Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

“Sweets?” I crouch, using my shoulder to stop her head from lolling around. Her eyes are rolled up, and she’s total dead weight. She fainted. I prop her against the cabinets, adjusting her limp body so she won’t fall over. This isn’t going the way I planned.

The paper towels are a couple inches out of reach. To prevent her from falling over, I stand in front of her, bracing my thigh against her shoulder to hold her up. It isn’t the best position, well, not for the situation, anyway. My dick is two inches from her face, and I’m naked.

She starts to come to as I snatch up the paper towels. Ripping off a couple of sheets, I reposition to crouch again, but she wraps her arms around my legs and face-butts me in the junk. I grunt, pain shooting up my spine and nailing me right in the back of the throat. Bile comes with it, as does the sensation that my balls are going to forever reside below my Adam’s apple.

I drop to the floor in front of her, gritting my teeth. My vision blurs and then clears.

“Miller?” She’s all breathy and confused.

I feel her palm on my cheek. Her piercing scream makes my ears hurt as much as my balls. Then she faints again.

I wipe at the damp spot on my cheek and check my fingers. There’s a faint streak of red, almost dried already. I wet the paper towel and wipe my cheek until it comes clean. Then I wrap a clean paper towel around her bloody finger and wait for her to come around a second time. My balls still really fucking hurt, but they’ll be fine in a couple hours. A face-butt to the groin is nothing like a puck or a stick to the cup.

Her eyes flutter open.

“Hey.”

She glances around, taking in her position on the floor. “Did I faint?”

“Twice.”

“I don’t handle the sight of blood well.”

“I figured that out.”

“Sorry.”

“Aside from the face-butt to the balls, it’s cool.” Chicks don’t understand how much it hurts to get bagged. I’ve heard Vi talk about how chicks give birth, and I’m sure that hurts like a motherpucker, but at least there’s the option for drugs to take away the pain. When a guy gets a shot to the nuts, there’s nothing we can do but put a bag of frozen peas on it and wait for our balls to come back down from our throats.

“The face-butt to what?”

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. I’m going to get you a bandage now, ’kay?”

At her nod, I stand and turn toward the cabinets she pointed to in the first place.

“You’re naked.”

“Yup.” I open the drawer and rummage around, looking for a bandage. I move aside a ball of elastic bands and a million pens and pieces of scrap paper.

“Why?”

I glance over my shoulder. “I’m giving being a nudist a shot. What do you think?”

“Naked looks good on you.”

She gives me a weak smile and sits cross-legged on the floor, showing me her lack of panties under her shorts.

“Not as good as it looks on you.”

I find the bandages at the very back of the drawer, along with some antibiotic cream that’s two months out of date. It’ll do.

Getting back down to her level, I sit on the tile floor. My balls clench up, and my dick shrinks, trying to get away from the cold. Sunny closes her eyes as I unwrap the paper towel and check the cut again. It’s stopped bleeding for the most part, and it’s already clean, so all I need to do is cover it up. I use two bandages instead of one, in case there’s some bleed-through.

I toss the bloody paper towels in the trash and kiss the back of her hand. “All done.”

She peeks up, her expression wary until she sees the bandage.

“How’d you ever manage to make it through a hockey game?”

It’s kind of a joke, but kind of not. Hockey players get roughed up all the time. Everyone who plays professional sports should expect a few stitches along the way, especially with skates in the mix. I’ve had at least five occasions I can think of where I’ve needed stitches, whether from skates, a fast-moving puck, or a stick to a place without much padding. Most of the time, if it isn’t too bad, I get sewn up on the bench and get back in the game.

“I try not to look when people get into fights. I can handle it on TV, but in real life . . .” She shudders and pales.

The oven beeps, and she uses my shoulders to pull herself up. I stand along with her, gripping her at the waist when she falters.

“Why don’t you let me get it?”

“I’m fine. I can do it myself.” She’s almost snippy.