Pucked Off (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  Because now I’m not sure what’s going to be worse: him finally remembering who I am and how we know each other, or me realizing I never left enough of an impact to warrant being remembered at all.

  CHAPTER 7

  COMPENSATING

  POPPY

  Lance closes the door and taps the roof of my car. The Hummer beside my Mini beeps. I look around excitedly, expecting a paunchy bald guy to appear out of nowhere. That’s not what happens.

  Lance rounds the front of the vehicle, waving and grinning sheepishly. I drop my head and give it a shake. Of course I insulted his choice of vehicle—well, him, actually.

  I start my car, but the sound of my engine is drowned out by the Hummer revving to life. The thing is a beast. Lance’s passenger window rolls down, and his face appears in the dark space.

  He waits until I do the same before yelling over the rumble of his engine. “I swear I’m not compensating.”

  “Suuure,” I reply. “I’d tell you to drive safe, but since you have a tank…” I shift into gear and pull out, waving again as I pass him.

  I think he waves back, but his windows are tinted, and all I can see is light reflected off the windshield. Lance follows behind me and turns in the same direction I do. He leaves lots of space between us, maybe respecting the fact that he could drive over my car if he were impatient enough. My little Mini looks like something his vehicle expelled from the exhaust pipe.

  My phone keeps buzzing in my purse. It’s likely April, since we’re supposed to meet up and I’m way later than I thought I’d be. Part of me wants to talk to her about Lance, and the other part—the part that remembers exactly what it was like to get burned by him last year—doesn’t want to rehash that experience any more. I’ve already done it once today. For an hour. While I massaged his glutes.

  I rummage through my purse when I come to a stoplight, digging out my phone. Before I can check my messages, a honk comes from my right. It startles me, and my phone lands on the floor of the passenger side, bouncing out of reach. I look over to find Lance’s Hummer beside me, his window down again.

  Mine descends with a whir.

  He revs his engine. “Wanna race?”

  I laugh. “Pretty sure your car can eat my car for breakfast.”

  “Maybe more of a light snack.” He winks and throws a handful of what appears to be candy in his mouth, then tosses the package on the dash. It looks like gummy bears. The light turns. Lance lifts his hand in a wave and puts his foot on the gas, proving me right as he speeds away while I obey the posted speed limit. I drive home and park in front of my row house. The pub is only a ten-minute walk, and it’s a nice evening. Besides, I need the time to clear my head.

  April’s in a booth close to the pool tables. I feel bad about being so late, especially since she’s alone. She looks up as I slide onto the bench across from her.

  “What took you so long?”

  “Lance stopped by to pick up his phone.” I try to sound nonchalant, but I’m sure I fail based on how high my voice goes at the end.

  “Oh my God! What happened? What did he say? Did you explain the picture?” April looks like she’s going to pass out. “Did he ask you out? Was I right about him leaving it there on purpose?”

  I raise a hand to stop her. “You need to stop chugging Red Bull.”

  “I still need that firm ass report.”

  “It’s solid as a rock.” I look around, seeking out the server so I can place an order. I’m starving, and I’ll do just about anything to get out of answering questions about Lance’s assets.

  A waitress stops at the table, so I order a Shirley Temple and some sweet potato fries. Fiber makes them healthier than the regular ones.

  “You’re not even going to have a real drink?”

  “I have to be back at the clinic at eight tomorrow morning.” I’m also concerned that if I order something with alcohol, I might not stop at one. This whole thing has me discombobulated enough that getting tipsy doesn’t seem like such a bad idea. Which is exactly why I won’t do it. Alcohol isn’t a coping mechanism I like to use. Sweet potato fries, on the other hand…

  “What about a white Russian? It’s like drinking chocolate milk.”

  “Really, I’m good.”

  “Suit yourself. Go wild and drink from the kids menu. Anyway, back to Lance. What happened when he came back? What did he say? What’s he like? Do you think all the rumors are true?”

