Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

Violet rubs her forehead. The giant, marble-sized diamond on her ring finger sparkles in the sun. It’s insanely huge. She expels a breath and looks up at the sky. She’s wearing sunglasses, so I can’t see her eyes. She swallows a few times.

When she speaks, it’s quiet and too calm. “I know flipping numbers is a thing for you, but it’s Sunny, for Christ’s sake. You should be on top of this.” She takes off the sunglasses.

Her eyes have that watery thing going on. It makes me nervous. I can deal with Violet’s sarcasm and anger, but when she gets emotional, I don’t know how to manage her other than to give her ice cream.

“You know, if you’re not interested in that relationship, you better man up and deal with it instead of blowing her off. I won’t have you fucking up my sex life because she’s not interested in your tiny dick.”

“My dick isn’t tiny.”

She’s back to being pissed, thankfully. “Who fucking cares? That’s not the point. Why are you here anyway? Lance is a douche.”

“He’s not—”

A song about peacocks starts playing from her back pocket.

“Hold on.” She answers it. “Yes, he’s still here.” She looks me over and twirls her finger in the air. “Turn around.”

I don’t argue. I do what I’m told.

“He’s shirtless, and I don’t see any nail marks or hickeys through his matted fur.” There’s a pause. I can hear Waters muffled voice. Judging from his tone, he’s not very happy. “No. Absolutely not. That’s where I draw the line, Alex. I’m not interested in requiring therapy.” She purses her lips and glares at me. “Are you going to Hulk out? . . . Are you sure? . . . Fine.” She passes me the phone. “Alex wants to talk to you.”

My phone buzzes with new texts and messages. I need to call Sunny. More than that, I need to reschedule my flight and get my ass to the airport. But instead I put Vi’s phone to my ear.

“Butterson, if you give me one of your bullshit excuses, I’m going to break your goddamn knees.”

Violet is making hand gestures. I can’t listen to Waters’ heavy breathing and the buzz of my phone and watch her at the same time.

“If you break my knees, you’ll be out for the season,” I say.

“I’ll get Violet to do it.”

Violet’s not very strong, so that’s not much of a threat. I don’t share this with Waters, though. He’s already pissed off enough. I make a noise of disbelief instead. Turns out that’s almost as bad as saying what I’m thinking.

“You think this is funny, Butterson? My sister is bawling her eyes out over fucking media snapshots of you and all your goddamn pucksluts—”

“I was asleep. I didn’t know they drew a dick on my face until this morning. And that girl dropped into my lap and started taking pictures. I didn’t do anything wrong.”

He exhales like Darth Vader. When he speaks again, it’s much more softly. “This is your last chance, Butterson. If you don’t fix this mess, I’m going to schedule a meeting with the manager to tell him you’re a cancer to the team and you need to be traded.”

It pisses me off that Waters, of all people, drops threats like this. He knows better than anyone how the media misconstrues things. “That’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair is you playing my sister and thinking you can get away with it.”

“Kinda like you played mine.”

“Don’t even start with me. You have no idea what it’s like to make sacrifices for someone else. Put Violet back on the phone.”

“Your boyfriend’s an asshole,” I mutter, passing the device back to her.

“Fiancé,” she corrects, flipping me off. She turns away while she has a back and forth with Waters.

I pull up my email and search for messages from Amber. She forwarded me one with my flight details last night. I open it and stare at the numbers and letters swimming together on the tiny screen. Under the flight times in her message is my entire monthly calendar. Everything is color-coded so I know what it means without having to read it. Practice is highlighted in red (there aren’t any this month because we’re off season), workouts in blue, free days in pink, travel days in purple, and time with Sunny is a red heart. I tried to get Amber to change that one, but she thought it was cute and refused.

At first I think I’m right and the flight is at nine tonight, until I read the message underneath. I’m off by three hours because I flipped the number upside down. I go back to my emails and scroll through the most recent ones. Amber sent one this morning. It’s a voice memo, thank Christ.

I hit play. “Just a reminder that you fly to Toronto this evening at six. Your tickets are attached in the email. I also picked up a few of the items on the list of things you felt might make good gifts for Sunny. Those are packed in your carry-on bag. Your luggage for the camp has been sent directly there to minimize the number of bags you have to take with you.”