Puck Aholic: A Bad Motherpuckers Novel

by Lili Valente

  And thanks to the high ceilings and redwood paneling on three of the four walls—the fourth is all glass, affording a view of the antique brewing equipment in the adjoining space—the bar and restaurant is one of the few in the trendy downtown area where you can hear your date speak without leaning in to shout in each other’s ears.

  My date…

  I’ve managed to get Diana out of the house, on a date, and so far she hasn’t shouted “prank call,” stomped my foot, and made a run for the door.

  So far, so good. She’s been almost affectionate, in fact, taking my arm after I helped her out of the car and allowing me to pull out her bar stool and scoot it back in. But she mentioned that she’d skipped lunch, so it could be that she’s simply too weak with hunger to thwart my attempts at chivalry.

  If she weren’t already so tiny, I might be tempted to deprive her of food more often. But then, being forced to starve your girlfriend in order to keep her in an affectionate frame of mind probably isn’t a good sign.

  She’s not your girlfriend, dude. She hasn’t even agreed to date you on the semi-regular. You need to slow your fucking roll.

  The inner voice is giving excellent advice, but I’m not in the mood to listen. I’m in the mood to pretend this person who makes me laugh and think and come like a superhero killing bad guys with the force of my orgasms is starting to find me as addictive as I’m finding her.

  “Appetizers ASAP, okay?” Diana runs a finger down the list of pub snacks. “Just so I don’t pass out halfway through my first beer?”

  “Sounds good.” We order crab cakes, grilled fish sliders, and two Tangerine Daydream drafts—the summer seasonal ale that’s become my motivation for adding an extra mile to my run every morning—and sit back to take in the relaxed, hippie-hipster vibe.

  “I wonder if the animals on the totem poles come to life after the bar closes?” Diana muses, peering over the rim of her chilled pint glass as she takes her first sip. As the cold, citrus-flavored hops slide over her tongue, her eyes widen. “Oh wow. That’s amazing. It tastes like beach sunshine.”

  “Beach sunshine has a different flavor than normal sunshine?”

  She scoffs. “Obviously. It’s saltier and breezier. Everyone knows that.”

  “Right. What was I thinking?” I ask, smiling because that’s what my face does when I’m with her. Because she’s funny, yes, but also because she has a way of teasing that makes me feel like I’m in on the joke.

  She brings her glass back to her lips, taking another sip before setting it back on the bar. “Yeah, that is crazy delicious. But don’t let me have any more until the food comes. I don’t want to embarrass myself at an establishment where I hope to interview someday.” She sits up straighter, rubbing her hands together. “So are they looking for someone just for the restaurant? Or for the entire Good Timber brand? They distribute right? I swear I’ve seen that logo in the beer section at the grocery store.”

  “They do distribute, but I think the PR job is just for the restaurants. They’ve got two locations and are opening a third before the end of the summer. Jax has someone doing PR and social media now, but the guy is quitting to stay home with his kids. So Jax needs a replacement in the pipeline soon.”

  Diana’s brows lift. “Good for PR guy. I think it’s cool that more families are making choices like that. I mean, why shouldn’t the dad stay home with the kids if that makes more sense for the family? Gender roles are so arbitrary anyway.” She reaches for her beer but checks herself with a guilty grin. “Nope, not drinking that yet. What about you?”

  I blink. “Me?”

  “Would you ever want to be a stay-at-home dad?”

  I grin. “Why? You looking to knock me up, sexy?”

  Diana rolls her eyes, but her cheeks are pinker than they were a second ago. “Of course not. I’m not financially stable enough to have a cat, let alone a kid. I’m just curious. You’ve got a pretty developed caretaking side for a professional jock. Kind of reminds me of my brother actually.”

  “Thanks.” Warmth spreads through my chest at the unexpected compliment. “I admire Brendan a lot. Even when he’s giving me the ‘you’d better not touch my sister’ side-eye.”