  “Seriously, April, how much Red Bull did you drink today?”

  “None. Just a lot of coffee. Come on, Poppy, you had your hands all over one of the hottest, most notorious hockey players in the league. You need to share that experience with me.”

  “It was just a massage.” I wish I had my Shirley Temple already so I could do something with my hands.

  “If it was just a massage, why is your face the color of your name?” April asks. “Oh! Did he remember you from when you went to school together? Did you get his autograph?”

  “I didn’t get his autograph.”

  The waitress drops off my drink.

  “Did he remember you?”

  I stir my drink with the straw, swirling the grenadine around, and shake my head. “I was a kid, and he only went to my school for, like, maybe a month or two. He didn’t even know I existed.”

  That’s not quite true, but it doesn’t matter because it was so long ago, and those sweet childhood memories had already been replaced by something much less pleasant.

  I’m responsible for allowing that to happen, I suppose both when I was young, and again last year. It’s funny how the few times I’ve made the decision not to play it safe all seem to involve this man. Even today I could’ve told my boss I knew Lance. I could’ve intimated that I didn’t feel comfortable treating him, but I guess the truth is I wanted to. Just like the last time I ran into him, I wanted to see if he would be the same as I remembered. He was, and he wasn’t.

  Today he was awkward, and intense, and maybe even a little sweet—exactly like he was the first time our worlds collided, and nothing like the way he was last year. I wonder if I’m inviting discord into my life, or if it’s just my insecurities that make me feel this way. A kiss is just a kiss. Especially one that happened more than a decade ago. Maybe it should be nothing, but there’s so much spark caught up in that one memory.

  When I saw him last year, I wanted to find that feeling again. But that’s not what happened at all. I hope this time his appearance doesn’t lead to second-guessing and the consumption of a lot of comfort food like it did before.

  It took me three months to lose the five pounds Ben and Jerry’s added to my waistline last time. Which is ridiculous, because it was one stupid night where nothing happened, so it shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. Because it destroyed a perfectly preserved moment in time. A highly romanticized one, obviously, but I was twelve, so that’s totally acceptable. Not so much at twenty-three.

  “Poppy? Are you okay?”

  “Huh?” I look up from the drink I’m still stirring.

  “You gapped right out there.”

  “I’m fine. Just tired. It was a long day. How was Ms. Thong?”

  “Oh God! I wish you could’ve seen her today. She was rocking the craziest hot pink butt floss. I thought it was going to snap it was so tiny!”

  April doesn’t ask me any more questions. Instead we move on to other topics. When the fries come, I scarf down the entire plate. April and I live in the same neighborhood, so once she finishes her drink and I polish off my snack, we walk home together. I’m quiet, trying my best not to think about Lance and all the feelings he’s stirred up.

  I don’t have a lot of girlfriends living around here. I’m kind of a homebody by nature, and my high school friends are back in Galesburg. Most of my college friends have moved to other places, and my sister never stays in one place very long. Right now she’s living in Boston, but I assume that will change in the next few months, as it often does. I love my sister, but we�
��re exact opposites. She lives on the edge, and I’m usually safe inside the lines.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” April asks.

  I can’t decide if I want to tell her what happened last year or not. We hadn’t been close enough for me to divulge it back then. But now things are different. “Do you remember Kristi?”

  “Who?”

  “That girl in our program who used to party all the time?”

  “You mean the one with the Kardashian butt?”

  I snort. “Yeah.”

  April makes a face. “Sure. You hung out with her a bit, right?”

  I nod. “Last year I went out with her and another one of her friends downtown.” She’d had a lot of connections because her family had money. I’d made a decision I normally wouldn’t. Later, when I had perspective, I realized Kristi was only nice to me because I aced all the tests. The invitation was a trade of sorts; she allowed me into her circle for a night, and I’d taken on the bulk of a group project. I definitely lost out on the deal.

  “I bet that was a trip.”

  “She had VIP connections or whatever. Anyway, she got us into this exclusive club where all these rich people hang out. Lance was there with some of his teammates.”

