh he moves over to the toilet and drops down on the seat. Resting his elbow on his knee, he props the other arm up on the counter, giving me access to his raw knuckles.

  “Where’s your first aid kit?” I ask.

  He points to a set of cupboard doors. I open it and find neatly stacked towels, a shelf of hair supplies, and other random bathroom items.

  “It’s on the top shelf. You need me to get it for you?”

  “I’ve got it.” I stretch up on my tiptoes and snag the handle, pulling down the kit. I set it beside him on the counter and flip it open. I find the antiseptic wipes and tear one open. Taking his hand in mine, I dab at his knuckles.

  “You don’t need to be gentle. I can handle the pain.”

  I glance up to find him watching me. “I’m sure you can, but it doesn’t mean you have to endure it.”

  He huffs a little and smiles. “I’m good at it.”

  “A little too good if you ask me.” I wipe across his knuckles again and blow across them.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Taking out the sting.” When all I get is a confused look, I continue with an explanation. “Didn’t your mom ever do that when you were a kid and you hurt yourself?”

  “I dealt with that stuff on my own, or my nanny did.”

  “Even when you were really little?”

  “From what I remember, yeah.” He shrugs. “My mom wasn’t big on that part.”

  He’d mentioned before how he and his mom weren’t close, and that he pretty much only saw her once a year, during the holidays.

  I refocus on the cuts on his knuckles. Scars litter the back of his hands, ones that look old, and others that haven’t turned white quite yet. He’s been in a lot o
f fights on the ice, and based on the state of his living room, that aggression isn’t isolated.

  “How often does this happen?”

  “The parties? I haven’t had as many lately since all my close friends have girlfriends and wives and the bunnies can be a real problem.”

  My stomach clenches. I have no idea what he wants out of this, which probably makes me stupid.

  “I mean this.” I tap the back of his hand. “But I can see how that would create some conflict.”

  “Tash wasn’t invited tonight. She just showed up.”

  “It’s really not my business.”

  “Sure it is. I invited you, not her. She’s always trying to screw with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s what she does.”

  “This is the woman who used to be your team trainer? The one who got fired?” Lance’s arm twitches and his knee bobs. He’s drunk and edgy. “You don’t have to talk about it.” This probably isn’t a good time to have this conversation, anyway.

  “I tried to make it something it wasn’t with her and things got complicated. Now she won’t stop making things difficult.”

  “Difficult how?”

  “She always calls when she’s in town, even though I’ve told her not to. Shows up when she’s not invited, tries to get under my skin and succeeds, obviously.” He wiggles his fingers.

  “That’s quite an impact she has.” I move to the other hand, sinking to the floor so it’s easier for both of us. I kneel before him on the plush mat covering the hard tile and rest a palm on his thigh to steady myself. “Sorry.” I rush to move it away, unsure what level of contact is going to be acceptable for him right now, in this state.

  Lance covers my hand with his. “It’s you, so it’s okay.” He drags his damp fingers along the backs of mine and he slips his thumb under my palm. Then he lifts my hand and brings it to his cheek, holding his palm against mine to keep it there. I still don’t understand what makes me different from everyone else, but I know it’s not good that I like this dependency he seems to have on me. Or that I want it to continue.

  He drags my fingers over his lips. “Why’d you come back?”

  “Because I didn’t feel good about how things happened. I don’t think people give you much of a chance, or maybe you expect that people won’t, but I didn’t want to be that person for you, or another person like that in your life.”

  “So you came back because you feel sorry for me?”

  “I came back because I care.”

  “About me?” And there he is, that boy I met so many years ago, the one who set a timer in the closet, the one who was honest with me about not being sorry for stealing my first kiss. This man who mows down people on the ice and throws epic temper tantrums that result in the destruction of his own property looks so uncertain right now. And hopeful. And scared.

  “Yes. Lance. About you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I see who you are.”

  “I’m not a good person.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “We were kids.”

  “I should’ve known who you were.” He raises the other hand and taps his temple. “I don’t remember much about that night, but I remember seeing you and thinking about how I wanted you.”

  “That’s all you remember?”

  “I get flashes. Sometimes when I’m with you the memories come back. And right now, ’cause I’m drunk. It’s like that theory about remembering things when you’re in the same state.” He drops my hand and there’s pain in his expression, an agony I’m familiar with. “What did I do the night you were here?” He runs a palm down his face. Blinking hard a few times, he shakes his head, like he’s trying to understand the memory. “Did I invite you?”

  “You didn’t know—”

  “Fuck. Fuck.” He presses his palm against his forehead and gives it a couple of taps before he lifts his gaze to me again. “Why are you here? Why would you want anything to do with me?”

  I cringe as the reality of this thing between us finally comes crashing down.

  “I just don’t understand. Why would you let me near you when I’d done something so fucking horrible to you?”

