Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

“It’ll be a circus.”

“It won’t. It’s small town out there, Miller. It’s not like being in Chicago where everyone goes crazy over you guys.”

“Okay. I’ll think about it. Oh, hey, Randy emailed me something about a car wash fundraiser out near the camp. I’m probably going to go with him if the timing works out.”

“Do you know who’s hosting it?” Amber asks.

“No. Some guy Randy knows from when he played for Toronto. Randy says he puts on a lot of events.”

“What’s the charity? Can you forward me any information?”

“It’s for breast cancer. And sure, I’ve got an email I can flip you.”

“Okay. Sounds good. I’ll make sure it’s on the up and up.”

Any cancer fundraiser gets me, and Amber knows it; so does Vi. “Okay. Yeah. And I’ll check with Balls.”

“Great. Perfect. Don’t forget you’re picking him up from the airport, either. I’m sending you his flight details. You’ll have time to connect with him before Sunday?”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“Just checking. You might be busy blowing through all those condoms.”

Amber has a sense of humor. She has to if she wants to work with guys like me. “Ha ha. I’ll take a ten-minute break to deal with details.”

“Have fun with Sunny.”

“I plan to. Repeatedly. Enjoy the bears.”

“Fuck you, Miller.”

I get a dial tone and smile. Amber’s an awesome PA.

Before I go looking for Sunny, I decide now is a good time to get the trimmer out. I’ll be off to camp soon enough, and mosquitoes have a tendency to get caught in my arm hair and bite the shit out of me if I don’t take it down to a number three.

I’m not as hairy as Vi makes me out to be with her mythical fur-covered creature comparisons. Some of the guys on my team are way hairier, especially around playoff time when the beards are in effect and the neck hair meets the chest. Being blond means I can get away with a little less in the personal grooming department than the average guy.

Trimming is messy business, so I step out on the balcony overlooking the backyard. There’s lattice for privacy, but I don’t want to flash the neighbors, so I leave my shorts on.

I check the trimmer blade to make sure it’s the right one. The two lasts longer, but it makes things prickly, and I’m going for soft, not efficient, tonight. When I first started seeing Sunny, I tried the number two. Vi had been making the usual yeti jokes, and I got self-conscious. But I had to wear long sleeves on my date with Sunny during a heat wave. My arms felt like a cactus for a good week before the hair grew out.

Resting my foot on the railing, I start on my left leg. I go over everything twice. My shorts prove to be a problem, though. They’re in the way. I don’t want to end up with the equivalent of a reverse farmer’s tan, except with fuzzy thighs instead of overly white skin. I peek around the lattice. I can see the edge of the pool. On the other side is the neighbor’s patio. An old dude sits in a lounge chair, drinking iced tea and reading the paper in his bathrobe. There’s a pair of binoculars on the table beside his drink. This has to be Sunny’s pervy neighbor. But he can’t see me, so I’m safe to drop the shorts.

After I finish round two with my legs, I run a hand against the grain. The resulting semi-smoothness is gratifying.

Once I shaved my legs with a real razor. Actually, I used four of them. I wanted to see what it felt like. It was winter when I did it, so I didn’t think anyone would see them. Unfortunately, I forgot about the part where I’m an NHL player and I get changed in a locker room with other guys who would notice my hairless legs and razz me about them. Which is what happened.

I lied and said one of the bunnies I’d been with must have done it while I was sleeping. It seemed believable. Some bunnies get territorial. Those are the ones I cut loose in a hurry. Or used to cut loose. Before Sunny.

Moving on to my arms, I resume my mission to tone down the fur. When the breeze picks up, the trimmed hairs swirls around in the air before they go over the edge, floating toward the neighbor’s yard. I bet the birds will love it. Sunny says it makes great nests.

On the final pass with the trimmer, a strong gust of wind lifts the liberated hairs, and the cross-breeze from inside the house creates a cataclysmic weather system. A mini-tornado spins the fluff around in a circle. The tumbleweed of blond rises into the air, disappearing over the edge of the balcony.