Hot as Puck: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  Hopefully she’ll still be there by the end of the third period.

  If she hasn’t been roofied and kidnapped by a tech billionaire.

  “What kind of person throws her little sister into a room with twenty single men who have been drinking since the fucking stadium opened?” I pant as Brendan and I tromp down the tunnel toward the locker room, sweaty from an ugly second period in which Brendan took a stick to the face and I got body slammed into the glass by two rookies from the other team. “And don’t tell me again that Libby’s a grown woman. Yes, she’s grown, but she’s also used to dealing with elementary school teachers, crafty people, and the hippie dudes she volunteers with. She has no experience fending off douchebag billionaires.”

  “You could be a billionaire someday,” Brendan says. “If you’d get off your ass and talk to my financial advisor. You’re not investing the way you should be.”

  “I don’t want to be a fucking billionaire.” I rip off my helmet as we hit the rubber floor and stomp into the locker room. “I just want to fucking talk to Libby so I can quit losing my fucking mind.”

  “Language.” Brendan nods to the couches near the television in the corner, where a tiny red ponytail is just visible over the back of the black leather recliner. “Chloe’s here. My sitter called in sick last minute. Laura’s going to come get her before the end of the game so Chloe’s gone before people start showering, but she had some PR stuff to do first.”

  “Right. Sorry.” I sniff hard, holding back all the unflattering things I would like to say about my best friend and her fucking temper and her fucking inability to see that Libby is different. Libby isn’t a rebound. Libby is the reason it never worked with anyone else. Chloe loves Laura, almost as much as she loves me, and I’m not ready to give up my place as number one uncle because I badmouthed La in front of her.

  “Whatcha making, squirt?” I lean over the back of the chair to see Chloe scribbling madly on a giant pad of paper. The kid is always drawing. She’s a coloring demon, who goes through crayons faster than I go through stick tape.

  “Seagulls,” she says, not looking up from the page. “Very scary seagulls, because seagulls are scary as crap and everyone needs to know about it.”

  I swallow a laugh as Brendan says in his Dad voice, “Language, Chloe.”

  “Scary as heck?” Chloe asks, hopefully.

  “Just scary is good enough. Your picture will do the swearing for you.” Brendan shakes his head at the mass of black and gray wings, interspersed with razor-sharp beaks and the occasional splashes of red, covering his daughter’s paper.

  “Is that blood?” I ask, unable to repress a snort of amusement when Chloe says—

  “Yes. Seagulls like blood with their bread. Human blood.”

  “They do not,” Brendan says, sounding tired. “You got pecked one time, baby, and it didn’t bleed. It was an accident. The birds were just excited to be fed.”

  “Guess you won’t be feeding the seagulls again any time soon.” I grin at him as he rolls his eyes.

  He steps away, running a hand over his sweat-damp hair. “No, we won’t. I thought it would be fun, but they ended up mobbing us on the pier this morning, and Chloe got scared. I don’t think she would have cried, but she was still a little off after leaving school early yesterday.”

  “Yeah, about that,” I say softly, not wanting Chloe to hear. “I think she faked it somehow, man. She was very perky for someone who was supposed to be running a 102-degree fever. She made me play ten rounds of Exploding Kittens and beat my butt every time, and when I took her temperature at your place it was only 99 degrees.”

  He sighs heavily. “Yeah. I know. She hates her new school. She wants to go back to the place where she went to kindergarten, but they don’t have a good afterschool program or art every day or any money for music or sports or much of anything else. The private school is better. Hopefully she’ll see that once she makes new friends and gets settled in.”

  I’m about to suggest he chat with Libby about why Chloe’s having a hard time—who better to give advice than a teacher who loves her kids as much as Libby does—when my phone dings in my locker, and like Pavlov’s dog I start to salivate.

