Her soft, usually pouty lips are mashed into a line and turned down at the corners. Her eyes are puffy. Her sun-freckled cheeks are blotchy and red. And she’s still absolutely beautiful.
She’s been crying. It’s my fault.
“It’s too late for Andy to have treats.”
“I’m sorry.” I shift from one foot to the other.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “You’re not forgiven.”
“It was just a couple of cookies.” Andy sits on my foot and nudges my pocket with his nose. There’s another biscuit in there, and he knows it.
“I don’t care about the dog treats!”
“Right. Of course. I’m sorry I missed my flight. I got the time wrong. I thought I was supposed to fly at nine, not six. My phone fell in the toilet, so I couldn’t check to make sure. We had to put it in a bag of rice for most of the day to dry it out. The rice worked, though, so that’s good, right?” I get silence, so I tack on, “Amber’s on vacation, and you know how I am with dates and stuff.”
Her jaw tics. Nothing I’ve said seems to be making this better. If anything, she looks angrier since I started talking.
“Andy, inside.” She has to say it twice more and snap her fingers before he obeys. For a second I think this means she’s going to let me in, but she widens her stance and bars my way with her arm across the jamb.
This is going to take way more than a sweet talking to get out of. I should’ve had one of the gifts Amber picked up in my hands. Like the basket of organic treats—that would’ve been smart. Even flowers and chocolate, or that chocolate substitute Sunny eats, would’ve been helpful. Instead I have myself and my mouth to fix the problem.
“You think I’m upset because you’re a few hours late? I expect you to be late. I don’t think on time even exists in your world.”
“Well, I—it’s not . . . I try to be on time. Amber’s away.”
She throws her hands up in the air. “Your PA being away is not an excuse, Miller, and it doesn’t explain the hooker bunnies hanging all over you, snapping their selfies today!” I think she’s mixing up the term hockey hooker, which Vi taught her, with puck bunnies.
Usually when I deal with a jealous honey, I say a few nice things and smooth it all over. Orgasms work well. Lots of them. I need a different strategy this time. Sunny isn’t in this for the sex. Instead of digging myself out of this hole, I say something stupid, proving words definitely aren’t my forte.
“You know how the fans are.”
“The fans? The fans? What fan draws a penis on your forehead? You were naked! And there was some hooker bunny in that bed with you! It’s all over Instagram. It’s on my Facebook now! Who is she? Were you with her?”
“I was passed out. I didn’t even know she was in there with me.”
“Who took the picture? What if that had been a tattoo? It would’ve been permanent.”
“I don’t think I would’ve slept through a tattoo. Especially not on my face.”
“Ugh!” She goes to shut the door, but I slide my arm in before she can.
Sunny’s a yoga instructor; she’s stronger than she looks. It’s a lot of pressure on my forearm.
“Sweets, come on. Things get taken out of context. I was hanging with Lance and Randy. He invited some friends over.”
She makes a disgusted sound.
“They’re not bad guys; Lance just likes parties. He invited a bunch of people by, and you know how that goes. You invite a few people who invite a few more people . . . I can’t control what he does.”
“Oh, right! Of course that explains why a naked hooker bunny ended up in your lap.”
“No one was naked, Sunny.”
“Pretty darn close!” She holds her phone up in front of my face. It’s the picture of the girl sitting in my lap. There really isn’t much to her outfit: a tiny bikini top and a pair of little shorts. The fact that I’m shirtless doesn’t make it look any better.
She turns the phone around and swipes angrily across the screen, then holds it back up for me to see. “And last time I checked, this counts as being naked.”
It’s the picture of me, asleep in bed with that stupid dick on my forehead. I’m definitely naked there.
“I wasn’t conscious.”
“Because you passed out drunk. Wanna know how I know?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “You called me last night. Do you even remember that? I bet you don’t.”
“I remember calling you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Yes, I do. I told you I wanted to hear your voice.” I’m guessing here, but it’s pretty safe. I always want to hear her voice. At least I do when she’s not pissed off at me.
