Pucked (Pucked 1)

“You’re bailing on me to work late on a Friday?”

“My mom’s making me go to Buck’s game tomorrow in Atlanta. Apparently, we need to band together as a family to support his inability to keep his dick in his pants.”

Charlene makes a sympathetic face. “He really messed up this time, didn’t he?”

“Don’t get me started. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, we’re flying out early in the morning, so I need to be prepared for Monday before I leave for the weekend.”

“Can’t you work on it while you’re there?”

“My mom wants to go shopping, so I’m not sure how much free time I’ll have. Plus, I have a hundred pages to finish for book club on Tuesday.”

Charlene rolls her eyes. “Friggin’ Lydia. I say we blackball her out of the club.”

“You can’t blackball people out of a book club.”

“Says who? I was happy reading mindless smut. I’m buying the CliffsNotes.”

It’s not a half-bad idea. Although being the competitive person I am, I would hate to go into the book club discussion with only a vague understanding of the crappy book Lydia’s making us read. I’ll suffer through it if I can come up with an intelligent argument why it’s so terrible.

“I’ll probably bring the book to the game in case I can get in some reading time.”

“Oh, come on, Vi. The Hawks are having a killer season. I bet the game will be awesome.”

“Uh-huh.” I’m sure she’s not wrong. However, I don’t have the same warm fuzzies toward the game or the players as Charlene.

She’s been a die-hard Hawks fan her entire life. She watches every game and even participates in those pools where you create your own team. Like Fantasy Football, except with hockey.

“Anyway.” Charlene flaps her hand around. “That’s not the point. The point is you’ll be hobnobbing with the players afterward, right? Which means you’ll meet Darren Westinghouse.”

“Who?”

Charlene curls her lip and gives me a snooty look. “He plays right wing for the Hawks.” She starts listing his stats; it sounds something like blah, blah, blah. I tune most of it out until she asks, “Will you take a picture of him if you get the chance?”

“First of all, Char, hockey players don’t ‘hobnob,’ they hang out. Second, I plan to skip the after-party crap. I’ll have to catch up on work.” I pat the file folders on my desk.

“What a load of BS!” She looks around to make sure no one is paying attention. Jimmy, whose cubicle is across from mine, raises an eyebrow and points to the phone at his ear, so Charlene lowers her voice. “Come on, Violet, you have to go. For me, please? Just long enough to snap a pic. Then you can go be boring in your hotel room by yourself.”

“I’d send you in my place if I could.”

I have no problem watching hockey, even though the rules evade me for the most part. Some of those boys are hot, but the appeal ends there. Buck is a perfect example, as is the one—and only—hockey player I ever dated. He wasn’t even an NHLer, just some douche in the minors I went out with last year looking for a leg up. Unfortunately, I turned out to be the owner of said leg. Not only was he awful in bed—just because those boys are built doesn’t mean they’ve got the equipment to match—he also humiliated me in a way I’m not likely to forget anytime soon.

“Come on, Vi. You can enjoy the man candy, if nothing else.”

“Yeah, because skanky guys are such a turn on.”

“Darren’s not a skank.”

I appease her rather than argue. “I’ll see about the photobomb. No guarantees.” Mostly the after-parties are a food free-for-all for the players, complemented by hordes of bunnies looking to be dessert.

She squeals and claps her hands. “You’re the best!”

I hold up my hands. “No promises, but I’ll try.”

Charlene convinces me to break for lunch, and we gorge at the all-you-can-eat Thai buffet nearby. Fortunately, the amount of food I consume doesn’t slow my roll in the afternoon.

By nine in the evening I can no longer focus on the computer screen. My stomach is growling so loudly I keep checking to make sure a bear hasn’t wandered into the office.

Drive-thru fast food is my poison of choice. I scarf down three tiny burgers and a large fries while I drive home. I reluctantly skip the milkshake because indigestion and flying don’t mesh well.

My mother has left a sticky note on my door to remind me we’re leaving for the airport at ass o’clock in morning—those are my words, not hers. The logical thing to do would be to pack my stuff and go to bed so I’m not exhausted in the morning. Instead, I change into a T-shirt and my favorite pair of Marvel Comic-inspired boxer briefs—they fit so nicely—and channel surf. I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know, my mom is standing over me.