  I know what those dings are. They’re Libby sexts, flooding into my phone in a naughty stream of wonderful wickedness. I know I should wait until the game is over to read them—we’re up by five points, and though I doubt I’ll see as much ice time in the third, Coach could always decide to send me out more if things get hairy in the final period—but I can’t help myself.

  I spin my combination and grab my phone from the top shelf. But instead of Sext Goddess offerings, I see the following from Laura—

  I hope you’re proud of yourself. Libby bailed on the suite seat and decided to watch the game from a sports bar. Alone, I’m guessing.

  So instead of meeting new people, and maybe finding a guy who would be able to see how absolutely amazing she is, she’s by herself, waiting for you to get finished playing so she can meet up for a meaningless hookup. And yes, I know all about your “arrangement.” She told me yesterday.

  But if you think that Libby is the type who can have a nostrings-attached fling and then go back to being friends, you are clearly insane.

  She’s always had a soft spot for you, and I saw the way she looked at you yesterday. She’s falling for you, Justin. Hell, maybe she’s already fallen. Maybe it’s too late to keep from breaking her sweet heart, and if it is, I swear I will never speak to you again.

  Because if you break her heart you’re going to break mine, too.

  She’s not just my sister, she’s my best friend. I know her better than anyone, even you. I know that she feels things more deeply than normal people, that she cares so much it’s painful sometimes, and that she has always struggled to fit in. But that’s not because there’s something wrong with her. It’s because there’s something wrong with a world that expects us to pretend we’re not at the mercy of our fears and our feelings and our need for love and acceptance and all the other things that make us vulnerable and human.

  But the people who feel big feelings are the best of us.

  Libby is one of the best of us.

  So make this right, Justin. If you can. Call it off before it’s too late, or let her down so easy she feels like she’s landing on a bed stuffed with the wooly fluff of baby angel sheep. Even if our friendship means nothing to you, I know Libby does.

  Do right by her. Please.

  And if you see me after the game, don’t try to talk to me. I’m going to be with Chloe, and I refuse to lose my temper in front of her, but I’m not ready to talk to you in person without raising my voice.

  I curse as I toss the phone back onto the shelf, then I immediately turn to Brendan and apologize.

  “It’s okay. I don’t think Chloe can hear anything but the echoes of seagull screams right now. What’s up?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know what’s up. Libby isn’t at the game, she hasn’t texted, and Laura is making more sense than I would like for her to.

  She’s right. I need to make this right. I should have insisted Libby talk to me yesterday. I should have written her an email, even though the “I don’t want to talk until after the game, so leave me alone” message was coming through loud and clear in her last text. Instead, I listened to the voice in my head that swears it’s always better to play it cool. The voice that does its best to shut down displays of feelings and fear and other vulnerable human shit that might fuck with my image as the guy who has it all together.

  But like it or not, I am vulnerable. If Libby tells me she doesn’t want anything from me but my dick, it’s going to hurt like hell.

  And no amount of playing it cool or fucking other women or crocheting granny squares until my fingers fall off is going to make it better.

  I need her. I need her as my friend and as the woman in my bed every night. I need her as the person who makes me laugh, who talks me back from the edge when meditation won
’t cut it, and who comes to me when she’s broken and trusts me to do my damnedest to fix her. I need her for parties at her parents’ place and long walks in the woods behind the houses where we grew up together, and because all my best memories have Libby in them.

  “I’ve got to do something.” I pace back and forth in front of my locker. “I’ve got to do something big.”

  “Don’t ask her to marry you,” Brendan says. “It’s way too soon. You’ll scare her.”

  I spin back to him, emotion galloping through my chest.

  Brendan smiles. “Scary, isn’t it? When crazy shit like that doesn’t seem so crazy anymore.”

  I nod numbly. It is scary, but a good kind of scary. And the thought of spending the foreseeable future with Libby doesn’t make me feel claustrophobic or depressed or trapped the way it did with Sylvia. I would feel damned lucky to spend every Friday night with Libs, whether we were going out or staying in or having a bunch of crafty friends over to make shit together. I want to make things with Libby. Things like love and happiness and afghans and maybe five or six babies so that we’ll have lots of small people to share in how good it is to be a family together.