“There was more to the conversation than that.”
“I’ve been on the road all day. Can I come in so we can talk about this? I rebooked my flight so I could get here tonight. You haven’t answered any of my calls. There’s two sides to every story. You haven’t even heard mine yet. Please.”
She takes several deep breaths. “There’s three sides to every story.”
“What do you mean?”
“There’s your version, the other person’s, and then there’s the truth, which is somewhere in the middle of the two.”
I think about that. She’s right, in a way. But in the case of the dick picture, my version is missing the whole part where the event took place, being passed out and all. The girl in my lap is a case of her word against mine.
“Are you willing to hear my side?” I give her my best I’m-sorry face.
Eventually she steps away from the door and lets me in, locking it behind her.
Sunny still lives with her parents. She’s only twenty, and she’s in school. She’s already completed a diploma of general arts and science, and she got her yoga certification. Last year she started a Public Relations program. She’s great with people and animals and all sorts of stuff, so whatever she decides to do, I’m sure she’ll be awesome.
This summer Sunny’s teaching yoga part-time and volunteering at an animal shelter. Thankfully her parents, Robbie and Daisy, are out of town for the weekend, so I don’t have to deal with them. It’s not that I don’t like them. I do. They’re cool for parents, but they’re the only ones I’ve ever met on purpose, so I don’t have much of a basis for comparison. Her mom, Daisy, likes to be involved in everything, so her not being here means I can focus on making things better with Sunny without any interference.
I glance around the front foyer. The Waters’ house is dated. Most of the furniture is new, but the curtains are poufy, and there are a lot of knickknacks. None of the colors seem to belong together. Vi calls it a boxing match between a bohemian gypsy and a southern belle. I’m not sure what that means, but it’s hard to look at.
I set my bag down by the front door. Sunny’ll let me stay the night. I already know this. She’s too sweet to make me leave once she’s let me in. I think it might be the Canadian in her. The question is, where will I be sleeping? If I can say the right thing, I might get a spot in her bed. If I don’t, I’ll be taking the spare room.
“Can I use the bathroom?” I’ve had to go for the past hour.
“You know where it is.” She doesn’t make a move to touch me, or hug me, so I take off my shoes—something Canadians seem hung up about—and head down the hall.
The main-floor bathroom is small, so there isn’t much to help me out in the freshening-up area. I find mouthwash under the sink and rinse with that. I’ve been wearing my hat since I got out of the shower, so I have to wet my hair to fix the hat head I’m sporting. My armpits could use a shot of Axe, but it’s not as bad as it could be. Another shower would help. I find some Lady Speed Stick and rub it under my pits. I smell like flowers and cucumbers, but it’s better than BO, so I’ll take it.
Sunny isn’t in the living room when I come out. I detour to the kitchen; she isn’t in there either. After a tour of the main floor, I come up Sunnyless, so I hit the stairs. I hope she hasn’t gone t
o bed. That would suck. I don’t like unresolved issues, especially before bed—it interferes with sleep. Her door is open a crack.
I peek around the jamb in time to get a glimpse of side boob before she pulls a sports bra over her head. Then she goes back to digging through her drawer to find a shirt.
Sunny isn’t one of those super-skinny girls. She’s got curves, and she’s taller than average. I still have a good head on her, but she comes up to my chin. She’s active, always out biking or hiking or teaching yoga, so she’s in awesome shape, and she’s extra bendy. I haven’t had a chance to find out exactly how bendy, but I plan to. Hopefully soon. Maybe this weekend. Shit. I’m getting hard. The blood in my head needs to stay where it is so I can have a conversation. I move out of her line of sight and knock, calling her name.
“Just a sec.” The rustle of fabric makes me sad. A few seconds later she opens the door.
She’s changed into some loose, sporty, sheer tank-top thing. It’s meant to be worn with something underneath it. Her chest is significantly flatter than usual, thanks to the sports bra. I’m not a boob man. Well, I guess that’s not true. Every heterosexual man loves boobs. I don’t care about the size of them. As long as there’s a nipple and something to hold on to, I’m happy.
