Pls txt bk when u get this. NO1 posts FB. Do u have aces? Gong 2c Alex 4 2days.
Message four is from yesterday:
No sure if ur still comin 2c me when u get bk?
I send a reply right away, keeping it short and to the point. I pray it goes through with the spotty two-bar reception.
Calling u.
I don’t wait to hear back before I call. It goes to her voicemail the first time, but she picks up right away on my second attempt.
“Hello?”
“Sunny?”
Static crackles on the line. “Miller?”
“Hey, sweets. I missed your voice.”
“How c…from you…week.”
The connection isn’t great. Half of her words are dropped, and she sounds tinny, but at least I can sort of talk to her. It’s way better than trying to figure out her texts.
“We didn’t have reception. We didn’t even have power most of the week. Everything ran on generators. Ricardo’s throwing us a party, and he has this monster satellite dish, so I have two bars. Can you hear me? I can’t hear you real good. I don’t have a lot of battery left.”
She replies, but it’s lost in static. I put her on speakerphone and walk around the house, watching the little dots as they go from two down to one and then up to three.
“Sunny Sunshine? You still there?”
“You’re at a party? I didn’t know… Hockey…Haiti… bunnies…too?”
I may not catch everything she says, but I can tell from her tone she’s not happy. She’s using sarcasm. Bunnies are the biggest problem for me and Sunny—not my involvement with them as much as the fact that they still call me and hound me in bars and want pictures and stuff.
“It’s not that kind of party. It’s a BBQ. A bunny-free zone.”
“Oh. Okay.” There’s a slight pause, along with a soft exhale. “How are things there? Are you having fun?”
“It’s been good. Tiring but good. I’m looking forward to being home. And seeing you. It’s still cool for me to visit?”
She replies, but I can’t hear through the static.
“I missed that.”
Ricardo’s wife, Mira, taps me on the shoulder. “Mr. Miller? You have sticks?”
“Did someone just ask to see your dick?” Sunny asks.
“No. No. Sticks.” Jesus. Bad connections suck almost as much as having no connection at all. “We’ve been teaching the kids how to play hockey. Tonight we’re having a campfire and roasting marshmallows. Did you know most of these kids have never even eaten a marshmallow?”
“Swallow? Swallow what?”
“No. Marshmallow. Not swallow.”
“Miller, this is the first time we’ve talked in ten days and you want to know whether or not I swallow?”
“Oh! Mr. Miller. Is that your wife? She happy to have you home.” Mira grabs the phone from me. “Ms. Miller? You lucky woman! Mr. Miller he love the babies. He teach them the hockey.” She starts speaking in Haitian, going back to broken English after a few seconds. “He good man. So much the help. And, how you say, the heated? The hottie? Yes, yes. The hottie. You have lots baby and make happy.”
She passes back the phone and grabs my hand, looking at my fingers. “No ring?”
“We’re dating.”
She gives me a questioning look.
“Not married.”
“No marry? Why you wait for?”
“We just started dating.”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head, then leaves me alone again.
“Who was that?”
“Ricardo’s wife. She doesn’t speak a whole lot of English.”
“I think I got the gist of it.” Sunny sounds more like she’s laughing and less like she’s still mad at me.
I check my battery. It’s dying fast. I’m at three percent. “My phone’s gonna cut out soon. I just wanted to call and make sure you still wanna to see me.”
“I still want to see you.”
“Cool. Awesome. I don’t when my flight gets in ’cause I can’t check my emails, but I’ll call when I have the details.”
“Okay. I should let you—”
The call cuts out. I check the screen to find it’s gone blank. My phone’s officially dead. I’m not worried, though. I get to see Sunny in less than forty-eight hours. Everything just went from good to awesome.
Chapter Two
It Ain’t No Thing, Chicken Wing
THE MOONSHINE I drank last night may be partially at fault for how I’m feeling. But I don’t think it’s the whole reason. My stomach gurgles, and a cold sweat breaks out across my forehead as I wait in the line to get my boarding pass. There’s no special line for NHL players. Not that I expected there to be, but it’s nice when I get VIP treatment, especially when I feel this awful.