  “Because you weren’t the person who did that when we were together.”

  “I’m always that person, Poppy.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Yes, it is.” He holds up his hands. “This. This is what I do. I ruin shit. Myself, my stuff.” He gestures to me. “You.”

  “You haven’t ruined me.”

  “Come the fuck on, Poppy. Look at what I’m dragging you into. I don’t have control over this. Myself. Anything. And here you are, willing to do what? Take care of me? Make me better? You’re gonna get tired of this shit. I do.”

  He was voicing all my fears, everything I didn’t want to face. I sit back on my heels, clasping my hands in my lap. What I should want and what I do want don’t match. “Do you want me to go?”

  “I should.”

  My heart skips in my chest. “But you don’t?”

  “No. You see now why I’m an asshole?”

  “Would it be better if you kept wanting Tash instead?”

  “For you, yeah.”

  “But not for you?”

  “She’s what I deserve. You’re what I want to deserve.”

  “You keep saying things like that, but I don’t understand where exactly you get the logic from. Everyone makes bad choices, Lance. You can’t define yourself only by the worst decisions you make.”

  “I’ve done a lot of bad things.”

  “In whose eyes?”

  “Mine. Yours if you knew about them.”

  “What’s the worst thing you’ve done?”

  “You don’t want to know the answer to that.”

  I’m sure he’s right, but I know a lot about his past already. It’s splashed all over the media and in all the bunny groups.

  “It’s not just about making bad decisions, Poppy. It’s that I keep making the same ones over and over again.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like with Tash, I knew I was never going to get what I wanted from her, but I kept pushing for it anyway. And she kept messing with me, making me think maybe there was a chance, and then she’d take it away, but I’d go back the next time anyway, because I don’t learn.”

  “But you haven’t seen her in a while, right? Not before tonight?” I don’t know how I’ll manage if I don’t get the answer I want.

  “Not since I had to come to you for a massage. That was the last time.”

  “She did that to you?”

  “No, seeing her made me stupid and I got into a bar fight.”

  “What happened?”

  “She brought me something to share.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “A girl.”

  I can only imagine the expression on my face. “Why would she do that?”

  “Because that’s what she likes and that’s what she thought I’d like.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  Lance sighs. “People have a lot of preconceived ideas about me, and most of them are understandable. I know what kind of reputation I have and I’ve done more than enough to earn it, but just because I do the things I do, doesn’t mean I always like that it’s the way it has to be.”

  “Did she know that?”

  “That I didn’t want anyone but her? Yeah, but she didn’t want the same thing, so it didn’t ever go quite the way I wanted it to.”

  “How did you deal with that?”

  Lance lifts one shoulder. “The way she expected me to.”

  I want to ask what that means, but I don’t push for more answers, because I know what he’ll tell me and I don’t know if I’m ready to hear it, even if I already know the truth.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Why? You didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Because she hurt you, and it s
ounds like it was intentional.” I pick up a new antiseptic wipe and tear it open, then go to work on the other hand.

  Lance doesn’t so much as flinch while I’m cleaning the wounds. When I’m done, I put antibacterial cream on them and wrap them with gauze.

  “I’m going to get you some aspirin and some water, then I think it’s lights out for you.” I use the edge of the vanity to pull myself up.

  “I can get it.” He tries to pull himself up as well, but sways and ends up dropping back down on the closed toilet seat.

  “Why don’t you let me get this?”

  “There’s aspirin in the medicine cabinet and I’ve got a glass right there.” He points to the counter.

  I fill the glass and root through his medicine cabinet. I drop two pills in his hand.

  “I’ll need a bit more than that.”

  “One more?”

  “Two would be better.”

  I drop one more in his palm. “If you’re still feeling bad in an hour, I’ll give you more.”

  He tosses the pills into his mouth and swallows them down with a couple of gulps of water. “You’re not leaving?”

  “Do you want me to?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll stay.”

  “Why?”

  “Stop asking questions you won’t remember the answers to in the morning.” I run my fingers through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead. “Now finish that so I can fill it again for you.”

  “I really hope I don’t forget all of this.” He does what I ask and drains the rest of the glass.

  LANCE POV Post-Break Up Scene

  I WAS NEVER in love with Tash. I know that with absolute certainty now. I cared about her. But we weren’t good for each other, not the way I wanted us to be.

  Poppy is a different story. It’s been four days. They’ve been the longest four days of my fucking life. I feel like a junkie in withdrawal. I’m edgy and raw. I can’t keep my shit together on the ice.

  I almost managed to get a game suspension last night. In three days, I’m leaving for another short series of away games. I’ll be gone for four days. I asked Coach if I could have a different roommate; I can’t deal with Rookie and the bunnies. Also, punching him in the face and the whole shitshow with Tash wasn’t much help. A little separation is a good thing.