My favorite part of a woman’s body is legs. Sunny’s still wearing loose shorts that come high up on her thigh. I glance down, all the way to the floor. Her toenails are painted bright orange, except for the big toes. Those are painted blue with a palm tree on the beach.
I’m about to step inside her room, which I’ve only been in once before, when Sunny puts a hand on my chest. She doesn’t seem as angry anymore, instead she looks sad and guarded. “We can talk downstairs.”
“Right. Sure. That’s cool. I couldn’t find you; I wasn’t sure if you’d gone back to bed.”
“I wanted to change into something more comfortable.”
This is Sunny’s version of real clothes. I’ve only seen her in a pair of jeans once. That was the first time I met her. Mostly she wears skirts and flowy dresses if she’s leaving the house. The rest of the time she’s in athletic wear, like she’s always ready for a spontaneous workout. It’s so fucking hot.
She closes her bedroom door and steps around me. There’s nothing for me to do except follow her downstairs to the living room. On the up side, I get to stare at her legs. Sunny has nice calves. I want to bite them. She sits on one of the uncomfortable pink floral wingback chairs.
I sit in the middle of the couch and pat the cushion beside me. “Come on, Sunny Sunshine. Talk to me.”
She pulls her legs up and tucks her feet under her. “I can do that from here.”
I keep patting the cushion, and she keeps glaring. Eventually I abandon the couch and go to her, kneeling so we’re at eye level. “I know you’re mad, and I don’t blame you, Sunny, but you know how things look through social media. Think about all the pictures of your brother floating around out there.”
She twists her hands together and sighs. “It’s not the same, and you know it. All that stuff about Alex is garbage, and all the stuff about you is true.”
“Used to be true. That’s not how it is anymore.”
Up until the last few months, the pictures that appeared on the hockey fan sites and gossip columns had been just what they seemed. I’ve been with a lot of bunnies. I tried to keep Sunny from finding out an exact number—not that I can give her one—but she looked up my history after her friend Lily, who hates me, told her she should be careful about dating me.
Sunny wasn’t all that concerned at first. She’s a free spirit. She liked my aura, and that was enough for her. Then reality smacked her in the face like an unwashed dick. And the pictures in the media have kept happening, but not because I’m taking girls home—I’m not. I just don’t want to be rude to my fans.
Unfortunately a lot of my fans happen to be women who dress slutty.
I need to find a way to convince Sunny I’m not full of shit. It’s gonna be a challenge.
Sunny sighs. “How do I know you weren’t joining the Kilometer-High Club in the airplane bathroom with some hooker bunny?”
“I didn’t even use the bathroom on the plane. They’re disgusting. I try to go before I get on.”
“So maybe you waited until after you got off the plane. Maybe you did it in the rental car. Maybe you stopped at her house on the way here. And then maybe you had a shower so I wouldn’t suspect anything and then had sex again in the shower with her, and I bet she gave you her number and—”
“Who are you talking about? Is there some rumor or something that I don’t know about? I didn’t meet any bunnies on the plane. No one even sat beside me, and the flight attendant was a dude.”
Sunny throws up her hands. “I’m being hypotheatrical.”
“Do you mean hypothetical?”
“Don’t put words in my mouth! Didn’t you land around eleven? You were supposed to be here hours ago, even with your missed flight. How do I know you actually missed the flight in the first place?”
“You can ask Violet. She dropped me off at the airport.”
She crosses her arms over her chest. “Pfft. How do I know she wouldn’t lie for you?”
“There’s no way in hell Vi would lie for me, especially about something like that.”
She gives me an incredulous look. “You forgot you were coming to see me!”
“I didn’t forget. I got the flight times wrong.”
