Pucked (Pucked 1)

He stops in front of my building. I’m a few minutes early, thanks to his speedy, albeit safe, driving. Alex puts the car in park and turns to me, his arm slung across my seat. “I had a great time last night, and this morning.”

“Me, too.”

“Can I call you later? After I get to the hotel?”

“If you want.”

“Definitely. I can’t wait to get back so I can take you out again.”

“And I’ll get to drive your car?” I’m trying to be nonchalant, but there’s this unsettling feeling in my stomach. I don’t think it’s because of the egg white omelet, either. I really like him. More than I want to.

“We’ll discuss the car later. I still think you cheated.”

Alex goes in for a kiss. He cops a feel while he’s at it, so I give the monster cock a squeeze and a pet. It’s going to be a long fourteen days.

Charlene is waiting for me in my cubicle.

She has cinnamon rolls. They’re meant as bribery. She wants details. Extensive ones. I pick the biggest cinnamon roll with the most icing and take a huge bite.

“So? How was your date?”

With a mouth full of cinnamon roll, I reply, “Fine. He took me out for dinner. It was nice.”

“Nice?”

“The food was excellent.”

“Violet, I don’t give a shit about the food. I’m guessing it was way better than nice since you’re wearing the same clothes from last night.”

“What? How would you—”

“You’d never wear heels like that to work.”

I sigh with relief.

“And then there are these.” She holds out her phone.

I’m greeted by pictures of Alex and me at the restaurant on some Internet gossip site. They’re innocent, unlike the mouth fucking ones from our previous encounter.

My phone buzzes, distracting me from my internal freak-out. It’s Alex.Oh, God. His shirt smelled like sex after I was done with it. How am I supposed to function for the next two weeks without his monster cock?

Sign me up for Alex Waters Anonymous. I officially have a problem.VIOLETOver the next week, Alex sends me cute texts interspersed with dirty ones. Time zone differences make it difficult to talk on the phone. Our schedules don’t mesh; between flights and being on the road, our conversations are not private and therefore brief.

Buck hasn’t sent any angry yeti messages about my date with Alex, so I assume he’s either unaware or he doesn’t care. My mother’s a different story. She attempts to glean as much information as she can about the date-turned-sleepover. She even asks if the rumors are true. I refuse to answer because those aren’t details I’m going to share with my mother. However, my inability to sit without wincing for the first couple of days afterward is fairly telling.

Despite the lack of opportunity to talk, Alex sends me flowers and treats incessantly. The flower dude has shown up twice in the first week with new bouquets. Between deliveries, the FedEx guy drops off packages. Most of the time, I get them before my mom intercepts. Sometimes I'm not so lucky. Despite the flowers and Alex’s attentiveness, anxiety has managed to creep in and set up shop. Sexing it up with him, while fun, may not have been the smartest idea now that he’s going to be gone for an extended period of time.

The lag time between our last date and the next is too far apart. Flowers, texts, and emails aside, all it takes is one too many post-win beers and a slutty puck bunny to ruin it all.Charlene and I go out for an after work bevvy at the end of week one without Alex. The wall of televisions by the bar shows the hockey game. Chicago isn’t playing, so I’m not as invested in watching. Last night was a different story. Chicago took down Los Angeles in a stunning show of skill and mastery.

The only message I’ve received from Alex since then is a nonsensical drunken text. As a result, I’ve been on edge all day. A tabloid magazine and a well-read newspaper taunt me from the empty table beside us.

I used to be one of those people who stood in line at the grocery store and made fun of all the people who spent their hard-earned money on those garbage rags. Now I’m the person who feverishly flips through, checking to see if Alex’s pretty face is anywhere inside. He’s absent from the pages more often than not, but the fan websites are full of his pictures. I’ve also been actively avoiding searching my bookmarked websites today for fear of what I might find.

Charlene’s phone dings for the eleventy-billionth time since we sat down. She recently set up a profile on an online dating site. She narrowed the field by limiting it to hockey fanatics. Her phone has been chiming all day; lots of guys are into hockey, most of whom wouldn’t be considered viable dating material.