  Shockingly, the thought makes my throat tight and my eyes sting a little. “Fuck.”

  “Seagulls are as scary as that, too,” a little voice pops up from behind me. I jump guiltily and turn to see Chloe holding up her finished drawing behind me. “See?”

  “I’m sorry Chloe. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  She shrugs her shoulders and wrinkles her freckled nose. “It’s okay. I’ve heard it before. Daddy says it when he drops things on his foot. He drops things a lot when he’s making dinner. Even just macaroni and cheese.”

  “From the mouths of babes,” Brendan mutters. “You want me to hang that on my locker, baby? As a public service announcement to anyone thinking about going to feed the seagulls?”

  Chloe grins, but before she can answer, my big idea comes crashing to the front of my brain and I kneel down, taking her little hand. “Hey Clo, do you mind if I borrow a few pieces of your paper? And your markers? I promise I’ll pay you back.”

  “You don’t have to pay me back,” she says sweetly. “I’m really good at sharing. You can have as much paper and markers as you want.”

  “But you’ve got like five minutes before we need to head back out,” Brendan warns as I hurry across the room, grateful I didn’t bother taking off my skates. “Don’t you need to meditate?”

  “This is better than meditation.” The only thing stronger than the mind is the heart. And my heart needs to get a message to Libby’s ASAP.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Libby

  Roger and I are completely compatible.

  We like so many of the same things—biking around the city, cats and dogs, keeping arts in schools as much as our shrinking budget allows, craft beers, hiking, skiing, and making brunch last at least two hours on a sunny summer morning. Even the things we don’t have in common—needlecrafts for me and antique book preservation for him—are compatible. They are both quietly nerdy and lovely things to be passionate about.

  But as far as a mutual passion for passion, we’re never going to get around to finding out more about that.

  I have absolutely no urge to hold Roger’s hand, let alone anything else.

  Accepting this dinner invite was a mistake. All I’ve done is create a situation that will make things awkward at work when I pass on a second date, while doing absolutely nothing to keep my mind off Justin. Of course, the fact that the Fox Brass has the game playing on the big screen behind the bar isn’t helping things.

  I should have asked Roger if we could change locations as soon as I realized the pub owner is a Badgers fan, but I’m a glutton for punishment. My eyes keep drifting to the screen, soaking in the sight of Justin playing with his typical mixture of ferocity and grace, while my thoughts drift to all the other physical things he does so well…

  “What about the chocolate cake to share?” Roger taps two fingers on the table as he surveys the dessert menu, a gesture I’m realizing is a nervous habit for him. “Or maybe the cobbler?”

  “I’m completely stuffed,” I say, though I’ve barely eaten anything. I’ve been too nervous about my impending talk with Jus to enjoy the meal. My grilled vegetable sandwich tasted like sawdust and the craft brew might as well have been Pabst Blue Ribbon for all the impression it made on my tormented pallet.

  “Maybe a coffee, then?” Roger taps the table again. “I’d love to talk more. I know we’ve worked together for years, but I feel like I’m just getting to know you.”

  I’m about to tell Roger that I’m just getting to know me in a lot of ways, too, and that I’ve realized I’m not ready to date someone I work with—blame it on the job, Collins, that way he won’t get his feelings hurt—when a hubbub from the bar draws my attention. A girl in a Badger’s jersey squeals in excitement, the men surrounding her laugh, and a group of older men at the other end of the bar grumble amongst themselves, apparently not approving of the excitement of the younger crowd.

  Or maybe they don’t approve of what has excited them…

  “Oh my God,” I murmur, sitting up straighter in my chair as I see what’s happening on the screen.

  There, sitting on the far end of the Badger’s bench as the third period gets ready to start, is Justin, holding a brightly colored piece of paper up to the glass.

