Pucked Off (The Pucked Series)

by Helena Hunting

  “To mess with my head.”

  “I won’t play head games. I’m not like that.”

  “You don’t strike me as the type.” His smile is almost shy. “I won’t do that to you, either. That’s definitely not what I want.”

  “What do you want?” There’s a lot riding on this. I’m already past the point of no return where my heart is concerned, so I have to protect myself as best I can.

  “Just you.”

  It seems to be a common phrase with him. I have to get clarity. “What does that mean exactly?”

  Panic flares behind his eyes, and I can see he’s struggling with words. In this moment I realize how much damage has been done to him. Prolonged, sustained physical and emotional abuse has a lasting impact.

  So much finally makes sense now as I filter back to the first time he was on my table—and further back, to the night at the bar, where he was edgy and stressed over the way people kept bumping into him, and to the kiss in the closet when he wrapped my arms around his neck and told me to keep them there. That that was the real him.

  I have the real him right here with me now, too. I have a broken boy who’s become a broken man, and as stupid and naïve as it may be, I want to be part of what heals him.

  “I want this. You and me. Us.” He skims my side with his hand, then wraps an arm around my waist.

  God. Of all the relationship conversations I’ve had, this one has to be the most difficult. “So you want be exclusive?”

  He swallows hard. “I don’t want there to be anyone else.”

  “So when you’re away, you don’t want me to see other people?” I won’t take anything for granted.

  His eyes flash with something dark. “Are you seeing anyone else right now?”

  “No. And I don’t plan to. That’s not how I work.”

  He swallows thickly. “Okay. That’s good.”

  “But what about you?” At his questioning gaze I press. “What about the girls who hang out after the games?”

  “The bunnies?” Lance asks, looking almost horrified.

  “Yes. The bunnies.”

  “They’re just there for hook ups.”

  “And will you do that? Have you done that? Hooked up with them?”

  Lance frowns. “No. Not since we’ve been together. Do you want me to?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Okay. Good. ’Cause I don’t want that. Not at all anymore.”

  His relief and mine match. “I’m glad.”

  “Miller, Randy, Waters, and Westinghouse all have girlfriends. Well, Violet’s married to Waters, and I don’t know what the fuck is going on with Westinghouse and his girl, but I hang out with them, so I can avoid the bunnies.”

  “That’s good.”

  “I won’t do anything to hurt you, Poppy. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I hope he means it. My heart is making big plans for this man, even though my head is telling me to slow down.

  “Can I take you up to bed now? I’m not gonna get to have your hands on me for almost a week, and I’m not gonna like that very much.”

  “Then we should definitely go to bed.”

  The hockey season moves into full swing, and in no time it’s mid-November. Lance is still a constant in my bed and on my couch. But those are really the only places I spend time with him.

  In the weeks we’ve been seeing each other, he has yet to invite me to a game, or to his house, or out with his friends. We did go out for coffee once, at the same little dessert café we went to before. I wasn’t allowed to get tea because then it technically wouldn’t have counted as the second date I’d agreed to.

  I try not to dwell on what all the seclusion means or doesn’t mean because I like having him around, and he continues to be sweet and doting. Meals and flowers have continued to arrive on a regular basis. And one day I left work to find new snow tires on my car because there was a ten-percent possibility of snow.

  This is obviously a lot of thoughtfulness, but I’m starting to wonder about the parameters of this relationship. Have I become a secret he’s hiding? And if so, from who? DO NOT FUCKING REPLY hasn’t messaged again, at least not while I’ve been with him, and past relationships haven’t come up again when we talk.

  Then someone else calls a few days before he’s scheduled for another away series, with unknown as the contact.

  He doesn’t answer, but it makes him act sketchy. Just like when DNFR called before, he powers down his phone and distracts me with sex.

  But I don’t forget how anxious that incoming call made him, despite how focused on my needs he becomes, zeroed in on what makes me feel good. When I put my hands on him, his groan is almost pained, and he holds my palms against his skin, as if he could fuse me to his body.