  Diana grimaces. “He can be protective on occasion. But I’m the same way with him. One time, this girl he was crushing on when we were kids threw the stuffed panda he bought her for Valentine’s Day into the school fountain, so I pushed her in after it. I was four years younger and about half her size so she never saw me coming.”

  “Common theme in your life?”

  She grins. “Maybe. So are you going to answer the question or not?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I mean, I’d like to have kids, but my career is just getting started. I’m so focused on that right now it’s hard to imagine what life is going to be like when I leave the NHL.”

  “That’s because you’re a baby,” she says, reaching for her beer.

  I stop her, looping my fingers around her wrist, encircling the delicate bone. “No beer before food,” I say, my pulse beating faster as she bites her bottom lip. “And you’re only three years older than I am, granny.”

  She shifts on her stool until her thigh brushes mine, sending another charge of awareness surging across my skin. “Three years is like nine when it’s the woman who’s older. Girls mature faster than boys. So mentally, I’m practically old enough to be your mother.”

  “Aren’t you the one who just said gender roles are arbitrary?”

  Her eyes narrow. “This isn’t gender, it’s biology and science. Girl’s brains optimize connections up to ten years earlier than their male counterparts. We get to the grownup place faster, it’s a scientific fact.”

  “But you’re not a girl.” My fingers skim up the back of her calf to tease behind her knee. “And I’m not a boy. I think we proved we’re both adults before we left the house tonight.”

  She cocks her head, eyebrows sending out curious signals.

  “What? Ask me anything,” I say. “I’m an open book.”

  Her lips curve as she asks in a soft, almost shy voice, “How old were you the first time?”

  “Sixteen.” I brush my thumb over her knee where a white, puckered scar testifies to her tomboy years riding her skateboard without kneepads. “You?”

  “Nineteen. I looked so young for so long I had a hard time getting guys to take me seriously as a sexual being.”

  “I take you seriously.” As the words leave my mouth, I realize how true they are. In just fourteen days, she’s gotten under my skin in a way few people ever have. I’m never going to forget her, even if I fail to convince her that we should give this thing between us more than the summer.

  “That’s because I put the fear into you early with the mannequins in your bed,” she says with a wink.

  “That must be it,” I agree, grateful that my confession didn’t spur another episode of “Push Nowicki Away Before He Gets Attached.” I’m not a fan of that show, not even a little bit.

  Our food arrives, and in between bites of grilled fish and crab cake, I tell the story of how I met Jax—at my sister’s going away party, back when he was dating one of Chey’s friends. Diana asks thoughtful questions about the beer and the brewery, and by the time we share one of the massive burgers and order another pint, she’s looking positively giddy with optimism.

  “Thanks so much for bringing me here,” she says, giving my arm a quick squeeze. “It may sound silly, but I’ve got a good feeling about this. I know promoting beer and national parks seem like wildly different things, but I can already see so many places where the skill sets will overlap. And I love the energy here. I’m so much more comfortable around beer and totem poles than designer dresses and hundred-dollar eye cream”

  “I thought you might be,” I say, happy because she’s happy. I really am a simple creature in some ways, which is good, I guess, since I’m fairly complicated in others.

  Which reminds me�
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  “Be right back.” I slide off my stool and head for the men’s room, where I pull out my phone and check my to-do list for tonight and tomorrow in private, so Diana won’t start accusing me of being addicted to my phone again.

  It’s a compulsion at this point—I check it ten times a day if not more—but it’s the best way I’ve found to keep myself from getting distracted and falling back into the habit of being late for everything all the time. I’m sure most people can look at their list once or twice and remember what’s on the agenda, but an ADHD brain, at least mine, doesn’t work that way.

  Again, I remember why I started this habit in the first place. I’ve got “Skype with Chey” on the schedule for eleven p.m.—a sixteen hour time difference between Portland and South Korea makes for some strange chat dates—which means Diana and I should head for home before too long. Traffic gets hairy in town on the weekends, and I need to take Wanda out for her pre-bedtime walk before I get set up at the computer.

