Pucked (Pucked 1)

“Hi, you’ve reached Violet, the dumbass hockey hooker. I’m too pissed off and humiliated to answer my phone, but you can leave a message. Unless you’re Alex “Asshole” Waters. In that case, you can fuck the hell off. Have a nice day.”

I sit there for a few long seconds after the phone beeps, just breathing, until I realize I should either speak or hang up. I choose the second option because it’s clear Violet doesn’t want to hear from me. I follow up with a call to Dick and fire him. He tells me I’ll regret the decision. I tell him to fuck himself in the ass with a hockey puck and hang up.

I try Violet’s number again. It goes straight to voice mail. I’ve ruined everything.The meeting the following morning with Coach and Butterson is brutal. We manage to work out a feasible story which makes me look like a complete asshole. Like the broken nose, I deserve it.

The next few days are plain old shitty. X-rays prove my nose is definitely broken. Again. It’s swollen and it hurts like a bitch. The black eyes are a sucky reminder of how badly I messed up.

Beyond that, I receive endless calls from TV journalists wanting interviews. It’s a pain in the ass. I’m not used to dealing with this stuff on my own. I make a bunch of phone calls and find a new agent who’s willing to take me on despite the shitstorm I’ve created recently.

If that isn’t bad enough, Violet’s phone has been disconnected, which tells me she changed her number. I have no way to contact her aside from email, which isn’t the way I want to go about explaining what happened.

Beyond that, practices are rough. Coach is right; if Butterson and I can’t deal with our shit, we’re going to destroy our chances of making it to the finals. I don’t want to be the reason for that. He pulls Butterson and me aside and tells us we’re to keep our personal issues off the ice or he’ll encourage the general manager to trade both of us. I think he means it.

Butterson watches Coach walk away. “For the sake of our team, I’m going to let this go on the ice, but don’t think for a second I’ve forgiven you for what you’ve done to Violet.”

“I get that. I’d really like to apologize to her—”

He points a finger at me. “Stay the fuck away from her. Violet’s broken up enough as it is. She doesn’t need you making this worse by throwing out some bullshit apology.”

I push his hand away. “It’s not bullshit. I care about her.”

“Yeah? Well if that’s the way you treat people you care about, I’d hate to see how you are with the ones you don’t even like. How you got to be captain of this team is beyond me. You’re a selfish fucking bastard.” He turns away and skates back onto the ice. He’s not wrong, which makes me feel a million times worse.

Despite Butterson’s violent warning, I try to contact Violet. I call her parents, hoping if I get to Skye, I can persuade her to put Violet on the phone.

“Hall-Butterson residence.”

“Hi, Skye.”

“Alex.” Based on her icy tone, she’s not happy with me. “You screwed up big time.”

I heave a sigh. “I really did.”

“Violet doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I know. Buck’s made it pretty clear and so has Violet.” I kick at the leg of my bed, noticing something red peeking out from the bottom. Picking it up, I find a pair of Violet’s panties. The red ones with my name on the ass. I sit down on the edge of the mattress and resist the urge to sniff them.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you out of this one,” she says after a long pause.

I heave a despondent sigh. I expected this. She’s Violet’s mother, after all. It's her duty to protect her daughter. I’m lucky she isn’t ripping me a new asshole. “I figured as much.”

“Honestly, Alex. You’re such a fighter on the ice. Why can’t you be the same way off it? Stop being an idiot and make a move. You haven’t even sent her flowers, and you always send her flowers, whether you’ve messed up or not. How do you think that looks?”

This is what I need; more people to tell me how badly I’ve screwed this up and what to do to fix it. “You think I should send her flowers?”

“No, Alex. I don’t think you should send her flowers.” She uses the tone reserved for mothers who want to make you feel like a complete dumbass.

“But then what—”

“You’re a smart boy—” She stops herself. “Some of the time. I’m sure you’ll figure it out—otherwise you don’t deserve to be with my daughter.” A dial tone follows. Violet’s mom has hung up on me.