  “What? When did this happen? Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

  “Because it wasn’t exactly an awesome night, and I didn’t think I’d ever run into him again, so what was the point of talking about it? Besides, it’s more embarrassing than anything.”

  “Embarrassing? Why? Oh my God. Did you sleep with him? Why didn’t he recognize you? I’m so confused.”

  That makes two of us. “I didn’t sleep with him, but Kristi did.”

  “Ew. She’s so dirty. I hope he used a condom.”

  I don’t comment, or tell her about how I told Kristi I’d been following his career since he’d been drafted and then she used that line to get his attention when he started talking to me.

  “I don’t get why that’s embarrassing for you.”

  I debate how much I’m willing to share. Talking about it makes it all fresh again. “He started talking to me first when we were at the bar, but after that Miller guy wasn’t interested in anyone, I guess because he had a girlfriend, Kristi decided she wanted Lance’s attention, so...”

  “She jumped on him before you could.”

  “Pretty much.”

  I leave it at that. Not that I would’ve jumped on him anyway, or at least that’s what I tell myself now. I honestly don’t know what would’ve unfolded had I been his sole focus of interest that night.

  “Did he recognize you then?”

  I shake my head. “He was drunk—everyone was except for me. I was…tipsy, not drunk, though. And like I said, I was a kid when we went to school together, and it wasn’t for long, so it’s not a surprise he doesn’t remember me.”

  I don’t share anything about the party my sister took me to when she was a freshman and I was still in seventh grade. Lance hadn’t recognized me then either—but what happened cemented him in my memories forever.

  I also don’t tell her we exchanged phone numbers.

  April and I walk together until we reach her apartment, and then I keep going to my row house a couple of blocks away. My neighbor, Mr. Goldberg, is sitting on his front porch as I climb the stairs, phone in hand texting April to let her know I’m safe.

  “Out late tonight?” Mr. Goldberg asks.

  “I stopped to have a bite to eat with a friend,” I reply.

  “Got yourself a new boyfriend?”

  I laugh. “Nope. Just April.”

  “Well, that’s a relief. I’m not looking forward to the day you cancel our Wednesday tea dates.”

  Mr. Goldberg lost his wife of fifty-three years almost ten months ago. When that happened, I’d started bringing over care packages once a week, which turned into Wednesday evening tea and cookies. He was a sweet man, and his loneliness made me sad sometimes. I didn’t have a boyfriend right now, but my life was still pretty full with good people and a job I loved.

  “No boyfriend could get in the way of tea and cookies.”

  “Ah, one day you’ll find someone better looking than me to spend time with, Miss Poppy.”

  “Impossible, Mr. Goldberg.”

  He smiles. “You’re good for an old ego.” He pushes out of his chair. “Well, now that you’re home safe, I can go inside and watch the news. You have a nice night, dear.”

  “You too, Mr. Goldberg.”

  I check my mailbox and bring in all the flyers and bills, sorting through them as I kick off my shoes. I live in the house I grew up in. When we moved out of Chicago, my parents decided to keep this place as a rental property, and when I came back years later, they gave me the keys with the understanding that I would pay the balance of the mortgage. It’s worked out well so far.

  I drop most of the flyers in the recycle bin and toss the rest on the kitchen table. I’ll go through it tomorrow, when I’m not so tired and in need of my bed.

  I change into my sleep shirt and brush my teeth. As I lie down, I try to think about anything but Lance. It’s impossible. He’s dominated everything every single time he’s come in to my life, even if he doesn’t know it.

  I try to go all the way back to the beginning, when he was a boy in grade school and there was still some innocence clinging to all of us, but I can’t get past the night at the bar.

  I’d been on the dance floor, which wasn’t really my thing at all, but Kristi had assured me it would be fun. I could already tell she was getting tired of trying to persuade me, so I didn’t argue. It was better than standing by the bar getting elbowed constantly, or hit on. I’d been about to call it a night when I’d spotted Lance making his way across the club with his friends. He was impossible to miss, his huge frame parting the crowd, the blacklights making his freckles glow and his hair look like flames.