  A poem for Libby:

  My fingers drift to cover my mouth as he switches the sign out for another. His intense gaze is focused on the camera filming him, and I swear it feels like he’s looking straight at me as he flips slowly through the stack of papers in his lap.

  Dear Libs, I suck at art.

  And my first poem to you was a joke about farts.

  But this is real and true

  Don’t call this off. ’Cause I’m stupid in love with you.

  In love with me…

  He’s in love with me! And I’m in love with him! And I’ve been stressing out for the past day and a half for no reason.

  Oh yeah? What about Sylvia?

  “Sylvia doesn’t matter,” I murmur. “Sylvia must be confused.”

  “Excuse me?”

  I turn back to Roger with a start. God, this man used to make me so nervous, and now for a moment I’d completely forgotten he was sitting next to me. “I’m so sorry, Roger, but I have to go.”

  His lips curve in a wry smile. “Because you’re Libby.” He motions toward the screen. “His Libby.”

  I nod. “Yes. Yes, I am.” I am Justin’s, and he is mine, and I need to be where he is immediately, even if I’ll have to wait for him to get off the ice to tell him that I love him, too.

  I pull my wallet from my purse, but Roger stops me with a hand in the air. “No, this is my treat. Thanks for coming out tonight. I had a nice time. I hope we can be better friends from here on out.”

  “Of course, but are you sure?” I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t feel right letting you pay.”

  “I insist,” he says with a smile. “I’m just sorry it took me so long to get up the courage to ask you out. If you and Mr. Super Sexy Famous Hockey Player Guy break up, maybe you can give me a shout out?”

  I press my lips together, but Roger saves me with a laugh.

  “I’m kidding,” he says. “I’m happy to be friends. And I hope everything works out for you two. Truly. He looks like he’s suffering. I’m glad you’re going to put him out of his misery.”

  My breath rushes out. “Me, too. And I know you’ll find someone wonderful. You’re a really nice person with so many admirable qualities. Don’t be afraid next time. Go for it. I’m sure any woman you ask out will be thrilled to say yes.”

  Roger winces. “Okay, now you’re being too nice. Go get your guy before I have to man-cry into what’s left of my beer and talk about my last ugly breakup.”

  I nod, giving him a thumbs-up. “Right. I’m gone. See you Monday. Thank you so much for dinner.�
��

  And then I turn and hustle across the bar, past the big screen that is now showing footage of the game in progress. But as I pass I hear one of the commenters say, “Looks like someone’s got it bad,” and another joke back, “Not as bad as that poem. I think my five-year-old could write something better than that. But hey, whatever works. Hopefully this Libby person will realize he has other admirable qualities. Like one hell of a wrist shot.”

  “I liked the poem. Loved it, in fact,” I mutter as I push out of the bar and set off at a jog down the sidewalk toward the arena. It’s a good fifteen blocks, but I can’t stand the idea of waiting for a bus or a cab right now. I need to be in motion, on my way to Jus and the future and all the unexpectedly amazing things it will hold.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Libby

  At the arena, I head for the staff entrance, pulling out my phone to text Laura and beg her to come let me in, but when I round the corner my sister is already waiting for me, huddling in her puffy white jacket between two stoic faced security guards.

  When she sees me, her breath rushes out and a worried look tightens her usually elegant features. My sister is easily one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever met, but when she’s worried she looks like a mole that crawled out of its hole expecting the dark of night and found morning sun instead.

  “Okay, so this is happening, isn’t it?” She takes my hand, holding tight as she leads me toward the door. “You just did the romantic comedy heroine dash through the airport to catch the guy you love before he gets on the plane, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but it was just the street. And that wouldn’t work anymore with airport security and boarding passes and stuff,” I say, still panting from my run. “But I do love him, La. I was lying to you yesterday. And myself. At least a little. I’m sorry.”