Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

I pocket my phone when Miller turns around. “Everything all right?” I ask.

“Yeah. Fine. Sunny’s just worried. I guess she talked to Violet and got the story from her. Now they’re talking to Tash, and she’s all upset. I still don’t get why they’d be banging in the damn locker room.” He blows out a breath. “This situation is seriously messed.”

“I’m gonna stop by Lance’s to check on him.”

“Good plan. I’ll come with you.”

“Food first, though?”

“Damn right.”

We hit a buffet and carb load so Miller’s ready for the game tonight; then we drive to Lance’s place. We have the code to get in, but the safety latch is on, so we can’t get through the door. It doesn’t matter how long we ring the doorbell; he’s not answering.

“I’mma scale the fence,” Miller announces.

“That’s probably not the best plan.” Lance’s fence is one of those wrought-iron jobs, covered in ivy with pointy things on top.

“It’ll be fine.” Miller ambles over and jumps up, catching two posts. He plants his feet on the bars, but he’s wearing skater shoes, and they don’t have traction. Miller’s also a big guy. He’s beefy, like defense usually are, and he’s got a good thirty pounds on me, maybe a little more. I have to work hard to bulk up at all, and if I don’t watch it, I end up dropping all the weight I put on over off-season as soon as we start hardcore training.

He struggles with a couple of attempts, and I watch, biting back a laugh. “Want a boost?”

“Like you can lift my ass. I’ll boost you over.”

“No fucking way. You see how pointy that shit is?” I motion to the sword-like tips. My balls get achy just thinking about being near those.

“You’ll be fine. Seriously, Balls, those aren’t razors attached to the top.”

He’s right. I know that. But I’d rather boost him, even though I’d likely strain something. He laces his fingers together and bends down far enough for me to use them as a step. I can’t argue. He’ll razz the shit out of me. He knows I have irrational fears regarding the state of my balls.

Or maybe they’re not irrational considering how I almost lost them, and half my dick, when I was eleven.

“Fuck you, Buck,” I mumble and put my foot on his hand bridge. “I hope I stepped in dog shit.”

“I’ll wipe it on your ass when I hoist you over.”

“You do, and I’ll kick you in the face.”

“And I’ll taint-punch you, so we’ll be even.”

“Just boost me, asshole.”

“On three.”

“Yeah.”

Miller counts to three and launches me up. I manage to get my foot on top of the rail.

“Nice work! Now up and over.” He grabs my ankle.

It’s easier said than done. There’s maybe six inches between the iron bars, or whatever regulation is so kids can’t climb through or get their heads stuck. It doesn’t give me a lot of room for maneuvering. If I don’t have one of those spikes close to my balls, the other’s almost up my ass.

“Dude. Seriously. I will knock your fake fucking teeth right out.”

He lets go and steps back, which would be fine if I was prepared, but I’m not, so I almost end up spiking myself on both sides. There’s a lot of profanity, but eventually I make it over the ten-foot fence of death and land in Lance’s garden, crushing his flowers. Not that he’ll notice or care.

I hold onto my balls out of habit as I pop up. “Fuck you, Butterson.”

“Why are you pissed at me? I helped your ass over.”

“You know what, when you almost lose half your dick, you can be lackadaisical about this shit. But until then you need to be a little more fucking sensitive.”

“Lackadaisical?” Miller grins. “Have you been hanging out with Vi lately? Or Waters? Do you even know how to spell that?”

“I hate you.” I stalk in the direction of the patio doors. They better damn well be open.

I stop at the gate and unlatch it so Miller can get in. Then I continue my irritated stalking. I pull on the door handle, half expecting it to be locked, but it slides easily.

“Oh, shit.” Miller’s behind me, surveying the same scene I am.

It’s not good. Clearly our friend has lost his mind based on the state of his living room.

“Lance? Buddy? You here?” I call. I have to step over a broken something and around a bunch of other smashed shit to get through his living room.

“You sure you’re ready for this? He’s gonna be messed.” Miller follows behind me, shaking his head.

Lance has had a meltdown. They’re epic on the ice; off the ice they’re destructive. I check the kitchen and then the rest of the main floor and come up with nothing. We don’t take off our shoes on our way to the second floor—there’s too much broken glass. Music is playing up there. Heavy, angry stuff.