I just need to make it through the next hour, and everything will be okay. If I shit my pants before then, they won’t let me on the plane back to Chicago. And I don’t want to receive medical attention here. For one, I don’t speak Haitian. They could take a kidney, and I wouldn’t know until I woke up with stitches. I bet they wouldn’t even use anesthetic, like in one of those horror movies.
I put the lockdown on those thoughts. They don’t help with the nausea.
Before I made the commitment to stand in this line like a chump, I defiled the men’s bathroom. I’m positive I’m going to need another toilet timeout before long. It feels like my insides are trying to escape my body, and they can’t decide whether they want to come out my ass or my mouth. I have a new respect for what Violet goes through when she eats dairy. The punishment doesn’t seem to fit the crime if she experiences anything half as bad as this.
Randy claps me on the back. “You all right, man?”
I grunt. I’m saving all my words for the tiny woman checking passports at the desk. Also, if I speak, I might barf, and I’m back to them not letting me on the plane.
“I think I drank too much last night,” Randy mumbles. “It feels like someone’s trying to hammer their way through my skull.”
Again, I make a noise. I have no idea how much he drank, but there were shots of something after all the kids went to sleep in their various tents. I declined those. I didn’t drink half as much as Randy last night, but today I’m feeling much worse than he seems to be.
Maybe it’s the “wings” that are causing my stomach issues more than the booze. I’m having a hard time believing they were from chickens because the wild ones I saw running around were way too scrawny to eat. Whatever we consumed, it’s coming out today in ways nothing ever should.
Thankfully, the line is moving, so I’ll be able to hit the bathroom again soon.
I hand over my passport and flight documents. Randy’s chatting up the much younger, much flirtier chick at the next desk, and she’s giggling like a teenager. The older, less impressed woman helping me flips open my passport and does a triple take.
I’m clean-shaven in the picture, and four years younger. I weigh about thirty pounds less than I do now—although if I keep it up with the bathroom trips, I might be close to that weight again soon. Right now I’m sporting a serious beard. While the rest of my hair is blond verging on white after being in the sun for the past ten days, my beard is closer to red. Like I’m part ginger, but only on my chin and upper lip. Before the trip, I was well groomed; after ten days without a razor, I look like I’m ready to audition for an episode of Teen Wolf.
“Please take off your hat, sir.”
My hair’s a greasy, disgusting mess since it’s been trapped under there all morning, but I do what I’m asked.
She inspects my passport and then me again, typing away on her little computer with a frown. When it’s clear I’m not a dangerous felon looking to escape the Haitian prison system, she hands me back my passport.
“Would you like an aisle or a window seat?”
“Is there anything left by the exits?”
“I’m sorry, those seats are already taken.”
“Sorry, sir, I have row twelve, window only, or seats at the back of the plane. Those are close to the restrooms.”
I don’t want to be too close to the bathroom since I plan to abuse it. I booked the tickets as economy. Randy’s in first class, but I felt like a dick flying with the specials to go help people who have nothing. I’m regretting that decision now.
It’s a seven-hour flight. I feel like shit. Not only am I in economy, but the back of the plane means getting on and off last. Considering the state of my gut, it’s less than ideal. I can’t manage seven hours in one of those tiny seats feeling the way I do. It was bad enough on the way here.
I lean on the desk so I’m not quite so imposing, and also my stomach is cramping again. I’m worried I might not make it to a bathroom if we don’t hurry things along. I smile and hope it doesn’t look like a grimace. “Are there any spots left in business or first class?”
She clicks away on the keyboard with her pale pink nails. They’re decorated with tiny flowers on the tips. Sunny’s are often pretty like that. I wonder how they do it.
“There are seats available in first class.”
I heave a relieved sigh. “That’s great.”