  One night he shows up at my place with the makings of a black eye after a home game. I have an early morning, but he’s exceptionally needy in a way I haven’t experienced before. I’m almost scared of what it might mean.

  We’re lying in my bed, me sprawled across his chest, because that’s where he seems to like me best after sex. Really any time we’re alone and prone, he prefers me to be tucked into his side or on top of him.

  His breathing is even, but there’s tension in his body. His phone buzzes on the nightstand beside mine. I feel his head turn, but he doesn’t make a move to get it.

  “Lance?”

  He makes a sound, acknowledging me.

  “Are you okay?”

  A long pause follows before he finally says, “Aye.” But his tone belies the word.

  I lift my head and find him staring at the ceiling. I skim his lips with my fingertips, and he turns toward me.

  I keep my eyes on his as I kiss his shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  The pet name is one I’ve used only a couple of times before, and only when it seems like something’s on his mind. Like now. His hand comes up to cover mine, and his eyes fall closed as he kisses my fingertips.

  “Tomorrow would’ve been my brother’s twenty-first birthday,” he whispers.

  His intensity and introspection make sense now. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Me, too.” He plays with my fingers, sweeping them back and forth across his lips.

  “Lance?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Can I ask what happened to him?”

  He tenses for a moment, and his hand tightens around mine. But eventually he releases a breath, along with my fingers.

  “I don’t like to talk about it all that much.”

  “It must’ve been awful with him being so young. Was he sick?”

  Lance shakes his head. “I killed him.”

  It’s my turn to tense, but I don’t take my hand away, because I’m aware his words are intended to shock and make me withdraw. “What do you mean?”

  “The last time I told someone about this, she used it to manipulate me.”

  “You mean the complicated relationship?”

  I get a small nod in reply.

  “Manipulate you how?”

  “She would use it against me. She made it worse.”

  “She made what worse?” I don’t understand where he’s going with this, and I have all sorts of scenarios running through my head that don’t add up to the man taking up space in my bed and my heart.

  “The guilt.” He eyes me warily. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

  Though I haven’t been to see him play in person, I’ve seen Lance on the ice. The TV does a great job showcasing the aggression he works hard to contain most of the time. I’ve also seen the lid pop off and all the pent-up anger explode out of him. It results in things like the black eye he’s currently sporting. I can spin my own ideas about what could’ve happened, but knowing Lance, his perception on this might be skewed.

  “Can you explain that, please?” I ask.

  Another long silence follows, and his breathing grows more anxious with every passing moment. I press my lips against his shoulder and shift so I can touch them to his neck,
his cheek, his chin, and finally his lips.

  “I just want to understand, Lance. I don’t want to use the information to cause you pain.”

  He can’t look me in the eye, and I don’t push for it, knowing whatever he’s about to tell me must be hard.

  “When I was a kid I used to play ball hockey with some guys after school. I always told my mum my brother and I had stayed for the after-school tutoring or math stuff or whatever, and she never checked, ’cause math was my thing.

  “One afternoon I got a little caught up and didn’t realize how late it was, or maybe I ignored how tight time was getting. My mum was going through a bad phase—not sleeping all that well, probably drinking too much, maybe not taking the pills the doctors gave her. Plus, my dad was away on another business trip, so she was on us more. On me more.”

  He pauses, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

  “Being late meant bad things. Not for Quinn. He was a good kid. Always did what he was asked, followed the rules, didn’t give anyone a hard time. We lived in a nice part of town. We had a big house and nice clothes. My parents drove expensive cars, and we had private education with uniforms. I took it for granted a lot; I still do. But there was an area close to where we lived that wasn’t so nice, a lot of poverty there. That’s where some of the gang kids came from. Sometimes they’d graffiti our school walls, hang out and threaten some of the mouthy kids, stuff like that.”

