Hot as Puck

by Lili Valente

  “I’ll order it for you myself, my treat.” I grab my spiral notebook and tuck my socked feet beneath me. “As soon as we’re done with lesson one.”

  “All right, let’s do this.” He tosses the pattern book onto the coffee table, clearly eager to get down to business now that there’s a reward involved. He lifts his hands, curling his fingers in a come-and-get-me way. “Hit me.”

  “Okay.” I glance down, clicking my pen. “Number one. What to talk about on a first date.”

  Jus chews the inside of this cheek the way he does when he’s figuring out a particularly difficult line of a crochet pattern, proving he intends to bring some real thought to this. “I think a better question is what not to talk about on a first date. Most guys are forgiving when it comes to the small talk being a little forced at first. But hit them with something freaky fresh out of the gate and you’re going to have a hell of a time getting the dude to return a text, let alone sign on for date two.”

  “Right.” I flip to a clean sheet of paper and poise my pen over the page. “So what don’t I talk about? No big feelings, right?”

  “Absolutely. No big feelings. I mean, if you’re passionate about a hobby or something that’s fine, but nothing that might signal that you’re high maintenance. Save feelings for the third or fourth date, and keep those light. Before that, absolutely keep your emotional state to yourself.”

  I nod as I quickly jot down a few notes. “Okay. But I think my emotional state is actually pretty solid. I mean, I get nervous with new people and in unfamiliar situations, but once I’m comfortable, I’m pretty low maintenance.”

  “True,” Jus agrees. “But your new guy won’t know that. And if you’ve been mooning over him for a long time, he’ll probably be skittish. Especially at first.”

  I prickle. “I haven’t been mooning over him. Roger has no idea I like him. I’ve been very subtle.”

  Justin snorts. “Yeah, because you’re soooo subtle, Libs.”

  “I can be!”

  “Um, sorry. No,” he says, a smug grin curving his lips. “Everything you feel shows on your face, babes. If you’re thinking it, the entire world knows about it.”

  My cheeks flush so hot I know my face must be turning bright red. “That’s not true,” I protest, though I’m silently dying inside, the fear that everyone knows that I have zero confidence in my dating abilities, and nearly as little in the normalcy of my vagina, returns with a vengeance.

  “It is,” Jus insists, leaning closer. “Right now, for example, you’re worried everyone knows that you’re anxious about dating.”

  “I am not!” I cross my arms at my chest with a huff and glare up at his stupid face. “I was wishing I’d made coffee, instead of tea, and thinking about how weird it is that you get your eyebrows waxed.”

  He laughs. “Liar. And I don’t get my eyebrows waxed. I get them threaded at this little Indian salon around the corner from the arena. They do great work, only make me cry a little bit. Tiny little man tears.”

  I press my lips tight together. “I’m not going to laugh at you. This isn’t funny. All you’ve done so far is make me even more self-conscious. Let’s assume you’re right, and everything I think does show on my face. What am I supposed to do about it? Wear a bag over my head for the rest of my life?”

  “No, of course not,” Jus says, his grin fading. “You don’t have to do anything about it, Libs. You’re an open, honest person, and that’s great. You just need to up your confidence level and you’ll be fine. And that’s what we’re doing, right? So you’re already on the road to success.”

  “We’ll see,” I grumble, clicking my pen twice in rapid succession. “What else shouldn’t I talk about?”

  Justin quickly ticks off warnings about politics, religion, money, and a few other no-brainers before going more in depth. “Don’t talk about if you want kids or how many. Don’t talk about ex-boyfriends or dark secrets or your crazy family or your favorite sexual positions.”

  My eyebrows shoot up. “People really talk about that? On the first date?”

  “Oh hell, yes, they do. I once had a girl tell me over the appetizer course that she could only come if she got it hard from behind, doggie style, and then only with a guy who was packing at least eight or nine solid inches.” He shrugs. “I guess she wanted me to know what she was looking for before she wasted time with small talk.”

