Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

I put on some music—emo, of course, to match my constantly fluctuating mood—and move on to my underwear drawer. Half my panties need to be replaced because they’re old or falling apart. I still have the ones Randy bought for me over the holidays.

We didn’t so much exchange Christmas presents as we exchanged underwear. I’m missing the pretty blue pair with the lace, but I have the pair of his pink boxers I vandalized—a parting gift to remember him by.

It’s a little creepy-stalker, but I’m okay with that. I’m also guilty of creeping his social media accounts and trolling the puck bunny/hockey hooker groups. So far there are no reports of Randy going ballistic (ha) on any new bunnies. It’s a terrible form of torture, waiting for it to happen and break me all over again.

At the knock on my door, I stuff Randy’s underwear under a pile of socks. “Come in.”

My mom pokes her head in. “How’s it going?”

“Good. I’ll be done with this in a bit, and then I can help you with the kitchen.” I close the empty drawer. I feel something wet on my face and realize I’m crying. Again. Emotions blow dick. Randy’s badass scarred dick. Thinking about that definitely doesn’t stop the tears.

My mom folds me in her bony embrace. We’re both lean, so it’s nothing like hugging say, Randy, who’s all hard lines and muscle and man, and—shit I really need to stop thinking about him.

My mom strokes my hair, like she used to do when I was little. It’s soothing. “Is this because you’re moving away from me, or because you’re still sad about your hockey boy?”

“I don’t know. Both I guess.” I sniffle. It’s rather pathetic.

She lets go and takes my face between her hands. Her smile is sad. “He’s an idiot not to want you.”

“He wants me, just not the way I want him.” I try to stifle one of those horrible snot-sobs. I’m unsuccessful.

“You’re sure about that?” she asks softly.

“He made it clear from the beginning it was only ever going to be casual.”

“Feelings can change, Lily.”

“His haven’t.” I think about that phone call, the one about the girl at the bar who looked like me. In a matter of hours he’d been looking to replace me. “He said he’d fuck me over, eventually.”

My mom sighs. “Sometimes when people are scared of what they’re feeling, they push people away.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. He hasn’t tried to call me lately, or text. I think it’s just done.”

She gives me another bony squeeze. “I won’t tell you there are plenty of fish in the sea, even though there are. And you’ll find the one who’s right for you, at the right time.”

It doesn’t feel like I’m going to find another fish right now. I sniffle. “You probably shouldn’t since you turned forty and the verdict’s still out on Tim-Tom.”

“It’s Tim, honey, and he’s good for me.”

“Tim-Tom has a nice ring to it, though.”

My mom laughs, and then grows serious. “I know I made a lot of mistakes along the way, and a lot of bad choices, but I want you to know I have no regrets when it comes to you. Well, that’s not true. I wish I could’ve given you more. You deserved so much more than you got, but I did the best I could—”

She chokes on the rest of the words. Which is probably a good thing. My mom and me, we don’t have these deep, heartfelt conversations, likely because we both end up ugly-crying.

I pat her back. “You did great, Mom.”

“I’m sorry about the hockey boy.”

“His name is Randy, and me, too. The sex was really great.”

“I definitely didn’t need to know that.”

“I’ve seen Tim-Tom’s woody.”

“I think we should have a drink.”

I follow her out to the kitchen where she pours me a glass of wine, and we watch the hockey game. Toronto is playing Chicago. Randy’s beard is beautiful. He looks fantastic. And he scores a goal. My phone buzzes about half an hour after the game ends. I won’t lie; my entire being wants it to be Randy—from my hair follicles to my Vagina Emporium.

It’s not.

It’s Benji. I dropped his stuff off a few days ago. It went slightly better than I’d expected. He tried to convince me I was making a mistake by moving to Chicago, and that we should get back together. I pointed out that it definitely wouldn’t work with me moving. He got mad and then cried. It could’ve been way worse. But in my haste to leave, I forgot my box.

I groan and check the message. He’s letting me know Benny is stopping by in the morning with my stuff.

There’s some relief in not having to deal with him directly again. We have a lot of history, and I’m a little sad that this is how it’s ending, but I’m also aware that I’ll be back, and sometimes time and distance makes it easier to be friends. Who knows if that will ever happen with us.