Let me explain what that means.
I spent my childhood living in a trailer park. Not the kind where your neighbor is some guy named Billy Bob who wears filthy tanks with horrible huge armholes. The same kind of man who always has a cigarette hanging precariously from between his thin pursed lips while he leers at you and makes you hate the dark and being alone. That wasn’t my trailer park experience—although that might’ve been preferable.
I grew up on The Ranch, which really wasn’t a ranch at all. It was hidden away on a desolate patch of Utah dirt, set up with several greenhouses and a dozen or more trailers, full of mostly women I thought were my family. I learned later they weren’t.
Everything changed the day I got my first “monthly bleed,” otherwise known as a period, Shark Week, or Aunt Flo’s Monthly Visit. But monthly bleed was the phrase of preference at The Ranch. I was fourteen and a half, which is important, that half. I was a late bloomer. Thank heavens for that. I’d been around enough women to know this was part of life, and it signified my transition into womanhood. I still slept with a stuffed animal named Miss Flopsy, so I didn’t feel that womanly at the time, but all my sisters made it seem like some kind of rite of passage. I felt gross and ill and my tummy hurt, so I couldn’t see what was so awesome about it.
Anyway, the day I went from a fourteen and a half year old to a woman, my entire world changed. In the middle of the night, my mom—who really isn’t all there sometimes—stole me away from GHH.
It was all very Prison Break. We escaped through a hole in the barb-wire topped fence—I kid you not—and there was even a getaway car, a bag of money, and thank the Lord, an entire backpack of the candies my mom made, day in and day out. They were herbal. Calming. And I pretty much lived on them.
Leaving GHH was both scary and monumental, as it was my first time off The Ranch ever. At least that I could remember. And my first time hotwiring a car.
It was traumatic.
It was terrifying.
And an adrenaline rush.
It was also a blessing. But it took me a while to figure that out, too.
I love my mom, but she’s a little light on the logic and a few other key elements that make a person rational and capable of good decision-making. Hence the reason we ended up in an unconventional trailer park in the first place.
On our escape trip across central US in an old Volvo that barely ran and had no heat, I experienced a myriad of firsts. First trip to the grocery store—oh my gosh! So much food in one place and so many things I’d never eaten before. Fruit Loops looked so fun! I was sorely disappointed that they all tasted exactly the same, even though color dictated they should taste different, like Life Savers. First time wearing jeans—so weird to have fabric encasing my legs when I was used to dresses.
But the most memorable of my firsts was two-fold. My first time inside a restaurant and my first exposure to the wonders of television happened in a dingy diner in Omaha, Nebraska on day two of our escape. It was called The Fifth Wheel.
I’ll never forget the experience. My mom ordered me chicken fingers, French fries, and chocolate milk from the kid’s menu—I was small enough that I looked like a child, even though I wasn’t one. I’d never had real chocolate milk, only the kind you make with all the little powder bubble bombs in it, so this was mind-blowing. I was fascinated by the mazes and the word search on the paper menu. And I was allowed to color on it! It held my attention for all of thirty seconds, until I noticed the TV hanging from above the bar.
We’d never had a TV.
Sure I’d seen pictures of the devil’s box, but I’d never seen one up close. It didn’t look like it held demons inside it, just a moving picture. Kinda neat, really.
On the screen were boys, or men maybe. It was hard to tell since they were so much smaller than in real life and they wore helmets that covered a lot of their faces. They were dressed in bright clothes wearing knife shoes—so crazy!—on their feet and holding sticks.
I recognized the game, sort of. We played a version of this on The Ranch called ball hockey. But there was no ice and we played in regular shoes. I was pretty good at it. But this was different. These men were fast. They glided down the ice like they had rockets attached to their feet. They were magical.
I read the names on the back of their shirts, curious as to what the numbers below represented. Was it their favorite? Is that how they got it? I was instantly stuck on number twenty-six since that’s my birthday. My paper place mat of games was long-forgotten. I dipped fry after fry into the puddle of ketchup on my plate, shoving them into my mouth and chewing as fast as I could so I could stuff another one in. They were so good. And I was hypnotized.