“There will be a charge of one thousand two hundred and twenty dollars to upgrade.”
That’s a lot of money to sit in a better seat. But the guilt isn’t bad enough to stop me from passing over my credit card to secure my spot among the privileged jerkoffs. The bathroom by first class is less frequented. I’ll have extra legroom, and I won’t have to sweat all over my neighbor because we won’t be sitting on top of each other. To make up for it, I’ll donate twice that amount to fund a program at the orphanage when I get home.
Violet, my sister and financial manager, is going to shit a brick when she sees my credit card statements. I think I’ve gone over budget for this trip by about ten grand. Except for my hangover and possible food poisoning, it’s all been for a good cause.
If I have her set up some kind of educational thing for the kids who have trouble learning, she won’t be able to fight me on it. School was never about class, but all about sports for me. Later in high school, when my teeth were fixed, it was all about sports and girls. Not much has changed, except that I’m interested in one girl in particular now.
My lack of baggage makes everything go a lot faster once I’ve got my boarding pass. On the way to Haiti, I checked three suitcases. Coming home all I have are the clothes on my back, a backpack of handmade gifts from the local kids and their families, and a shitload of Imodium—which isn’t working at all.
The security check is superfast, thank Christ. I rush to the closest bathroom and give birth to the devil. When I’m done ruining yet another public restroom, I find Randy lounging in one of the uncomfortable chairs at our gate.
Now he looks as bad as I feel. Even still, there’s a chick sitting beside him, cozied up like maybe she’s thinking about climbing into his lap. Randy can manage to score with the ladies. His beard is like a magical lure even though he’s wearing the same clothes he went out in last night, so he smells a lot like a dumpster.
His last night ended a lot differently than mine. While I went home bleary-eyed with mild stomach cramps, he managed to hook up with one of the women at the BBQ. They went for a walk down to the beach and got busy in the sand. His legs and ass are covered in sand flea bites. Every few seconds he shifts around. He has to be itchy as hell. It’s pretty fucking funny.
He whispers something to the chick. She giggles, pats his knee, and gets up. She’s got to be a good five years older than he is or more—not that it matters. Randy likes women: short, tall, thin, curvy, blond, brunette, redhead.
“She coming back?” I ask as I watch her walk away. She’s petite. Her waist is probably the same size as his right thigh.
He grins. “Maybe. I think she’s gonna see if they stock condoms in that little store. She’s flying first class. Her seat’s beside mine.”
“Did you even shower this morning?”
He scratches his balls through his shorts. “I cleaned the important parts and put on deodorant.”
“You’re a dirtbag.”
“Whatever.” He grins. “Like you can talk. I bagged it last night, so it’s not like there’s going to be cross-contamination.”
“You’re so considerate.”
“You’re just jealous I’m getting all the pussy you used to.”
I ignore the comment and drop into the chair. It’s not that I care about Randy’s manwhoring ways. It’s more that I’ve been in his shoes, and I don’t want to think about how it’s messing up my current attempt at a relationship. Particularly since I’m trying not to do things like that anymore. And I still feel like garbage, so I’m not in the mood.
“Still feeling crappy, huh?”
“Like Satan has taken up residence in my intestinal tract. I’ll be better when we’re home and I can abuse my own bathroom.” I look across to where a couple of the other guys flying home today sit. Most of them have baseball caps covering their faces. It’s early, and last night was rough. “They don’t look any better than we do.”
“Devon seems to be doing fine.”
“Who?” I’m terrible with names.
“Butcher. The dude who doesn’t eat meat.”
“Wait, he’s a butcher who doesn’t eat meat?”
“No, dipshit. His last name is Butcher. He’s a priest or something.”
“Oooh. You’re talking about The Minister.” I nickname people. It’s the only way I can remember them. I check him out. He is the only one in our group who doesn’t look like the walking dead. “I guess he passed on the mystery meat.”
