Pucked is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are all products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
KINDLE EDITION
Copyright © 2015 Helena Hunting
All rights reserved
Published by Helena Hunting
Cover art design by Shannon Lumetta
Cover font from Imagex Fonts
Cover image from @egorrr at depositphotos.com, @walik at istockphotos.com and back cover image from Alex Volot at shutterstock.com
Formatting by LJ Anderson of Mayhem Cover Creations
Editing by Lauren Schmelz and Jen Matera of WriteDivas
Proofing by Marla at Proofing with Style
Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.
Alex, you’ve seen me through many a MS. Thank you for believing in my words and helping me work through them, even when I’m freaking out.
Husband of mine: You’re the best inspiration. Thank you for loving me.
Debra: It’s a mutual addiction. Without you I’d be rocking in a corner.
Nina: You’re my voice of reason. Thank you for never mincing words.
Shannon: Everything you make is beautiful. You’re an awesome friend.
Lauren: Working with you has been seamless and hilarious. Thank you for helping get this into shape and dealing with my endless list of made up words.
Jen: Between your AR and my OCD, I think we make an awesome team, and you’re an awesome copyeditor.
Marla: You’re a word sniper. I love you!
Liv: Thank you for being such an amazing source of support, I’m so glad we’re friends.
Daisy: You’re just the sweetest, but you know that. We’ll hide behind curtains together.
Kelly B: Your beaver love is more than I know what to do with.
Shay: You rock, woman. Seriously. Thank you for all your support.
Filets: We keep pushing forward, making strides. I’m so blessed to know all of you.
The Locker Room: Ladies, you made the waiting, and the work, and the editing all worth it. Thank you for being on my side.
101 Ladies: You’ve been amazing through all of this. Thank you!
Emma: You’re an absolute doll. Thank you so, so much.
Fandom friends: Thank you for coming with me on this journey. I can’t express how much it means that you’ve stayed with me this long.
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CONNECT WITH HELENA HUNTING
OTHER TITLES BY HELENA HUNTING
FIRE DOWN BELOW CHAPTER ONE
OTHER DEBRA ANASTASIA TITLES
ABOUT THE AUTHOR- DEBRA ANASTASIA
VIOLET
It’s 6:51 on Thursday morning, and I’m thirty seconds away from an amazing orgasm. Women everywhere should take a page from the man manual. Just because I don’t sport the obvious signs men do, such as morning wood, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t take care of my personal needs before I hit the shower. My day is always better when I start with a shot from the orgasm bottle.
I’m right there, teetering on the brink of heaven. Every nerve ending is on fire in the best way possible. My muscles are tight, fingers moving at a furious pace, the vibrator—God bless the damn vibrator—is hitting the s-s-s-spot, and everything is about to go blissfully white.
And that’s the moment my mother’s shrill voice breaks all orgasmic magic, destroying my morning jill-off. She must have let herself in again, as is typical.
Here’s the thing; I don’t live with my mom. I moved out more than four years ago—into the damn pool house. Technically, it’s on the same piece of property, but it’s supposed to be my private space. My refuge from my crazy awesome, albeit super-inappropriate mother.
The door to my bedroom crashes open as I shut off the vibe and pull up the covers. My vagina is raging. I can’t even begin to explain. It’s the female equivalent of blue balls.
“Mom!” I slump further under the comforter. “How many times do we need to have this talk?”
“You should be out of bed already! I have something for you!” She waves her hands around in the air like the crazy inflatable balloon guy on TV. It’s too much this early in my day.
“I literally just woke up. I need five minutes before we have a conversation, okay?”
Her arms fall to her sides, her shoulders dropping with her smile, which would make me feel bad, except she’s let herself into my home and barged into my bedroom unannounced. So all I have is frustration.
“Oh, sure.” Her dejection is blissfully short-lived. “How about I put on a pot of coffee?”
My mom loves to be useful, and while I’m annoyed, I don’t want to hurt her feelings in spite of the inconvenient interruption. “That’d be great.” Any reason to get her out of my room is a good one, but a fresh pot of coffee is more than welcome.
She backs out and closes the door, leaving me in peace. For three seconds I contemplate finishing what I started, but there’s no way I’m going to come with my mom tooling around in my kitchen. Instead, I toss my vibe into the nightstand and make a stop in the bathroom to wash my hands.
At twenty-two, I should be able to maintain some distance from my mother. However, she has a great deal of difficulty with the concept of personal space. In my freshman year of college, I threw out the idea of moving into an apartment close to campus. My mom and Sidney—my stepdad—had recently tied the knot. They were worse than virginal teenagers. I’ve had the misfortune of walking in on them in compromising positions more than once. The third time was my breaking point.
Guilt-ridden and embarrassed by the psychological damage he had caused, Sidney offered to renovate the pool house. I agreed only because it saved me thousands on rent.