  “Wow.” I blink, unable to imagine having a conversation like that with anyone. Ever. Let alone while I was trying to eat. “That’s, um… So what did you do?”

  “What did I do?” he echoes.

  “Yeah. You said sexual positions aren’t something I should talk about on a first date. So what did you do after this girl broke the code?”

  “Oh, well…” He rolls his shoulder uncomfortably. “That doesn’t really matter. Just know that it isn’t a solid choice for a beginner.”

  Now it’s my turn to smirk. “You took her home, didn’t you?”

  He clears his throat. “Maybe.”

  “Yes, you did. You took her home. And then you dated her, didn’t you?” I ask with a laugh, something prickling at the back of my mind. “Oh my God, it was Cindy, wasn’t it? Cindy, the girl who had the donkey laugh, but who was really nice, with the pretty red hair!”

  “Fine. Yes, it was Cindy.” He rolls his eyes. “And yes, she was nice and I liked her. But being told on the first date how she preferred to get fucked wasn’t what made it work for as long as it did.”

  “Why did you guys break up?’”

  “I’d rather not say,” he says, running a hand through his hair.

  “Please tell me?” I beg, sensing there is something to be learned from that part of the story, too. “I promise I won’t tell anyone or tease you about it.”

  His sighs. “She cheated on me. She found a guy with a ten-inch dick that she preferred to mine and moved on.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, even as my brain begins to unpack his words and do the associated math.

  “Don’t.” He points a warning finger at my face. “I see what you’re doing there, Collins.”

  I shake my head, fighting a smile. “I’m not doing anything.”

  “Yes, you are. You’re making guesses about how many inches I’ve got, and that is none of your business. All you need to know is that it’s more than enough to keep a woman happy. In case any of your cute single friends decide they’re in need of a highly satisfying and pleasurable one-night stand while I’m on the rebound. Message received?”

  “Received.” I nod in surrender, wondering how many times I’m going to blush rutabaga red before we’re finished with lesson one. At this rate, I’ll have to invest in ice compresses before we start lesson two. “Moving on, then?”

  “Moving on,” he agrees, still scowling, but in a way that makes it obvious he’s not seriously upset. Clearly he’s over Cindy and still quite confident in his abilities in the bedroom, which is exactly why he’s the perfect person for this job.

  He really is perfect and a very good friend. “I’ll crochet the fat folds for you myself if you want. I really am so grateful.”

  Jus grins. “Nah, I’ll do it myself. Getting there is half the fun, right?”

  “Right,” I agree, beginning to think this might be fun, too. Or at least not as painful as I’d assumed. But then, I’ve always had fun with Justin. He’s good at fun and I’m much better at it when I’m with him.

  Chapter Eight

  Justin

  Libby puts a big check mark beside the first item on her list, apparently feeling confidant in her ability to make conversation that doesn’t tread into dangerous-for-a-first-date territory. She’s very cute with her lists and her questions, though I’m still having a hard time taking this completely seriously. Yes, I get that she hasn’t dated much since college, but Libby is a perfectly normal person. All she needs to do is be herself, and good things—and good dating relationships—should follow.

  But if talking through this stuff wit
h me is making her feel better, I can kill a few hours sipping tea and talking shop. There are worse ways to spend an afternoon than catching up with an old friend, who is also going to set you up with the sweetest pattern book ever.

  I’m just glad the weirdness from last night is gone.

  Today, Libby is once again dressed like Libby, in a combination of loose linen clothing that makes her resemble an oversize Raggedy Ann doll, and the vibe between us is back to being purely friendly.

  Sure, maybe I noticed that the shirt she’s wearing beneath her dress is see through, and grants the focused man a tiny peek of cleavage when she bends over. And maybe I noticed how cute her feet are in the lacy socks she’s wearing, and the way her eyes flashed when she was guessing how many inches I’m packing, but overall things are back to normal and I seem to be helping.

  I’m feeling pretty good about myself when she says, “Number two: Transitions,” and I frown, wondering if there’s something I’ve overlooked in my ten-plus years of dating.