“I ate the meat, and I’m fine.” Randy pats his stomach. “He’s all holy and stuff, so I think the only booze he can drink is wine.”
“I don’t think that’s true.” I’m almost positive I’ve seen Devon pounding beers a couple of times.
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m talking out of my ass. Seems logical, though. They’re supposed to be pure and stuff, right?”
I roll my eyes. “Dude. How much torture do you think one man can stand? He already has to feel guilty about whacking off. He’ll never, ever get to put his dick in anything warm and wet and soft unless he buys something from one of those porn stores. The only good thing left is getting shitfaced.”
“The thought of having to resort to something like that makes my hangover feel like it’s not so bad.”
I nod in agreement. “I hear orgasms help get rid of headaches. When your friend comes back from buying condoms, you can test that theory.”
“I’m waiting until we’re on the plane.”
“I plan to destroy that bathroom like all the others I’ve been in today, so you might want to reconsider that option.”
“I’ll get there before you have a chance to annihilate it.”
“Pfft. Good luck with that.” I’ve mile-highed before. It’s not as awesome as people make it out to be.
I close my eyes and lean my head against the back of the hard metal chair. I need to schedule a massage. My back is all knots. My massage therapist is going to be pissed at me for letting it get so bad. I pay her good money to manage my body, though. Plus I have a trainer who will force me to do yoga and a bunch of other non-manly-yet-super-effective training until I’m back in order.
Maybe Sunny’ll want to give me a massage when I see her. Better yet, maybe it’ll have one of those happy endings I’ve been hoping for.
I hunt for my phone in my backpack. I find it under an exploded power gel pack. It’s covered in the sticky goo.
“Jerking it to pictures of the girlfriend again?” Randy asks. There’s almost zero intonation, so it’s not as funny as it could have been. Also, it would be true if Sunny was willing to send me some good pics, but I haven’t asked since we’re not in a place where it’s kosher.
“She sent me
a video message last night,” I lie.
I don’t know why I’m bothering to check my phone in the first place. It’s totally dead. There aren’t a whole lot of places in this airport to charge it, and I’m not all that interested in sitting on the floor by the one outlet across the room to make it happen. The plane will have a port. I can do it then.
I use the sleeve of Randy’s shirt to clean the screen.
“What the fuck, Butterson? Did you just wipe your splooge on me?” He practically jumps out of his seat. He must stand too fast, because he stumbles and grabs his head, almost careening into a woman walking by.
He grabs her by the waist and apologizes. She looks terrified, and also possibly interested. I toss the mostly empty packet of power gel on his seat and root around for a Wet-Nap in my pack. I find one at the bottom of the bag, under the now slightly soggy kid art. Tearing it open, I clean my phone. This is when emergency bathroom run number one happens.
I’m out of my seat, clenching my ass cheeks, and gunning for the bathroom just as Randy sits on the half-empty gel pack. I’m sad I don’t get to see his reaction, but I can hear him yelling, so that’s something.
Karma gets me for the gel pack. Our flight ends up being delayed thanks to a three-hour rain storm. I make five more trips to the bathroom before we board the plane; two are false alarms, but the other ones are genuine emergencies. I even push someone out of the way to get to a stall. I apologize while groaning through the first wave of hell. On the positive side, the stomach cramps seem to have slowed by the time I take my seat in first class. I pull my hat down so the brim covers my eyes, stretch out my legs, and relax while the rest of plane boards.
“Sir.”
A tap on my shoulder forces my eyes open. It’s a real task. All I want is to sleep until we get back to the States where chicken wings come from chickens. I blink and focus on the brunette standing to my right in the blue uniform.
She’s smiling the standard flight attendant smile. “All bags need to be stored in the overhead compartment for takeoff.”
I’m hugging my backpack. At some point I must have started using it as a pillow. “Oh. Right.”
Pucks & Penalties: Pucked Series Deleted Scenes and Outtakes Version 2.0 (The Pucked Series) Page 4
