Pucked (Pucked 1)

I’m folding my third load of clothing, eating my second turkey and cheese sandwich, and watching hockey highlights when my mom drops down beside me. She’s holding a magazine in one hand and a martini in the other. She smacks the entertainment magazine on the table with a dramatic flourish. Alex’s scruffy, lumbersexual face is plastered on the cover. His face is everywhere these days.

“You’re coming to the game tomorrow night,” she says with finality. My mom never uses that tone, so she must mean business.

“What game?” I maintain a neutral expression. I think.

My mom knows I know what she’s talking about. The Hawks have made it to the Stanley Cup finals. I’ve watched every game up to this point, often while hugging the Waters beaver. Tomorrow the Hawks are playing what could be the title game.

“This is the first time Buck has ever been in the finals.”

“But—”

“No buts, Violet. You’re coming with us. So is Charlene.” She gives me her angry mom stare. It’d be funny if the turkey sandwiches in my stomach weren’t thinking about staging a revolt.

“Fine.” I’ve dodged every home playoff game at this point. I can’t avoid Alex forever and I should be there to support Buck. This could be the silver lining on his hockey career. I gesture to the magazine. “What’s this?”

“There’s an article in there you should read. I think you’ll find it very entertaining and informative.”

I give her a look as she flounces out of the room. She thinks if she leaves it here after saying something like that, she’ll entice me into reading it. It’s difficult not to give in, but I manage not to look.

When I get back to my apartment, I find a gigantic box of maple sugar candies in front of my door. Alex has been by again. My stomach rumbles in anxious anticipation.

Ms. Bullock must have been waiting for me to get home because she pokes her head out the door, cigarette dangling from her lips like a semi-flaccid, burning penis. Holding it between two gnarly fingers, she hides it behind her back so it’s in her apartment rather than the hall. “Your friend stopped by again.”

“I see that. When was he here?”

“He left a few minutes ago. Stayed for a good three hours, he did. The only reason he left was because he got a phone call and it sounded important. He brought me a little present, too.”

Three hours is a damn long time to wait around. His perseverance makes more than my heart hurt. She disappears from the door and returns a minute later with her own little box of maple candies. Goddamn Alex for being a smooth bastard.

“Did he say anything?”

“Oh yes. He had lots to say about you. Lots of questions, too. That boy has it bad for you.”

“I don’t know about that.” I pick up the box of maple candies. Underneath is the same magazine my mother tried to entice me to read as well as a USB stick and note.Violet,

I know you’re hurt and angry, but please watch the interview on the USB.

It airs tonight at eight. I miss you.

Love,

~AlexIt says “love.” In all the notes and emails Alex has sent, not once has he used the word. If he’s looking to get my attention, it’s worked. I toss the magazine in the recycle box without looking at it, but I can’t find it in me to dispose of the USB stick. After five minutes, I crack under the pressure, insert the USB stick into the port on my flat screen, and pull up the movie file. My stomach feels as though a dying fish is flopping around inside as I wait for the video to cue up.

Alex’s face greets me as an interview with a popular entertainment news show pops onto the screen. He’s dressed in a button-down and casual pants, and he’s still sporting the beard. Alex looks uncomfortable and uncertain as he answers the invasive questions. I hang off every word and nearly fall off my couch when he says:“I’m in love with Violet.”I pause and replay it several times, processing the words. He’s talking about me. On a show watched by millions. This is one heck of a way to get my attention. I would’ve preferred to hear those words face-to-face, but then, I haven’t given him the opportunity to say them to me with all my avoidance techniques. After I get past the initial shock, I listen to the rest of the interview.

When I’m done, I’m certain of two things. One: Alex is in love with me. Two: Nervous Alex is adorable, and his former agent is an asshole. Okay, that’s technically three things I’m certain of. Whatever. The point is there.

I nab the magazine from the top of the recycling and flip to the earmarked page. There it is in print: