“No, you aren’t.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Too bad. Look, speaking of getting naked, I’ve got a game in Toronto at the end of the week. We’re gonna be there overnight. I can get you tickets, and then you can spend the night with me.”
“Wow. Talk about cutting to the chase.” I’m not sure what to expect, not having heard from him in weeks. His dad being there may have had something to do with that, though. I’m a little shocked at his boldness, although maybe I shouldn’t be. Could be this is just how it works.
“It’s at the end of a series, so I can stay an extra night, if you’re interested. We can get extra naked. I’ll even take you out for dinner like I was supposed to last time.”
Oh, God. Hours of uninterrupted time with Randy. A night in a bed with no constraints and no one to walk in on us. Still, I don’t want to say yes right away and make it seem like I’m willing to drop everything for him. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“You do that.”
“’Kay. I’ll let you know as soon as I know.”
“Sounds good. I’ll make sure my special false-advertising boxers are clean for you.”
I cringe, still embarrassed. “You can get rid of those any time now.”
“I like them more now than I did before you decorated them.”
I won’t admit it, but I sort of like that he’s kept them. The alarm goes off on my phone, signaling that I need to be on the ice. “I gotta go. Bye, Randy.”
“Later, Lily.”
I hang up and start lacing my skates. Another dose of Randy is exactly what I deserve for finally getting Benji out of my life for good.
Chapter 13
Persistence for Payoff
RANDY
It’s the middle of the third period in New York, and we’re down one. It’s not always easy to stay in a good headspace during away games. Being on the road means sleeping in beds that aren’t mine and a lack of privacy. Miller and I room together in the hotels, like we have since we played rep hockey and had tournaments away from home. Usually Miller’s dad would take us since my mom had to work and couldn’t afford to take the time off. Once we were teenagers, we went with our coaches.
Miller and I didn’t get into much trouble until our junior year of high school. We’d been playing street hockey, and some kid got him right in the face with a puck. Knocked his front teeth out, and a few other ones. It turned out to be a good thing after he got over the pain. Miller had bad teeth as a kid, and a bunch of titanium screws and implants fixed that problem after the accident.
He has to be super careful on the ice now, though. If any of those get knocked out, he’ll be wearing dentures until his hockey career is over. Maybe for the rest of his life.
Anyway, he was kinda shy with the girls until his teeth problem was resolved. Honestly, they probably would’ve been all over his dick regardless, but he’s a little sensitive about his perceived shortcomings. Kinda like I am about mine. We all find ways to manage, though.
I’m restless, waiting for my turn to get on the ice. I don’t get as much play yet because I’m still getting used to the team and learning how they interact with each other. It drives me crazy. Waters is in a bad mood with the score being the way it is, and the opposition is chippy, making it difficult to keep the puck in play. The refs are lax. It’s pissing me off.
Waters ends up getting two minutes for tripping, which gets me off the bench. They switch out a wing for me, and I fly down the ice, ready to take back the puck. I have an advantage tonight. We’re playing the team I was traded from in the spring. I know most of the players and how they move. Some of them might be my friends, but in terms of the game and winning, it doesn’t make a difference.
I nab the puck from their center, skating wide. I weave through players, my objective clear: get the puck into New York’s net. I scan for players close to me. Westinghouse is open and looking for a pass; I send the puck sailing in his direction just before New York tries to steal it. Picking up speed, I make my way toward the goalie, keeping an eye on the puck. Skating around behind the net, Westinghouse trades off right before he takes a hit. I skate around the guy looking to drop me, kiss the puck with my blade, and send it sailing between the goalie’s skates.
Scoring against my old team is a fantastic feeling, especially with us being down a player on account of Waters’ penalty. Westinghouse and I tap gloves and set up for the next play. I get back pats along the way. I can’t keep the grin contained as I face off against my old captain. Nothing beats the high of scoring a goal.
This is the rush I live for, the feeling that I’m invincible. The whistle blows, and the puck drops. I slap it away from NY’s center. Westinghouse is on it. He’s an awesome wingman. New York gets control, but Miller owns defense, keeping the puck away from our goal.
Waters is back on the ice once his penalty is over, and I’m on the bench, but I’m okay with that. I’ve done my part. We’re tied, and we’ve got three minutes left in the game. Waters is a bulldozer out there. He’s on a rampage, cutting down the ice with the puck, his focus singular. He fakes out the other team, his skating skills so refined he can trip them up without even touching them. The puck sails into the net again with only fifteen seconds left in the game. And we’ve won. There’s no coming back for New York.
The energy is manic in the locker room. There’s a shitton of excitement and lots of approval from my teammates. We hit the bar afterward to celebrate the win and eat. The bunnies are all over the place, looking for hook-ups. I take the spot beside Miller.
I’m still waiting on Lily to call me back, so I’m not all that inclined to do the bunny thing. I could definitely use the release, though. I’m edgy and pent up as fuck. I haven’t had sex since the engagement party. Normally I wouldn’t be opposed to a hook-up after such a long dry run—especially since Lily hasn’t messaged in a couple of days—but with her being Sunny’s close friend, I need to be sensitive about it.