  “What kind of transitions?” I claim my mug from the tray.

  “You know, like from the first date to the second date.” She glances down at her notepad as she adds, “Or from kissing to something more than kissing. That’s the part I’m most concerned about, honestly. It can be hard to move smoothly from the first part to…the other parts. You know? Sometimes?”

  “Oh. Okay.” I nod, taking a drink of tea to stall for time.

  Hard to get from the first part to the other parts? What is she even talking about? It’s like she’s asked me what to do after she exhales. You inhale. And then you exhale. And then you inhale again.

  Seriously. It’s as natural as breathing, isn’t it?

  “I mean, I know it doesn’t have to be awkward,” she says, clearly sensing my confusion. “With Brett things were fine, but I’d known him since ninth grade. We were friends for a long time before we were anything more and it just…” She shrugs as she wags her pen nervously back and forth. “It flowed, you know? But since then, every time I’m with someone and things start to get more intense it starts feeling forced and awkward and I end up making an excuse to leave.”

  I shake my head, still mystified. “Maybe it’s the guys you’re going out with? Maybe they’re not the—”

  “No, it’s me,” she breaks in, dropping her notepad and pen onto the coffee table before lifting her hands into the air. “Like, with my hands. I never know what to do with my hands. And then I get stressed out and I can’t figure out what to do with my arms, either. And before I know it, I’m tense and in my head and either lying there like a chunk of petrified wood while my date does his best to move things along without me, or jumping up and running for the door like a spazz.”

  I nod again, a sick feeling spreading through my stomach.

  Jesus. Poor Libby. I’m beginning to think maybe she does need sex education classes after all, and to suspect that my sweet friend is probably really, really bad in bed.

  “Oh God.” Her forehead wrinkles. “You think I’m a freak, too.”

  “No, I don’t. I’m just thinking.”

  “Thinking that I’m a freak who is less fun in bed than a blow-up doll,” she says, her big brown eyes beginning to shine. “I mean, at least a blow-up doll doesn’t accidentally hit you in the face while she’s trying to take her shirt off and give you a nosebleed and a black eye. And yes, that really happened. In my defense, it was a really tight turtleneck and my palms were sweaty, but still. I’m a freak.”

  I fight a smile. “You’re not a freak. You’re just overthinking things. You let a couple bad experiences throw you, and now you’re sabotaging yourself before you even get started. It’s like a couple years ago, when I missed a shot into a wide open net at the season opener. The goalie offered it to me on a silver platter and I fucked it up. And for the next two weeks, I couldn’t score a goal to save my life. Every time I went to shoot, for a split second I’d think about the shot I missed, and that was all it took to throw my game.”

  “But you eventually got over it,” she says softly. “How?”

  “Meditation,” I confess, though I’ve never told anyone but Brendan how hard I had to work to get my stupid brain back in line. But Libs isn’t judgmental and she understands what it’s like to royally psych herself out. “I took private lessons. Even got up at five a.m. a couple of times so I could get a class in before practice. After about a week, I was shooting straight again. Now I meditate before every game, between every period, and any other time I need to get sharp.”

  “So you think I should meditate before second base?” she asks, arching a brow.

  “No.” I laugh as I set down my mug. “I think you should meditate before you get ready to go out. Just close your eyes, concentrate on your breath, and visualize the date going the way you want it to go.”

  Libby’s nose wrinkles. “You think that will work?”

  I nod. “Hockey and sex actually have a lot in common.”

  “They do?” She eyes me skeptically as I take her gently by the shoulders and urge her to lean back against the couch cushions.

  “They do. They’re both very reactive sports.”

  “Sports?” She snorts. “That says a lot about you, Jus.”

  “Pastimes, then,” I amend. “They can both be fast-paced and unpredictable.” I shift to sit on the edge of the coffee table, facing Libby. “That’s why it’s important to stay in the moment. To breathe and relax and be ready to respond at a second’s notice.”