Now I understood why there had been no TVs on The Ranch. I never wanted to stop watching. Maybe that’s why it’s called the devil’s box. It stole away your ability to be productive.
The focus shifted from the ice to the bench where many of the players sat. They weren’t always on the ice. They took turns.
In my fourteen and a half years on this planet, I’d had limited exposure to the opposite sex. When number twenty-six came on the screen, I sat forward in my chair. The name Westinghouse spanned his shoulders. It’s a long name. He had broad shoulders.
He took a seat on the bench and pulled off his helmet. He shook his head, dark hair dripping wet as he tipped his head back and squirted his water bottle into his open mouth. He used the hem of his shirt to wipe away the beads of sweat trickling down his temples. It was mesmerizing. He was mesmerizing.
Everything about him was fierce. His eyes shifted from the ice and he looked directly at the screen. The world tilted and spun away. He possessed that kind of severe beauty that stole your breath away. The kind you read about in fairy tales. I couldn’t decide if he was the hero or the villain, though.
His eyes were hard like diamonds but the color of pale honey. Like all broken souls, his face was all angles and darkness, encased in sadness.
The darkness and the sadness drew me in. I knew those emotions well. I lived them every day.
When the buzzer went off, he shook his head, like he was erasing whatever was in his head. He shoved his helmet on and surged onto the ice again.
I was fourteen and a half years old when I fell in love with a sport.
I was twenty-two when I met the man who inspired that love, and then I accidentally fell in love with him, too.
A Valentine’s Day Letter
from Darren to Charlene
FIREFLY,
As you know, I’m a highly competitive person. I don’t like to lose, especially when it comes to your orgasm challenge nights, which just happens to be one of my favorite games to play with you. I also love Let’s See How Long I Can Keep You on the Edge with my Tongue Before You Try to Rip My Hair Out at the Roots.
There is one game I’m terrible at, though, and I’ve never been happier to suck at something in my life. You wouldn’t know this because we’ve never played, but my inability to play Scrabble is essentially the reason I have you in my life.
If I hadn’t lost that game of Scrabble to Alex, I wouldn’t have had to put him up in a suite, they never would have had their one-night stand that lasted forever, and Violet wouldn’t have brought you to a game.
Another thing you might not know is that usually my “Resting Asshole Face” is enough to put off most women. For whatever reason, it seemed to have the opposite effect on you. I need to be completely honest with you about that night. I don’t remember much of our conversation. All I could focus on was how beautiful you were, and how much I loved the sound of your voice and that I wanted to keep hearing it every day for the rest of my life.
You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Charlene. Loving you is an honor and I plan to revere you for hours tonight, so don’t expect to get much sleep. ;) Happy Valentine’s Day, firefly.
My heart is yours,
Darren
TITLES BY HELENA HUNTING
PUCKED SERIES
Pucked Up (Pucked #2)
Pucked Over (Pucked #3)
Forever Pucked (Pucked Book #4)
Pucked Under (Pucked #5)
Pucked Off (Pucked #6)
Pucked Love (Pucked #7)
PUCKED SERIES EXTRAS
AREA 51: Deleted Scenes & Outtakes
Get Inked
Pucks & Penalties: Deleted Scenes & Outtakes 2.0
THE CLIPPED WINGS SERIES
Cupcakes and Ink
Clipped Wings
Between the Cracks
Inked Armor
Cracks in the Armor
Fractures in Ink
SHACKING UP SERIES
Shacking Up
Getting Down (Novella)
Hooking Up
I Flipping Love You
Making Up
Handle with Care
STANDALONE NOVELS
The Librarian Principle
Felony Ever After
FOREVER ROMANCE STANDALONES
The Good Luck Charm
MEET CUTE
Kiss My Cupcake
ALL IN SERIES
A Lie for a Lie
A Favor for a Favor
A Secret for a Secret
About The Author Helena Hunting
NYT and USA Today bestselling author of PUCKED, Helena Hunting lives on the outskirts of Toronto with her incredibly tolerant family and two moderately intolerant cats. She’s writes contemporary romance ranging from new adult angst to romantic sports comedy.
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Pucks & Penalties: Pucked Series Deleted Scenes and Outtakes Version 2.0 (The Pucked Series) Page 28