Lance pulls an empty chair up beside me, turns it around, and drops into it. He looks past Miller to Westinghouse and Waters. “What’re you doing here with all the pussy-whipped bitches?” he asks me.
“Classy, Romero.” Westinghouse gives him the eye and takes a swig from his beer.
“There’ve been some interesting rumors floating around out there about you since my engagement party,” Waters says.
“Oh, yeah?” Lance spins the coaster on the table.
“You might want to watch yourself a little better,” Waters adds.
Lance frowns. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If you say so.” Waters shrugs. “But if Coach finds out, best-case scenario is you being benched. Worst case you end up traded. That’d be a real shame, considering—ego aside—you’re a good player.” He downs his beer and sets the bottle on the table. “I’m gonna call it a night.”
Westinghouse leaves his beer half-full, pushes back his chair, and nods to us. “See you on the bus.”
Lance waits until they’re gone before he turns to us. “Who the fuck told Waters?”
“Told him what?” I lean back in my chair and glance at Miller, who’s checking his phone for the seventy-fifth time.
He looks up and frowns. “Are you talking about whatever’s going on with you and Tash?”
“Yeah, man. Did you say something?” His accent comes out. Usually the vague hint of Scottish brogue is undetectable, apart from when he’s upset about something.
Miller turns off his phone, which beeps at him, and crosses his arms over his chest. “Why would I tell Alex?”
“I don’t know. You two are all buddy-buddy now, soaping each other’s backs in the shower.”
“Fuck you, Lance. He’s gonna be my brother-in-law. I’m dating his sister. I don’t have much of a choice unless I wanna make my life more difficult. Besides, he’s a good guy. A weirdo, but that’s not much of a surprise considering he’s with Vi and all.”
“Well, someone said something to him
.” He spins his bottle between his palms. “It’s not like it’s a big deal.”
“If you say so, but you should be careful. Tash can’t be banging the players she’s training, if that’s what’s going on.” Miller’s phone rings, so he checks it. “I gotta get this.”
It’s obviously Sunny. He takes the call and covers the receiver. “I’mma head up to the room. See you guys later.”
Lance watches him leave. “Do you think I should be worried?”
“Miller’s got a point. It’s not professional. It makes her look bad.”
He pounds back the rest of his beer. “I think I’m done for tonight.”
“Yeah. Good plan. It’s gonna be an early morning.” The bus leaves at nine, and the drive from New York to Toronto for our next game is about eight hours plus stops. We’ll be on the road all day.
Lance and I go our separate ways. When I get to the room, Miller’s in the bathroom talking on his phone. I key in my passcode and find a new message from Lily.
Nice goal.
It was sent more than an hour ago. I’m surprised I missed it. I shoot her a message back.
Thanks. U awake?
I lie down on the bed that isn’t covered in Miller’s discarded clothes and wait for a reply. We’ll be in Toronto by tomorrow night, and I want to know what my plans are going to be.
I’ve already booked a better room than the ones we usually stay in during away games, just in case I need privacy. I’m hoping. My plan is to require privacy as much as I possibly can in the short time we’ll have.
I take off my shirt and lose my pants, dropping them on the floor beside the bed. I’m tired. And in need of release.
My phone vibrates with a message.
Getting ready for bed.
I fire one back.
Pic please.
I get one a few seconds later of her empty bed. It looks small. Not big enough for the things I’d like to get up to with her.
Of u. Not ur bed.
I don’t wait long for her curt reply.
No.
I grin.
Y not?
The inchworm dots appear.
My face looks awful.
An image follows. She’s wearing a paper bag over her head with holes punched through for her eyes. I love that she doesn’t automatically send me naked pictures. I hit the call button. She answers on the first ring. It’s late. After midnight.
“You can beg all you want. I’m not sending a picture.”
“I have a ticket for the game on Friday. I’ll deal with no picture if it means I’m going to see you.”
“About that—”
I get this sinking feeling low in my gut. It’s not something I’m used to. Girls usually bend over backward, literally, to get what I’m offering. I brush it off and roll with it. “You don’t wanna come?”
“It’s not that. I have to work. I can’t get out of my shifts.”
“Call in sick.”
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can. It’s easy. You pretend you have the flu, and you call in. Then you come to the game. Then we get naked, and I make you come.”
She snort-laughs. “You make it sound so appealing. I wish it was that simple.”
“I’ve already got a room booked. I can rent a car and drive you back the next morning to wherever you have to be.”
“You already booked a room? Wow. That’s presumptuous.”
I can’t tell if she’s offended. “It’s wishful thinking, not presumption. Come on, Lily. I had a lot of fun last time, didn’t you?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“But what? I’ve been looking forward to getting you naked again. We can even fuck in the bathroom, since that’s our thing.”
This time I get a real laugh out of her. “Oh my God, are you always like this?”
“Pretty much. So you’ll call in sick. I’ll email you the ticket.”
“I’d love to, but I’ve already asked for the time off, and it won’t work. I teach lessons that don’t end until eight-thirty on game night, and I teach again the next morning.”
All the excitement over my plan fizzles out. “What about after your lessons in the morning?”