  Her lips press together as she nods slowly. “Okay. How do I do it?”

  “Close your eyes,” I say softly, nodding when she hesitates. “Go ahead. Close ’em.” She obeys with a wrinkle of her nose. “Good. Now roll your shoulders back, relax your jaw, and let go as you concentrate on your breath. As you inhale, visualize calm flowing into your body like a white cloud. And as you exhale imagine tension streaming out in a yellow puff of smoke.”

  “Can it be a gray puff? When I think smoke, I think gray.”

  “Sure, gray smoke is fine,” I say, lips curving as Libby wiggles deeper into the cushions. “In with the white, out with the gray. In with white, out with gray, gently bringing your thoughts back to the breath when they try to break off and go somewhere else.”

  She nods and her shoulders relax a little farther away from her ears.

  “If other thoughts or fears or worries arise,” I continue in a soft, even voice, “notice them, acknowledge them—yes, thoughts about what I need to pick up at the store, or how dumb it is to sit here doing nothing but breathe, I see you, there you are—and then go back to your breath without judgment. Don’t let your mind get attached to anything but the breath. The breath is the only sticky thing, everything else floats in and floats out.”

  Libby sighs and shifts again, but after a few moments, her breath is coming in longer and smoother waves and the tension has melted from her features, making me think she’s found her ground zero. I think of that quiet, focused place as my launch pad, the spot where I go to shut out the world before I get down to the work that happens between the ears.

  “Once you feel like the slate is clean, go ahead and imagine you’re getting ready to go out with old Roger.”

  “He’s not old,” she says in a calm, Zenned-out voice. “He’s only thirty-two.”

  “So you’re getting ready for a date with not-old Roger,” I amend, silently disagreeing with Libby. Eight years makes more of a difference than most people think, and what’s wrong with Roger that he’s still single at thirty-two? Don’t most schoolteacher types get married a lot younger than that?

  “Okay, I’m getting ready,” Libby says, breaking into my admittedly judgmental thoughts. She still sounds chill, which is good. It took me a few sessions before I could stay in my happy place while visualizing or responding to questions.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m taking a shower, washing my hair.”

  “Good, concentrate on the slippery feel of
the shampoo, and the way your hair glides through your fingers when it’s wet.” I’m winging it a little bit—my meditation exercises are all focused on staying in my body while I’m on the ice—but I figure encouraging her to pay attention to sensual, tactile details will get her in a better frame of mind for imagining a smooth transition from making out to something more. “Can you feel it?”

  “I can.” She lifts her chin. “I can feel the water hot on my chest. The air is warm and humid, but in a good way.”

  “Good.” A mental picture of Libby, naked, with water streaming over her flushed skin, flashes through my head, stirring things in places where they shouldn’t be stirring.

  Time to get imaginary Libby out of the fucking shower.

  I swallow hard. “So now you’re clean and relaxed. What do you do next?”

  “I get dressed, letting my hair dry by the fireplace while I put my makeup on. I put on my happy, sunny day playlist and have a glass of wine.”

  “And you feel good, confidant,” I prod. “You look beautiful, and you’re going to blow Roger’s socks off.”

  Her lips curve. “I do feel pretty.”

  “Beautiful,” I insist, because she is. Given the chance to sit here and study her full pink lips, gently sloped nose, and thick lashes spread out across her cheeks, there’s no arguing the point. Libby is beautiful, so stunning that some man should have fucking noticed by now. They should have been able to see past the baggy clothes and Lib’s natural shyness to the stunning woman waiting for someone to show her that she’s as sexy as she wants to be.

  “All right,” she whispers. “I’m beautiful. And when I meet Roger at the restaurant he looks at me the way I’ve always wanted him to look at me.”

  “Of course he does,” I agree, ignoring the irrational voice that is annoyed by the fact that the starring role in her fantasy is played by an idiot. He has to be an idiot. If he weren’t, he would have given Libs a chance by now. “And dinner goes well. You talk, you laugh, and he realizes how amazing you are.”