  I add “call Jax and set up interview for Diana” to my list for tomorrow afternoon at three p.m.—I have to assign each task a time, or everything globs together in my head, and I don’t know where to start—and slip my phone into my pocket.

  I make my way back to the bar, trying not to think about how many things are on my list for tomorrow, including all the financial shit I’ve been putting off since last year. The thought of fighting the focus demons so I can talk bills and budget for an hour, even with my financial advisor there to walk me through it, makes me want to throw in my ear buds and go pound pavement. But my summer schedule is cake compared to how hairy things get once the season starts, and not every problem can be solved by cardio.

  “Everything okay?” Diana asks as I slide back onto the stool beside her.

  I tug out my wallet. “Yeah, just remembered I have a date to check in with my sister at eleven.” I motion for the bartender, making the universal scribbling sign for the check.

  “Is that all?” She leans in, propping her arms on the bar as she studies my face. “You look stressed all of a sudden.”

  “A little. I’ve got a meeting with my financial advisor tomorrow. He’s great, but figuring out what to do with money is one of my least favorite things.”

  She nods, humming thoughtfully. “That does sound terrible. But it could be worse. You could be unemployed, liable for fifteen-thousand-dollars worth of credit card debt your ex charged before he dumped you, with limited job prospects on the horizon.”

  I hand my card over to the bartender and turn to her with a scowl. “Your ex charged fifteen thousand dollars to your credit card?”

  “Cards,” she corrects. “He maxed them out. Now, even though I’ve never missed a payment, my credit score is in the shitter. That’s why I haven’t been able to get financing to buy a car.”

  “I’m beginning to see why you swore off dating for a while.”

  “Not for a while,” she says, expression sobering. “Forever.”

  “Forever’s an awful long time.”

  “Not really.” She pushes her plate away and drops her napkin on top. “If I live to be eighty, I doubt I’ll be interested in men for the last twenty years or so. That means I’m only swearing off dating for another thirty years. Not so long when you think about it. I mean, since I’ve been out on my own, it feels like time is streaking past at the speed of light. Trust me, when you’re old, a year slips away so fast it makes your head swim.”

  “Ancient twenty-seven-year-old, thank you for blessing me with your wisdom from the far side of the veil of youth.”

  “You’re welcome,” she deadpans, and I smile even though I know she’s not kidding, at least not completely.

  The bartender returns with the check, which I sign.

  “All right, old lady. You ready to go?” I finish off the last drink of my beer. In my younger days, the stress of an impending financial meeting, combined with the stress of the woman I’m falling for having zero interest in getting into a relationship, would have been enough to convince me to have another beer.

  And another.

  And another, until I was too passed out to feel anxious.

  But I don’t let myself go there anymore. I self-soothe with a long run instead of booze. Another way I’m proving to myself that I can be a responsible adult without the meds that make me feel sick to my stomach and slow me down on the ice. If I can handle adulting with ADHD, and an NHL career without melting down, I can handle a relationship on top of it.

  It’s taken me two weeks to decide Diana is worth the risk a girlfriend might pose to my ability to focus on the job. Surely if I keep applying steady, gentle, but insistent pressure in the form of mind-blowing orgasms and affectionate friendship, she’ll come around to my way of thinking.

  Or at least we’ll both have fun while I’m giving romancing her my best shot.

  I’m calculating whether there will be time for a quickie when we get home—definitely, there’s always time for the things that really matter—when Diana stops on the sidewalk outside the bar, tugging on my arm.

  I glance down to find her focus glued to the window display across the street, where a family of mannequins in beach wear are showing off the latest swim fashions in artfully arranged sand.

  I take one glance at the featureless white ovals where their faces should be and look away with a shudder.