When I first scored my job several months ago, I started looking for my own apartment again, in part because of the frequency of my mother’s unplanned visits. Being the ever helpful parent, she tagged along on the expedition and told me roommate horror stories à la Single White Female. Seeing as the only places I could reasonably afford were shared accommodations, I chose to stay put in the pool house a while longer. As I no longer carry the burden of tuition, revisiting that option seems like a good plan.
I wipe my vagina-scent-free hands on my T-shirt as I enter the kitchen. My mom sits at the table and leafs through one of the gossip rags she loves to reads while she sips a cup of coffee.
“I think they made Buck look way worse here than he really is, don’t you?” She turns the magazine around so I can see the horrible pictures of my stepbrother.
I grab a mug, fill it with liquid heaven, and drop into the chair across from my mom. “I think Buck does a decent job of making
himself look bad all on his own without the help of the media.”
My stepbrother is such a whore. I’m tempted to apply this label to all professional hockey players. It’s a blanket statement, an overzealous and possibly incorrect generalization. However, based on personal experience, I believe it’s true for the most part. It certainly applies to the one hockey player I dated last year. I consider him to be like Voldemort: he who shall not be named.
The third page of last week’s entertainment section confirms this hypothesis. The evidence is splashed all over the grainy two-page spread of Buck with his hand up some woman’s skirt. In a public bathroom. He appears to be devouring her face while getting her naked inside a stall—with the door open. So dirty.
The picture itself isn’t a surprise. Hundreds of similar images can be found through an Internet search. Buck has shared his manstick with half the female population in the continental US, and probably a few up in Canada. The woman he’s making out with is the problem. He’s not macking on a random hockey hooker. Oh no. It’s his former coach’s niece. Her name is Fran. She’s adorable, and now she looks like a total puck bunny, thanks to Buck.
In his defense, he said he didn’t know who she was. He’s not bright and he was hammered, so it likely was an honest mistake—not that it makes his whoring ways any less abhorrent. This little incident is the reason behind his recent trade to the Hawks. His return to Chicago means I’ll be seeing a lot more of him again.
“Well, I think they’ve blown this way out of proportion. Sidney’s excited to have him back in the city, though. Anyway . . .” She pushes a piece of paper toward me. Upon inspection, I realize it’s a plane ticket.
I snatch it up and frown. “What’s this? Why does it have my name on it? What’s in Atlanta?”
“Surprise!” She does jazz hands. “It’s Buck’s first away game with the Hawks.”
“Mom, I can’t—”
“We’re going as a family to support him. He’s had a rough couple of weeks.”
“It’s not my fault Buck can’t keep his dick in his pants and out of his coach’s niece.”
“Violet!” Her brow arches and her lips purse as if she’s sucking a lemon. “Don’t be so crass! This isn’t about Buck’s . . .” She trails off and gestures below the table.
“Yes it is. Buck doesn’t care if I come to his games.”
“He was very upset when you couldn’t make the last few. Maybe if you’d been at this one”—she points at the magazine—“he might not have gotten himself into so much trouble.”
“Are you guilting me into coming?” I glare over the rim of my mug.
“Not at all. I’m just throwing out hypotesticals.”
I cough-choke. “Do you mean hypotheticals?”
“That’s what I said.”
Correcting her is as pointless as fighting her on this. Once my mom makes up her mind, rationalizing an alternative is like slamming your head into a titanium wall—painful and futile. I need to reconsider the apartment situation.
I give getting out of going to the game a last-ditch effort. “I have to work this weekend.”
“No you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
She ignores the question. “A car will be at the house to pick us up at six.”
“I don’t get off until five. How are we even going to make it to the game on time?”
“The flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.” She taps the date on the ticket, which I’ve failed to read.
“Oh.” So much for finding a way out. It looks like I’m going to another hockey game. Yippee.
“It’ll be so much fun! We can go outlet shopping! Whelp, I’ve got to go! Don’t want to be late for my Pilates class!” She jumps up and bounces out the door, off to her next thing.
After my mom leaves, I check the time. I have half an hour to get ready. Nabbing the magazine from the table, I rush to my nightstand, grab my vibe, and hit the bathroom—first it needs a wash—then I flip to the milk advertisement. The subject matter is a fuckhot guy who completely misses his mouth and dribbles a glass of milk down his chest. I don’t know why it’s so hot. I mean, milk isn’t really a sexy drink, but whatever.
I heft my foot onto the vanity and go to town while looking at the milk porn guy. The orgasm I missed earlier takes me to the floor, and the magazine lands on my face. It doesn’t matter. I’m coming and it feels good.