  Lance pauses again. He picks up my fingers, studying them, and I wait, because the end of this story is devastating. It marks a loss that I’m positive changed this man in a lot of ways, and will fill in so many missing pieces of the puzzle that is Lance.

  When it seems like he’s struggling to continue, I finally ask, “Did you get mouthy with them?”

  He shakes his head.

  “What happened, then?”

  I get another headshake, more playing with my fingertips. His voice cracks when he finally speaks again.

  “We were gonna be late ’cause I’d played hockey too long. Quinn, he’d just sit there watching, ’cause he was good like that. Real patient. He’d read a book sometimes if he was bored, but that day he told me more than once that we needed to go, and I ignored him, told him five more minutes. I just wanted to beat the other guys, and I did.”

  He swallows hard. “By the time we left, we only had fifteen minutes to get home. It usually took at least twenty, and that was keeping a good pace. Quinn had asthma, so he wasn’t great at running, and he had puffers. I said we should take the shortcut. He didn’t want to at first, ’cause my mum said never to go that way. But then I reminded him we’d be late, and I’d get in trouble. He knew what that meant when Mum was having one of her bad spells.”

  “So you took the shortcut?” I ask.

  Lance looks out into the darkness as he nods. His glassy eyes are glued to a spot on the wall, and his throat bobs.

  “There was this alley we had to go down; once we were through there, it wasn’t so bad. There were stores and stuff. But that alley, it was dark. I’d gone a couple times with some friends, but never my brother. We got about halfway before we were swarmed.”

  He sounds so tortured. “Back home they make their own weapons.”

  My heart lurches.

  “They’ll take off their socks and fill them with rocks. Then they beat you with them. Usually you come out with bruises and shit, but it fucking hurts like hell. They tried to take Quinn’s bag, and he knew if he came home without it we’d get in real shit with Mum, so he tried to hold on to it, and they went at him. Hit him right in the temple. One second he was screaming, and the next he was just…gone.”

  Lance’s haunted gaze finally lifts to mine, fear and regret making his eyes shine. “It’s my fault he’s dead. I took him away from her. I broke her.”

  The her he’s referring to can only be his mother. I see clearly that the blame has become a blackness inside that he can’t erase.

  I curve my palm around his cheek, his sadness my own. “Oh, baby, that’s not your fault.”

  “I took him there. I was the reason we were late.”

  “You were a child.”

  “I knew better than to go that way. I should’ve just dealt with the beating I’d get, but I didn’t want to, and then they fucking killed him, and I lost everything.” A choked sound leaves him, and he closes his eyes, fists clenching as he tries to control the shudder that passes through him. When his eyes open, there’s a vast emptiness that makes my heart ache. “I shouldn’t have told you any of this.”

  I don’t ask why. I already know. It’s same thing he said the last time he gave me insight into his past. He thinks I’ll do what it seems like everyone else in his life has. I push up so I can look at him, even though he’s focused elsewhere. I touch his cheek, and he turns toward my hand.

  “I’m so sorry the people who should’ve helped you through this weren’t able to cope with the loss. I’m so sorry they made you feel like it was yours to own.”

  “It is mine.”

  “Lance, look at me.”

  His eyes shift, wary and afraid.

  “How old were you?”

  “Eleven.”

  If my heart wasn’t breaking before, it certainly is now. To watch someone you love die, helpless to stop it, would be devastating to such a young child. To have your family fall apart and leave you believing it was your fault would be emotionally crippling. That Lance is as well adjusted as he is seems to be a miracle. I imagine his aunt is the reason for it.

  “Oh, baby.” I push his hair back from his forehead.

  He brushes tears away from my eyes, frowning at the dampness on his fingertips. “Why’re you crying?”

  “Because I’m so sad that someone took your innocence from you like that, and that you believe it to be your fault when it was a horribly unfortunate situation out of your control.”

  “I made a mistake, and it cost me my brother.”