Her cute little chin starts to tremble. I’ve seen this happen before. Not with Sunny, but with Vi. I think it means she’s going to cry. Up until now, I haven’t seen tears, and I’m not sure how to deal with them. With Vi I usually get her a dairy treat, and we play violent video games until her lactose intolerance gives her stomach cramps and she makes me leave so she can hole herself up in the bathroom and let the terror rain down. Sunny doesn’t play video games, and she doesn’t eat dairy, so that’s out.
“How do I know you didn’t stop at a frat dorm tonight and you’re using autocorrect as an excuse? You do that a lot, you know.”
“You also know I suck with spelling.”
“That’s not the real issue, and you know it.”
I sigh and drop my head to her knee. Her skin is soft and warm, and it smells like her name. Or what I think sunshine would smell like if it were something I could actually smell. Her whole body tenses. After a few seconds she runs her fingers through my hair. I totally get why dogs love to be scratched behind their ears. I forget there’s a question and rub my cheek on her leg.
Her fingers curl at the crown of my head, and she lifts me by my hair. Her normally soft green eyes are hard.
“What am I supposed to believe, Miller?”
“I’m sorry about the pictures. I wasn’t even awake for the dickface ones, so you can’t really be mad about those.”
“But you were naked.”
“I can’t sleep with clothes on.”
“You were at Lance’s house. And there were hooker bunnies!”
“I’ll wear boxers to bed when I stay at Lance’s from now on.”
“Boxers aren’t going to solve the problem. I don’t know why you have to stay at his place at all. It’s, like, a twenty-minute drive to your place, isn’t it?”
I don’t know how she knows this. Sunny’s never been to my place, or Lance’s. Sometimes we talk on the phone while I’m driving there, so maybe that explains it. It’s not important now, though.
“We’d been drinking, and Lance scheduled a workout at his place in the morning. I was being responsible by staying put. I’m trying here, Sunny. It’s been a long time since I’ve done the relationship thing, and it’s a lot different than it was in high school, you know?”
“You’re just figuring that out now?” She’s doing that thing she does with her hair when she’s nervous or upset, twirling it around her finger.
“Well, yeah. I’ve been doing my own thing for the past five years—”
“You
mean playing the field.”
“I guess. If that’s what you want to call it.” It sounds a lot better than bunny banging. “There’s a learning curve involved here. I really like you. I wanna see if we can make this work. I’m asking you to be patient.”
“I have been patient. And tolerant. Put yourself in my sandals, Miller.”
“My feet are way too big for your sandals.”
“I’m being serious. How am I supposed to believe what you say when all the pictures of you out there make it look like the exact opposite?” She holds up her phone and scrolls through the posts of girls hugging me. There are a few new ones from the bar last night that I don’t remember. In one I’m doing shots with Dick Yeller and Flash Beaver. I’m not doing anything wrong, but the comments in the post make it seem like something happened that didn’t.
“Shit. Okay. That looks way worse than it is. I didn’t hook up with any of those girls, Sunny. I haven’t hooked up with anyone since we started talking. I promise I’m only using my hand when I’m horny.”
She’s staring, and she looks confused, or maybe disturbed, so I keep going, hoping to clarify.
“Last week I considered sticking my dick in a bag of marshmallows that I’d left in the sun because they’re soft and warm, but I figured it’d be a messy clean up and kinda fuckin’ weird, so I went with lotion instead, but I wanted to try it. Technically that means it’s not just my hand, but if I don’t use lotion I chafe, especially during the regular season when I’m always wearing a cup and all my gear. Is that too much detail?”
Sunny covers her mouth with her palm. I hope she doesn’t puke.
“It’s too much detail. It’s all the time I’m spending with Vi. Her lack of filter is rubbing off.”
A laugh bubbles up, and Sunny’s shoulders start to shake. “You know, that explains a lot.”
“Vi’s a bad influence.”
“No, she’s not. And that’s not what I’m talking about. When Alex was a teenager I used to wonder why he went through so much lotion, and so many pairs of socks.”
I don’t know why she’s bringing up her brother and his sock issues when we’re talking about me whacking off. “What do socks have to do with anything?”
PUCKED Up Page 6