“I have a shift late in the afternoon, too.”
“You work too much.” I don’t intend to sound pissy.
She’s snappy in return. “I don’t have a choice.”
“Sorry. That was assholey.” I run a frustrated hand through my hair. “I just wanna see you. What time are all your shifts the day after?”
“I teach skating from seven until eleven-thirty in the morning. My other shift is from five to ten at the coffee shop.”
“And after that?”
“I go home to sleep and get up for a nine a.m. shift at the rink. Then I work at the coffee shop again in the afternoon.”
I blow out a breath and scrub a hand over my face. “Fuck.”
“I’m sorry, Randy. It looks like it’s not going to work out this time. Maybe when you’re back in Toronto, if I plan far enough ahead and you still want me to come to a game…” Her voice goes soft at the end.
“That isn’t for, like, another month.”
“Oh.”
At least she sounds disappointed. “We’ll figure something out,” I tell her.
“Yeah. Sure. I should probably go. I have to be up in less than six hours.”
“Right. Okay. I’ll talk to you soon.”
“Good luck on Friday. Night, Randy.”
She ends the call. I bang my head against the headboard and swear.
Miller comes out of the bathroom, butt-ass naked. “What’re you doin’ up here? And why’re you banging your head?”
“Lily’s not coming to the Toronto game.”
He half-smiles before he neutralizes his expression. “You get blown off?”
“She’s gotta work—unless that’s an excuse.”
Miller tosses his phone on the bed and scratches his leg, right beside his balls. “It’s probably not an excuse. Sunny’s mentioned that she works a lot. Pulls doubles all the time and stuff.”
“You gonna put on some boxers or something.” I keep my eyes on the blank TV screen.
“I’m airing out.”
“We’re not in the locker room.”
“You know, Balls, you can do it, too. No one gives a shit that your junk’s a little wonky.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
“I’m not being an asshole. I’m serious. The scars make you gangster.”
“I don’t need a therapy session about this.”
Miller’s sensitive about his dyslexia; I’m sensitive about my junk. But then, almost losing half of it as a kid can do that to a guy.
“I was there, man. I saw it all happen. You’re not the only one who has nightmares about it.”
“Drop it, Buck.” I rarely ever call him by the nickname asshole kids gave him in grade school, so he knows I’m serious.
He holds up his hands. “Consider it dropped.”
Back when we were kids, we used to play hockey on the pond down the road in the winter. We never wore helmets or cups or anything; we were just goofing around on the ice. Sometimes we’d join games with older guys—teenagers who played rep looking to get scouted to the minors. Miller’s dad was always on the lookout for new talent.
Once we were playing with them and I stole the puck—even then I was better than most kids. It was one of the perks of having a pro dad. He knew guys who could train me the way I needed in order to make professional hockey a career. Anyway, some kid didn’t like it and decided to put me in my place. It got a little rougher than it should’ve, and I ended up with a skate to the groin.
Vascular appendages bleed a lot. Emergency surgery repaired the damage, but the end result was pretty fucking disturbing. My dick looks like it belongs to Frankenstein. I was off the ice for a few months while I recovered. Dick stitches are not fun, especially with the whole onset-of-puberty deal, when erections are spontaneous and unc
ontrollable.
Everything still works, obviously, but there are residual sensitivity issues, lots of scars, and a bend that otherwise wouldn’t have been there. The upside: I still have all of my dick, instead of half of it. But I don’t swing free in the locker room because I don’t like answering questions, or making people uncomfortable.
I shut down those unpleasant memories and go back to quizzing Miller about Lily’s job situation. “She teaches figure skating. Doesn’t it pay well enough? Why does she need a second job?” It’s seriously interfering with my ability to see her.
“There’s financial stuff goin’ on there. I think she helps out her mom. Sunny’s mentioned a couple of times that things are tight. She’s got school loans and stuff. Her dad’s a deadbeat. I think he was pro hockey, and he got her mom knocked up and bailed.”
“That’s seriously shitty.” It also sounds kind of familiar.
“Right? She was, like, prepping for Olympic trials but the money wasn’t there to support her, so she had to drop out.”
“How do you know all this shit about her?”
“Because Sunny’s my girlfriend, and we talk as much as we fuck.”
Interesting. When I talk to Lily, it’s mostly me sexting her, or joking around about stupid shit. If things were different, I could know all this stuff, too, without having to ask Miller.
He nabs the remote and turns on the TV, flipping channels until he gets to the highlights from tonight’s game. “Maybe it’s not a bad thing she can’t come to Toronto.”
I glance at him, waiting for an explanation.
“Come on, Randy. You gotta know it’s not gonna end well. It never does.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing. Never mind. Forget I said anything. Oh, shit.” He points at the screen. “That was a serious screw up by Cockburn. I think he tries that move every damn game, and it never works.”
I get sucked into the highlights and picking apart the other teams’ mistakes—how they could have managed a breakaway better, who missed what goal, who’s making the best plays—but I don’t forget what Miller said about things ending badly. And it irks me, because it’s true, and I don’t want it to be.
Pucked Over (Pucked #3) Page 14
