Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“That’s wonderful news! Sunny wasn’t sure you’d be able to manage it. I know you have such long hours with two jobs and all, but we’ll take care of your ticket to Chicago. Alex has plenty of room in his house, so you can stay there with us. It’ll be a great weekend!” She squeezes my arm. “Oh! There’s Miller and his parents and Alex and all the boys! Let’s go say hi! Sunny’s there with them. Come on!” She starts dragging me toward the group of players, which contains Randy.

I dig my heels into the rubber flooring and pry her fingers off my arm, scrambling for a reason not to go with her because I have the feeling my body is going to go rogue the first chance it gets. She knows about the Randy situation—or at least she knows the toned-down, PG version of it—but I can’t explain this to her. “Oh… uh… I need to use the bathroom. I’ll meet you upstairs in the bar.”

“We’re just going to say hi, sweetie,” Daisy gives me one of her knowing-mom smiles.

“I really, really need the bathroom, Momma Two.”

“Aw, come on, Lily. Michael’s over there,” Brett whines in his pitchy, almost-changing voice.

“You come with me, Brett.” Daisy puts a hand on his shoulder and winks at me. “We’ll meet you up there.”

I nod vigorously. “Sure. Great! See you in a minute!”

I’ve spent most of my life figure skating in this arena—Alex used his connections here in Guelph to get the space for the exhibition game—and now I work here, teaching skating lessons. I know where all the best bathrooms are, including a secret one not far from the bar where the afterparty’s being held.

I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to come to this. I can’t deal with seeing Randy. I have too many conflicting emotions—like lust and embarrassment and self-preservation, if that’s an emotion. I bypass the crowded elevator and hit the stairs. I take them two at a time and go right, instead of left toward the bar, at the top, heading for the hidden bathroom at the end of the hall.

I open the door, flick on the light, and lock myself in, exhaling a long breath. Turning on the tap, I shove my hands under the cold spray, hoping it will cool down the rest of me. Randy fucking Ballistic is a goddamn problem.

There are a million things in my life I regret. Staying with Benji for seven years is one of them. Not having Randy fuck the living hell out of me while I had a decent excuse to do so is another. Now, I can’t be sure that’s what would have happened, had things progressed differently, but I’m guessing.

The worst part is, I threw myself at him—offered up my body on a platter, which is totally not my thing. I’m responsible. I stay safe and comfortable. And then he refused to have sex with me because I was emotionally “vulnerable.” He more than made up for the lack of penetration, but that doesn’t negate my embarrassment, particularly since I went apeshit on all his clothes and proved I’d gone from “vulnerable” to unstable in a matter of hours. Nor does it temper my regret. That man can eat a pussy like nobody’s business. And his fingers, and his mouth, and—Jesus I need to stop thinking about him mostly naked and touching me.

I groan and stare at my reflection. I look like absolute crap. I almost never wear makeup, and the only stuff I have is meant for figure skating competitions. I thought about putting some on tonight, but I didn’t want to look like a street-walking clown. Also, the powder crap makes my skin itchy. My hair is flat, and so is my chest. I glance down at my pathetic cleavage. I need to gain five pounds, in my boobs. There’s nothing I can do about my sad little barely B-cups.

I rummage through my purse, searching for something beyond lip balm. Anything with a hint of color would be better than the look I’m rocking now. I bet Momma Two has an endless supply of sparkly tubes in her bag. She wears an insane amount of makeup. And hairspray. She’s worn her hair the same way for as long as I can remember. I’m not sure if she just loved Dallas and can’t let it go, but her hair is a special kind of fashionably unfortunate.

I find a tube at the bottom of my purse. The top has come off, and there’s all sorts of gunk stuck to the lipstick. Snatching a few squares of toilet paper from the roll, I remove the dirt and flakes of old granola bar before I rub it over my lips. It’s a bright, obnoxious shade of pink. I blot it with the toilet paper, but all I do is smear it over my mouth.