  “Let’s go.” I start toward the car, only to stop when Diana refuses to budge.

  “I have to know,” she says, dividing her attention between the nightmare creatures in the window and me. “Why mannequins? Why do they freak you out so much?”

  “They just do,” I say, the hairs at the back of my neck lifting.

  “But why?” she presses. “It’s called automatonophobia, you know. The fear of something that imitates a living being. I looked it up the other day.” She cocks her head, eyes narrowing on the display. “Is it because they look sort of human, but aren’t? Is that what bothers you?”

  I swallow hard, refusing to have a phobia-induced meltdown in front of a woman I want to think of me as an adult with a magical unicorn penis, not a freak with a childlike fear. “No, I don’t think that’s it.” I clear my throat before continuing in a relatively calm tone, “It started a long time ago. After something that happened when I was a kid.”

  “Tell me.” She curls her fingers around my arm, pressing lightly into my bicep. “I mean, if it’s not too personal.”

  Too personal…

  For the first time in our brief acquaintance, Diana actually wants to know something personal. She wants to get in my head, figure out what makes me tick, and I understand the female mind well enough to realize that this is exactly what I want. It means she’s interested, curious, tempted to get closer, no matter how often she’s sworn her heart is a no-fly zone.

  And damn if I’m going to let a phobia or anything else get in the way of satisfying her curiosity, or any other part of her that needs satisfying.

  I take her hand and step to the edge of the curb, pressing the button on the crosswalk.

  “Where are we going?” Her lips curve as she shoots me a wary look from the corners of her eyes. “We’re not going into the store, are we?”

  “We are. I think a visual aid will help you understand the origin story.”

  She bounces lightly on her toes. “Okay. I mean, as long as we have time.”

  “We’ve got time.” I tighten my grip on her hand, enjoying the way it fits in mine, and that she’s consented to public handholding—another good sign. “But you’re going to owe me an embarrassing story in return.”

  “I have lots of those,” she says with a nod. “And don’t worry. If the mannequins try any funny stuff, I’ll protect you.”

  It’s clearly a joke, and I obviously don’t need Diana to defend me from anyone—whether they’re human or made of fiberglass—but something about the offer gets to me.

  In the good way.

  In the way that makes me want to pull her
into my arms and kiss her until she melts. So I do. And even though we’re at the edge of a crowded sidewalk next to a busier street, she doesn’t push me away. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me back, her tongue dancing with mine.

  By the time we come up for air, we’ve missed our first shot at crossing the street, so I hit the button a second time and reclaim her hand, knowing better than to start kissing her again if I want to make it across the street in the next half hour.

  “What was that for?” She nudges my arm with her shoulder.

  “For offering to be my princess in shining armor. Thank you.”

  She lifts her chin. “You’re welcome. Though there’s no reason I can’t be a knight, you know.”

  “So, you’re the knight, and I’m the prince in distress?”

  She grins, the way I’d hoped she would. “Yes. Poor prince. You’ve needed a lot of protecting lately. First the killer mermaids, then a cranky pig, and now mannequins intent on world domination.”

  “Is that what they want? I’ve always been too scared to ask.”

  Diana nods. “That’s what the forces of evil always want, right? I mean, deep down. They may have other superficial motives, but at the core, they all want to rule the world.”

  “Or burn it all down.” I consider the question more seriously than I should. “Bad guys want to destroy everyone who isn’t as miserable as they are, right? So ruling the world is just a step on the road to its eventual annihilation.”

  Her eyebrows do their thoughtful dance. “I think you might be right.” She squeezes my hand. “I like talking to you.”

  “As much as fucking me?”

  “Nearly,” she says, clucking her tongue thoughtfully. “Very nearly.”

  Feeling like I’ve won some small but important battle, I step off the curb, hurrying across the road to the dragons waiting on the other side, ready to slay every one for a chance at this woman’s heart.

  Chapter Thirteen