The jilling session takes longer than I expect, so I have to drive faster than usual to get to work. As a recent graduate from the accounting program at the University of Illinois, I scored the job through my internship—which Sidney set up for me. Having a stepfather who scouts for the NHL does have some perks. I’m a junior accountant for a PR firm specializing in—wait for it—sports financial management. This includes investing professional hockey players’ fortunes. I’m surrounded by hockey all the time.
Charlene, my bestie and colleague, sits on the edge of my desk, sipping her coffee while I frantically organize files.
“I can’t go out tonight. I have too much to do for the Kuntz account,” I tell her.
“You’re bailing on me to work late on a Friday?”
“My mom’s making me go to Buck’s game tomorrow in Atlanta. Apparently, we need to band together as a family to support his inability to keep his dick in his pants.”
Charlene makes a sympathetic face. “He really messed up this time, didn’t he?”
“Don’t get me started. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, we’re flying out early in the morning, so I need to be prepared for Monday before I leave for the weekend.”
“Can’t you work on it while you’re there?”
“My mom wants to go shopping, so I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have. Plus, I have a hundred pages to finish for book club on Tuesday.”
Charlene rolls her eyes. “Friggin’ Lydia. I say we blackball her out of the club.”
“You can’t blackball people out of a book club.”
“Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.”
It’s not a half-bad idea. Although being the competitive person I am, I would hate to go into the book club discussion with only a vague understanding of the crappy book Lydia’s making us read. I’ll suffer through it if I can come up with an intelligent argument why it’s so terrible.
“I’ll probably bring the book to the game in case I can get in some reading time.”
“Oh, come on, Vi. The Hawks are having a killer season. I bet the game will be awesome.”
“Uh-huh.” I’m sure she’s not wrong. However, I don’t have the same warm fuzzies toward the game or the players as Charlene.
She’s been a die-hard Hawks fan her entire life. She watches every game and even participates in those pools where you create your own team. Like Fantasy Football, except with hockey.
“Anyway.” Charlene flaps her hand around. “That’s not the point. The point is you’ll be hobnobbing with the players afterward, right? Which means you’ll meet Darren Westinghouse.”
“Who?”
Charlene curls her lip and gives me a snooty look. “He plays right wing for the Hawks.” She starts listing his stats; it sounds something like blah, blah, blah. I tune most of it out until she asks, “Will you take a picture of him if you get the chance?”
“First of all, Char, hockey players don’t ‘hobnob,’ they hang out. Second, I plan to skip the after-party crap. I’ll have to catch up on work.” I pat the file folders on my desk.
“What a load of BS!” She looks around to make sure no one is paying attention. Jimmy, whose cubicle is across from mine, raises an eyebrow and points to the phone at his ear, so Charlene lowers her voice. “Come on, Violet, you have to go. For me, please? Just long enough to snap a pic. Then you can go be boring in your hotel room by yourself.”
“I’d send you in my place if I could.”
I have no problem watching hockey, even though the rules evade me for the most part. Some of thos
e boys are hot, but the appeal ends there. Buck is a perfect example, as is the one—and only—hockey player I ever dated. He wasn’t even an NHLer, just some douche in the minors I went out with last year looking for a leg up. Unfortunately, I turned out to be the owner of said leg. Not only was he awful in bed—just because those boys are built doesn’t mean they’ve got the equipment to match—he also humiliated me in a way I’m not likely to forget anytime soon.
“Come on, Vi. You can enjoy the man candy, if nothing else.”
“Yeah, because skanky guys are such a turn on.”
“Darren’s not a skank.”
I appease her rather than argue. “I’ll see about the photobomb. No guarantees.” Mostly the after-parties are a food free-for-all for the players, complemented by hordes of bunnies looking to be dessert.
She squeals and claps her hands. “You’re the best!”
I hold up my hands. “No promises, but I’ll try.”
Charlene convinces me to break for lunch, and we gorge at the all-you-can-eat Thai buffet nearby. Fortunately, the amount of food I consume doesn’t slow my roll in the afternoon.
By nine in the evening I can no longer focus on the computer screen. My stomach is growling so loudly I keep checking to make sure a bear hasn’t wandered into the office.
Drive-thru fast food is my poison of choice. I scarf down three tiny burgers and a large fries while I drive home. I reluctantly skip the milkshake because indigestion and flying don’t mesh well.
My mother has left a sticky note on my door to remind me we’re leaving for the airport at ass o’clock in morning—those are my words, not hers. The logical thing to do would be to pack my stuff and go to bed so I’m not exhausted in the morning. Instead, I change into a T-shirt and my favorite pair of Marvel Comic-inspired boxer briefs—they fit so nicely—and channel surf. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, my mom is standing over me.
“Violet! Why are you still sleeping? We should’ve left ten minutes ago! We’ll miss the flight.” Her shrill morning voice functions as the worst kind of alarm.
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