“I’m in love with Violet.”My heart is all sorts of gushy over his public declaration. I almost want to forgive him. Almost. Just because he’s said he loves me doesn’t mean it’s true. While the article definitely makes a statement, it could easily be another publicity stunt meant to help redeem him in the eyes of his fans. I don’t want him to have advance warning that I’m going to be at the game. It’s only fair since I had no warning when he threw our relationship under the bus and ran it over.

I call Charlene and freak out. She already seems to know what’s going on, so there’s no explanation necessary.

“Should I call him before the game tomorrow? I don’t think I should call him. He doesn’t deserve a call.”

“Do you want to call him?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“This is probably an in-person conversation,” Charlene says.

“Right. Okay. Can you come over? I think my head’s going to explode.”

Charlene spends the rest of the day with me. I make a list of pros and cons, which ends up being a list of all the things I miss about Alex. Surprisingly, his MC doesn’t even make the top five. Afterward, I make Charlene watch the interview with me four thousand times. I should probably do yoga, or meditate, or take art therapy, so I can stop being an idiot.

Lying in bed later, my mind continues to spin for several hours before I finally pass out. I have the weirdest dreams ever. Alex’s monster cock is a superhero. He saves me from a giant boob ball that's rolling through the streets and crushing people. Super Penis has googly eyes, and he talks out of the come hole. His balls are his feet, and he wears a red cape with MC emblazoned on it. Oh, and he has a little mustache and a French accent. Like I said, it’s a bizarre dream.The next day, I do something I usually try to avoid: I go to the spa with Charlene and my mom. We all get mani-pedis while drinking mimosas. Then we get our hair done and buy new outfits.

My stomach is in knots when we arrive at the arena. I’m so anxious, and Charlene’s reassurance is the only thing capable of keeping me from bolting. We have the same awesome seats as we did the first time I saw Alex play. Other than looking at him through my peephole, it’s been a month since I’ve seen him in person.

“Oh. Here.” My mom reaches into a huge bag at her feet and pulls out three black, puck-shaped pillows. She hands one to Charlene and one to me.

“What is this?”

“It’s called a butt puck.”

“I’m sorry, what?” That’s way too close to other things I don’t want near my butt.

“It’ll keep you from freezing your ass off on these chairs and”—she turns the puck over—“it’s a cheerleading pillow!”

On the front of the pillow puck are the words “GO Butterson!” Charlene’s says “GO Westinghouse!” And mine says “GO Waters!” Upon closer inspection, I find a hand-shaped pocket on the back of the puck pillow, so I'm able to wave my butt puck in the air with little effort.

I sit on the pillow, still snickering at the pervy name. Talk ceases as the Hawks take the ice. Charlene grips my arm, and my mother whistles with her fingers. Raging anxiety renders me silent and immobile, both of which are highly uncommon.

When Alex skates out onto the ice, I inhale a sharp breath as my chest constricts. For a second, I think I’m having a heart attack, but I realize it’s just that I’m in love with this man. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and I’m still conflicted about the article and the interview. He’s so close, the plexiglass barrier the only thing dividing us.

Even faux-unkempt, he’s hot. His beard is neatly groomed, unlike some of the other guys who look like they crawled out of the alleyway and decided to play professional hockey.

“Oh God. Darren is sex on skates. I can’t wait until after the game. It doesn’t even matter if they win or lose!” Charlene yells over the cheering crowd.

“How can you say that? Of course it matters.”

“Think about it, if they win, I have hot victory sex. If they lose I get to have sexy make-Darren-feel-better sex.”

I nod slowly, absorbing the information. She’s totally right. It doesn’t matter if they win or lose, she wins by sex default. I’m envious of her certainty regarding either victory or solace sex. I wish I knew what tonight will bring and whether or not I’ll ever be reunited with the monster cock. My beaver doesn’t seem to realize a reunion isn’t imminent, considering the way she’s lubing up in preparation for what might never happen again. I hope I can get my shit together enough to have a real conversation with Alex. One thing at a time; the game is first.

Tags: Helena Hunting Pucked Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net