Forbidden Puck: A Hockey Romance

by June Winters

  Lindsay—she's the girl that Lance is currently obsessed with. She's an Instagram booty model. Which is just what it sounds like: she takes pictures of her butt, from various angles and in various outfits. How this makes her money, or if it actually does at all, I don't really know or understand. All I know is that, as soon as we're home, Lance wants to spend all his time with her. He's started saying he loves her, even though he still hasn't gotten with her yet …

  “Meeting Lindsay now? Kinda early, isn't it?” I asked.

  He tapped his gold watch. “Early? It's almost 11, man. Prime brunch time.”

  I looked at the alarm clock and grunted. “Oh. Damn.”

  “Anyway, I just wanted to remind you that Honey Badger arrives tonight. I'll be back here before she makes it in—which, for your sake, is a good thing. Because trust me, you would not want to be left alone with her for any length of time.”

  I blinked at him. “Wait, did you say Honey Badger?”

  “Oh, er, sorry. I meant Ella.”

  “I get that, but—Honey Badger?” I repeated with a laugh.

  He shrugged. “It's her nickname. You'll understand when you meet her.”

  “Well, alright.”

  “How 'bout you? Plans for today?”

  “Gonna get up and hit the gym. Ilya wanted to grab a bite, too.”

  “And what about tonight?” Lance pointed at the snake-skin treasure chest that rests on top of my dresser. “You going to add to the collection?”

  “We'll see.”

  “Alright bud. Catch ya later.”

  “Later, Lance. Tell the butt model I said hi.”

  He raised both middle fingers at me as he walked out of the room.

  Yeah, it's true, I give Lance a hard time over Lindsay. Part of it is because I miss my wing-man. Lance and I used to have a lot of fun at the clubs. And that's what I thought us living together would be like … instead, he's always spending his time with Lindsay.

  But the bigger part of it is that I don't get how a guy in our situation can get all hung up over one specific girl. All we have to do is walk into any club in Boston, and everyone knows who we are. Girls start giving us the look—these big, inviting eyes—practically pleading with us to come over and talk to them. Hell, they'll do that even if they're at the club with their boyfriends. You'll see her boyfriend just turn absolutely white with insecurity, and he'll jealously wrap his arm around her and try to rush her out the door to some other bar. It must suck, knowing a girl would throw all your history aside that quick, just for one night with a famous athlete. And that's no exaggeration. Some girls absolutely will cheat on their boyfriends if it means a single night with one of us.

  So that being said, how could a guy fall for one chick? I truly don't get it. How would he ever know that she was actually into him, the person, and not just the hockey player? What makes Lance so sure that Lindsay is actually into him personally, and isn't trying to further her modeling career?

  I got out of bed and walked over to my treasure chest. I ran my fingers over the smooth, snake-skin leather before I popped open the latches. They clicked free with a solid and satisfying thunk. I lifted the heavy lid and peeked in.

  I could've settled down with any one of these girls if I wanted to. The hell would be the point? How would I ever know she's actually interested in me, and not just in love with the idea of being with a pro athlete?

  I shut the lid and closed the latches.

  ***

  After dinner with Ilya and his girlfriend, I made it home later that evening. I walked in, expecting to find Lance and his sister, but the place was dark and no one was home.

  Huh. Wonder when she's supposed to be here? He didn't say.

  I was still in the shower when I heard a banging at the front door. I shut the water off and jumped out of the shower, running to my room to quickly dress.

  “One minute!” I yelled as I sprinted past to my room.

  I jumped into a pair of boxer-briefs and threw on a well-worn pair of jeans. But the knocking on the door did not stop.

  “I'm comin', I'm comin'!”

  I raced out of the bedroom before I had a chance to put on a shirt.

  I swung the door open and was greeted by a new face. Of course, I didn't need long to solve the mystery. She wasn't anywhere near as tall as Lance, but it was clear she shared his DNA, from the athletic build to the fiery but golden hair. She didn't look like him in the face, though—thank God for her sake!

  “You must be Honey Badger,” I said warmly.

  “Oh, lord,” she said with an emphatic eye roll. “I guess you can call me that. But my name is Ella.”

  “Ella it is, then. Can I grab your bag for you?”

  “Please!”

  I hoisted her bag over my shoulder and followed her in. She moved like a long, slinky cat on the prowl. She wore a snugly fitting pair of denim jeans, a simple spaghetti-strap tank-top, and ballet flats.

  She stepped into our condo, wide-eyed, seemingly inspecting and appraising every surface and detail. And for a moment, it seemed as if she was aware of nothing else.

  I cleared my throat, and just like that, she shot me a surprised look and remembered that I existed again.

  “Oh, sorry, where are my manners? Lance said your name was—what was it? Sonar?” Her nose scrunched up while she tried to remember. “Metal Detector?”

  “Metal Detector, yeah. How'd you guess?”

  “I know you're lying!” she squealed in a tone that was partly playful but partly serious.

  “I'm just joking. It's Radar. Or Ryan, whichever.”

  “Radar it is, then.”

  We shook hands for the first time, but it struck me that I already knew her somehow. I guess that always happened when you met your best bud's family; there was a familiarity as soon as you set your eyes on them.

  Ella had a heart-shaped face. Although her individual features were soft, when taken together, there was a certain hardness to her face. She looked, I dunno—tough? Capable? Independent? Something like that. She wasn't the type of tee-hee I'm-so-impressed-by-you girly-girl that I'd been so used to meeting ever since I went pro. Tell you that much. Instead, her whole essence seemed to pose a challenge: 'are you ready for this?'

  I had to admit, she was cute—for being related to Lance, I mean. Not that it made any difference whatsoever.

  “So where's Lance?” she asked.

  “He's out with his girlfriend.”

  Somehow, Ella didn't look like she believed me. “Lance has a girlfriend?”

  “I'm not really sure what they are. Anyway, he said he'd be back by the time you were here. Maybe you should give him a call?”

  She waved her hand. “I'm sure he's on his way.”

  I offered to get her a drink. She asked for a glass of wine, and while I poured it for her, I asked about her flight. I half-listened while she described the frustrations of air travel that I knew far too well:

  “… And then the TSA made me go back through security again, and do the whole thing over again, all because I had a pair of nail clippers …”

  The other half of me studied her and her mannerisms while she talked.

  Her tank-top revealed strong, athletic shoulders, and a perfectly ample set of breasts that I was not going to steal a single glimpse at, under any circumstances, out of respect to Lance. And out of respect to our living situation, and to the team, and—really, I could keep listing reasons why it's a bad idea to glance at the tits of your best friend and teammate's sister, but you get the idea, right?

  But then her eyes darted down and she stole a peek at my chest. I looked down at myself and, with a sudden embarrassment, realized I was standing shirtless in front of Lance's sister.

  “By the way, do you always go around topless?” she asked with a grin that was both innocent and devilish at the same time. She stole another look at my pecs and slyly bit her lip. “Because if so, this could be a fun couple of days.”

  I hoped Lance's sister wasn't a
flirt … or else this would not be a fun couple of days for me.

  “Sorry, I forgot to put one on,” I said as I immediately booked it for my bedroom. “I ran out of the shower when I heard you knocking.”

  “Sure Radar, sure,” she teased.

  I shut myself in my bedroom, threw on a shirt, and took a deep breath. When I returned, Ella was looking around the condo, glass of wine in hand.

  “What do you think of our place?” I asked her.

  “It's lovely. Just a gorgeous place. I bet you two bring a lot of girls back here, hm?”

  She gave me a knowing smile, which I laughed off.

  She pointed at the living room, where we had two fold-out lawn chairs sitting in front of the huge, flat screen TV. “But … it's so empty! It looks like no one lives here! I mean, my God, your TV sits on the floor, and you don't even have a sofa? How do you two live like this?”

  “Yeah, it's a sad sight right now. We just moved in right before the season started, so we haven't had a chance to furnish it or anything.” I paused. “So, I guess you've got your work cut out for you, huh?”

