Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

“You should probably see the nurse,” one of the girls at the table says. Her eyes are still below my waist.

“I need an antihistamine. You got a bag of frozen vegetables in the kitchen I can borrow?”

Everyone continues to stare. Randy coughs from beside me.

“Fine. How about a bag of ice instead? That way I won’t have to return it after I put it on my balls.” I glance at the kids in the corner. They’re all gaping, too. “I mean my testicles.”

That gets a few giggles. It’s nice that this is entertaining for someone.

Bathroom Interloper puts in his two cents. “I still think someone should check that out.”

“I offered!” Doppelganger’s hand shoots up in the air. The girl beside her forces her hand back down to her side.

“I’ve checked it out.” I point to my chest. “It’s just a little swollen.”

Randy coughs again.

“Okay. It’s a lot swollen. But I’ve had way worse, so this is no big deal.” The burning in my balls is now accompanied by a horrendous itch. It’s unreal. I have the strangest urge to dip them in ice-cold water. It’s about the last thing any guy usually wants to do, and a sure sign things are way worse than I thought.

“Let’s go find Debra,” Doppelganger suggests. “She’ll take care of you.”

I stop arguing. If I don’t accept medical attention, I’ll be setting a bad example. Plus, no one’s balls should ever be this big. My growing entourage makes their way through the mess hall to the area where the medical center is. It’s like a mini-triage unit crossed with a physiotherapy center. I’m familiar with a lot of the equipment. When we get there and no one moves to leave, I clap my hands together. “Okay, everyone. Thanks for getting me here. I appreciate all your help, but I don’t think I need a cheering squad for the rest of this.”

“Um . . .” Doppelganger raises her hand like we’re in class and I’m the teacher. “Can I get a quick picture with you?”

“Group photo!” Randy says, a stupid, jerky grin on his face. “Everyone in!”

He mashes everyone together, Bathroom Interloper and Doppelganger on either side of me. My smile is more grimace than anything else. I’d flip the bird, but this will undoubtedly make it to the Internet. I hope he doesn’t get my actual package in the picture.

Finally, once the photo shoot is over, they all leave.

In the far corner of the clinic, a kid is hooked up to a bunch of machines, an IV bag running to his arm. As soon as he sees me, he ducks his head like he’s embarrassed to be here, or he witnessed that display of idiocy.

I recognize him from earlier in the week. He hasn’t signed up for any of the competitive hockey business, but he’s been to every lesson. He’s an amazing player, but he’s quiet, always leaving as soon as the lesson is over before I can talk to him. He’s missed the campfire a couple of times.

“Hey, man. I’m Miller. I’ve seen you playing this week. How’s it going?”

He lifts his head, his eyes widening in surprise. “Uh, I’m Michael.” He looks at the IV drip. “I guess it’s okay.”

“You getting gassed up so you can play with me tomorrow?” I nod to all the shit he’s hooked up to.

He smiles, but it’s sad and old, way older than it should be for a kid. “Something like that.”

Nurse Debbie appears in her white running shoes and scrubs. I’d like to say she’s in her mid-fifties and looks like my aunt. She doesn’t. She’s more Debbie Does Dallas than Nurse Ratched. She’s probably in her early to mid-thirties—I’ve slept with older—with dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She’s soft around the edges, but it works for her. She’s too attractive to be a nurse. I’m not sure how I feel about her having to look at my junk. But the itch has become as pervasive as the burning sensation. I’m getting close to not caring that there are people around to witness me scratching my berries.

She does that thing women do when they see something they like. She pats her hair and smooths a hand down the front of her scrub top. It’s an unconscious reaction. She clears her throat and props her clipboard on her hip, flipping into professional mode. “How can I help you?”

“I got bit by a spider, and it’s swelling.” I want to shove my hands in my pockets, but there’s no room.

“Why don’t you have a seat so I can take a look?”

“Uh . . .” I incline my head in the direction of my young friend. “We’re gonna need privacy for this.”

Nurse Debbie’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline. She does that strobe-light blink thing. “Privacy?”

“It’s not in a PG spot.”