  Kristi had followed my gaze.

  “Oh my God. Who are those guys?” she’d asked.

  “They’re NHL players.” I’d rhymed off their names and Lance’s stats, because I knew them.

  Kristi started screaming in my ear about how hot they were. I hadn’t paid much attention because I could only focus on my childhood crush less than fifty feet away from me.

  And then I’d realized they were headed our way. I turned around, thinking it would be a great time to make an emergency trip to the bathroom, except there was no clear path off the dance floor.

  “What are you doing?” Kristi grabbed my arm and looked over my shoulder. “They’re headed over here right now.”

  I didn’t have a chance to answer because the next second I felt a tug on my ponytail. “I like yer hair,” a deep voice with only a hint of Scottish accent said in my ear.

  I turned around to find Lance Romero standing right behind me, smiling.

  In that instant I was eleven again, shoving books in my backpack after school. That lovely memory faded an instant later when I realized all of them were totally wasted, especially when Lance linked his pinkie with mine and said something about doing shots.

  He shouldered his way through the crowd and pushed his way to the bar, maneuvering me into a gap that had opened up, and flagged down the bartender.

  He ordered a bunch of shooters and passed them out, handing two to everyone. Knocking his glass against mine, he shot the first and then the second. I sniffed mine.

  He smirked, his eyes heavy with alcohol. “You don’t think you’re gonna like it?”

  “I don’t really do shots. What’s in it?” Shooters didn’t seem like the best idea when I was already tipsy.

  “A bunch of stuff. You wanna know what it tastes like before you try it?” he asked.

  I tilted my head to the side, unsure what he meant. But before I had a chance to answer, Kristi was yelling in my ear about how she was going to get him to take her home that night and stealing my shot.

  “I’ll do hers. She doesn’t drink.” She gave Lance a simpering smil
e.

  They did another round, and I took a tiny sip of the one Lance had handed me. I must have made a face at how strong it was, because he laughed and took it from me. He put his mouth to my ear. “You’re not a big partier, are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “That’s good. You look like a good girl. You can take care of me, tonight, ’kay? Make sure I don’t do anything I might regret.” He ran his fingers through my ponytail, and I felt the end of his nose touch my cheek. “What’s yer name?”

  I yelled my name over the music, but it was hard to hear and he got it wrong.

  “What’re you two talking about?” Kristi yelled in his ear before I had a chance to correct him.

  “Hey, Romance, you gonna take a little break from your friends and order more shots, or you need me to do it for you?” Randy asked, his arm slung around Kristi’s friend Felicity’s shoulder.

  Lance sucked in a breath, but lifted his head. I watched shadows pass behind his eyes as he turned to his teammate.

  “Wanna get off my dick, Balls?” A sloppy grin broke across his face, and he ordered yet another round of shots, doing mine for me once again.

  Kristi slid in beside him, taking my place, and I did nothing to stop her.

  When he invited us back to his place, I considered going home, but Kristi had my phone and wallet in her purse, and she told me I should live a little. I could’ve insisted on getting my things from her, but my curiosity and fascination won out, and I went along for the ride.

  When we got in the limo, Randy and Felicity got friendly, Kristi dropped down beside Lance, and I found out all the rumors I’d tried so hard to ignore about him were true.

  CHAPTER 8

  BLANK SPACES

  LANCE

  Usually I don’t have a problem coming home to emptiness, but tonight I don’t like it. Panic makes me jittery every time my phone pings with another message. Being alone means free time, and I could use a distraction from the forty-three text messages—it dings again; make that forty-four—currently unread on my phone.

  They’re all from Tash.

  Not having my phone today was a blessing because it meant I couldn’t read or respond to anything. But now that I have it back, it’s hard not to check them, though I know it won’t do me any good to read them.