  She whipped around to face me with a bewildered expression. “What'd you just say?”

  “Um—I said—you've got your work cut out for you?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Didn't Lance tell you?”

  “Tell me what, Radar?”

  “That, uh, he wants you to furnish the place? Since you're an interior decorator and all?”

  She was silent for a moment or two.

  Then she started to laugh.

  Then her laugh tapered off into a long, frustrated sigh.

  “No. Lance didn't tell me that, actually. But it explains a lot.”

  Oh boy. Here we go.

  I frowned. “Look, I'm sorry, can you forget I said anything? I don't know what Lance told you. And I don't want to cause any trouble between you guys.”

  She neared and touched her hand to my forearm. “Oh, no, Radar. This is not your fault. Don't worry. This is so like Lance.”

  I swallowed, whipped out my cell phone, and fired off an SOS text message to Lance.

  “Dude, where are you? Your sister's here and I think I just got you busted. You didn't tell her you wanted her to decorate?! WTF, man? You better get over here quick before I make this situation any worse.”

  She noticed.

  “And now you're texting him so he can get his story straight,” she said with a giggle.

  I was too stunned to deny it, but she must've read the guilt on my face anyway.

  “It's okay. I know how you guys are,” she said.

  “Us guys?” I asked, my throat tightening on me as I spoke.

  Come on Lance! Where the hell are you? You said you'd be here by now!

  “Hockey players,” she said.

  “Oh … um …” I didn't know what to do or say. I figured, fuck it, the only move was to throw all my cards on the table. I waved my phone in the air as if were a white flag of surrender. “Yeah, I just told him that I might have gotten him busted. That's all. I really don't want to get between you guys.”

  She smiled at me. A big, genuine smile. She looked really happy in that moment, but I didn't know why. “Thank you for telling me the truth.”

  That's right. Lance said not to lie to her.

  “You're welcome,” I croaked.

  “Why don't you give me the full tour?” Ella asked.

  “Sure.”

  Chapter 5

  The Tour

  Ella

  My knees were already weak after the scenic waterfront drive to the Port of Boston, with the city skyline just over the water. Lance lived on the top floor of an eleven-story brick building, and the lobby was nothing but class—it was modern, and very tastefully modern, with nothing overdone. A quick ride up the elevator delivered me to the top floor.

  But when the door opened, I nearly drooled at the work of art standing before me.

  I'm talking, of course, about Lance's condo.

  High, vaulted ceilings. Hardwood floors. A wall of windows, floor to ceiling, that offered a breath-taking view of the harbor and Boston skyline. The kitchen sparkled with granite counter-tops and stainless steel appliances and an expansive center island. The condo also boasted an open living space.

  A very open living space, really. Because as nice as this place was? Somehow, these two millionaire athletes' condo looked more like a hillbilly's backyard, with fold-out chairs and a way-too-enormous TV resting right on the floor. All that was missing from this scene was the rusted-out husk of a decrepit car.

  Boys. Sigh. So clueless.

  I guess I should mention Lance's roommate, too, shouldn't I?

  Lance didn't tell me he lived with a hottie. But uh, guys are weird about that sort of thing, so I guess it would make sense that he wouldn't tell me that. But, yes, Radar was a handsome babe. A six-foot-something, imposing and muscle-bound babe.

  Within seconds of meeting him, I felt like I knew him. He commanded a quiet but strong presence. He was almost painfully macho, the way he carried himself—so upright and strong. He had dark, clean-cut hair and a five o'clock shadow. Oh, and the best part? He'd opened the door wearing nothing but a mouth-watering pair of blue jeans that were so tight, they were practically painted on his round ass and thick thighs.

  Sure, I was a little disappointed to say goodbye to his sizzling bare chest. That was the price I had to pay, once he caught me staring at his abs—oh, to run my fingers through that chiseled six-pack—but I knew it was probably for the best.

  But then he returned in a crisp white t-shirt. It was a fit so perfect that his shirt was just as distracting as his bare chest, with biceps bulging from the sleeves and rounded pecs jutting upward and pushing his shirt high into the air.

  Yow.

  This Radar guy was seriously smoking hot.

  But. But! Before you get carried away thinking I might have a crush on this guy, I don't. Like I told Radar, I grew up surrounded by these hockey playing dopes, thanks to Lance. I know them. I understand the way they think. Sure, they might be hot, they might be cute or charming, and they might even seem innocent, but you should never trust one of these guys any further than you can throw them.

  Those were some of the thoughts that ran through my mind when Radar accidentally let it slip: “So, I guess you've got your work cut out for you, huh?”

  I knew immediately what he meant, I just couldn't believe it.

  Lance! I cursed my brother's name internally. So that's why you invited me out here!

  He wanted me to decorate his place. And instead of just asking me to do it (which I gladly would have, by the way!), he had to manipulate the situation to get what he wanted.

  My brother is just awful!

  Radar, though? He seemed like an honest guy. For one, the way his handsome face got all flushed and nervous after he realized he'd slipped up was ultra cute. Poor guy. But it wasn't his fault. It was Lance's.

  Second, I appreciated the way that Radar didn't ogle me or leer at me like the rest of Lance's teammates always did. That was an especially bad problem if I were ever left alone with one of those creeps … ugh. Hockey players always talked a big game about how family was 'off-limits,' but as soon as they were alone with me, forget about it. You know they'd do something if they thought they could get away with it.

  But Radar seemed like a good friend, a true friend. I wasn't mad at him, not at all.

  In fact, I sort of liked Radar, more and more, with each passing second. Was I seriously flirting with him? No … not exactly … but I did enjoy the way he got so flustered when I pretended like I was flirting with him.

  “Why don't you give me the full tour?” I asked.

  “Sure,” he answered, and I noticed his Adam's apple plunge down his muscular neck.

  Oh, he's too cute.

  ***

  Radar gave me a brief tour of the rest of the house, starting with the bathroom, which had an elegant stone tile shower.
It was surprisingly clean, especially for a boy's bathroom, and it smelled nice, thanks to a grapefruit-scented candle that flickered on top of the vanity.

  Lance's bedroom was our next stop, which was precisely the disgusting pig-sty I'd expected, with dirty laundry strewn ankle-deep around the floor.

  “Gross,” I mumbled. “I just had a flashback. I shared a bedroom with him all throughout school, you know. This mess used to be my life.”

  And a big reason why I never even tried to bring any boys home …

  Radar laughed. “I'm sorry.”

  And then Radar showed me his room—or rather gave me a glimpse into it from the doorway, as if he were afraid to let me in. His room was neat and simple, without much (or any) decoration, and only the necessities: a bed, a nightstand, a dresser. His bed was neatly made. Unlike Lance, he picked up after himself.

  I looked up at him. “I guess you're the one who does all the cleaning around here, mm?”

  His chuckle confirmed my suspicions.

  Then my eye was drawn to a beautiful box that sat atop his dresser.

  “Ooh, what's that? It's a lovely chest.” I hoped he'd let me take a closer look at it.

  “Oh, um, nothing,” he mumbled shyly. “Anyway. That's our place.”

  And with that, he shut the door.

  Well, that was weird, but I guess it's none of my business.

  “What about the rest of the building?” I asked.

  “You want to see that, too?”

  “Sure!”

  After Radar put on his shoes, we left the condo and took the elevator down to the second floor. We stepped off the elevator, and he pushed through the glass double-doors and we stepped into a gargantuan fitness center, with all sorts of machinery and equipment and free weights.

  “This is where I spend most of my free time,” he said, proudly.

  “It shows,” I said quietly, unsure if I'd meant it as a compliment or a gentle poke at his ego.

  But it was an adorable moment, in that dorky jock kind of way, that the first thing he'd think to show me was the friggin' fitness center.

  “Did you bring your workout clothes?” he asked me.

  “I did, actually. If I don't exercise regularly, I go insane.” I added, “More insane than normal, that is.”