  “You made a mistake out of self-preservation. I’m sorry your mum didn’t know how to love you without hurting you.”

  He traces the contour of my face. “I’m messed up, Poppy. I think there are parts of me that can’t be fixed.”

  Loving this man isn’t going to be easy, but I still want to try. “I don’t need to fix you, Lance. I’ll take you as you are. I just want you to be happy.”

  He kisses me, and I can almost taste his fear. He wants to believe me, but I can’t blame him for being afraid. All the people in his life who were supposed to stand by him have abandoned him in some way. I don’t want to be another.

  The night before Lance’s next away series I wake at four in the morning to an empty bed. He was here a few hours ago when I fell asleep on his chest, so I assume he’s gone in search of a snack. He seems to have the same nightly pattern, which explains why I don’t ever get a full night’s sleep.

  I pull his T-shirt over my head and pad out into the hall, sure I’ll find him scarfing down a bag of gummy bears in the kitchen. He stocks my cupboards something fierce. Lance eats a lot of candy despite it not being on his meal plan.

  When I reach the landing, I can hear his voice, low and aggravated. I descend a few steps and pause again.

  “No. That’s not happening. I don’t want to see you. There’s nothing to talk about.”

  There’s a pause, and I can see him pacing the length of living room. “I’ll block this number like I did the last one… No—I will never fucking forgive you if you—why can’t you let me have this? Why do you want to fuck this up for me?”

  He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Stop fucking with my head. I told you I was done.”

  He drops down into a crouch, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Goddamn it. You made it this way. Not me. You. Stop calling and stay away from me.”

  He hangs up the phone and drops it on the floor. It starts buzzing again almost immediately. He makes a low, deep sound in his throat and grabs his hair with both hands, pulling hard. It can’t feel good.

>   I take another step down the stairs, hitting the one that creaks on purpose. He drops his hand and unfurls from his crouch, spinning around to face me.

  “Who’s calling in the middle of the night?” I look to his phone, lighting up on the floor.

  “Fucking telemarketers,” he lies. He snatches it up off the floor and powers it down, then tosses it roughly on the coffee table. I wonder if it was DO NOT FUCKING REPLY. I should ask, but I’m afraid to know.

  “I thought maybe you went looking for gummy bears.” I try to make my smile even. I’m not sure how successful I am.

  “I’m not hungry for gummies any more.” His hands ball into fists and then open as he stalks up the stairs.

  His eyes are full of pain and fear. I feel it cracking open my heart.

  “I need to be in you. I need you to let me get inside you.”

  “Are you okay?” I should demand the truth, make him open up and give me more, but I’m also scared of pushing him too far when he’s like this.

  “I want to be.”

  I run my hands up his bare chest, giving in to him, though I know that may not be my wisest move. “And I’ll make it better?”

  He cups my cheeks in his palms, kisses me tenderly and rests his forehead against mine. “Yes.”

  As much as I want to know more, I want this, too. His need for me is heady.

  “Then you should take me back to bed so I can do that for you.”

  He picks me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, and carries me up the stairs. Shortly thereafter, he makes me come three times. He tells me he needs me, this, us.

  And I want to believe him—I think he’s telling the truth—but I’m so scared.

  Because I’ve fallen now, and someone else seems to have a hold on him.

  CHAPTER 21

  HEAD GAMES

  LANCE

  I get it now. I’ve found someone who consumes my world, so I don’t say anything to Miller about the excessive display of affection he’s engaged in right now. Instead, I grab his bag from his front porch and toss it into the back of my Hummer while he cradles baby Logan in one arm and close-talks Sunny with the other.

  I get his bad moods. I get why he’s quiet and anxious these days. This thing with Poppy is new, and Miller and Sunny have been together for a long time now, but the restlessness that’s settled in my chest is directly related to leaving Poppy this morning. And knowing I won’t see her for five days dampens the usual excitement of the games. Miller must feel this times a million.