Pucked Up (Pucked 2)

By the time the campfire is over, the pain in my balls has reduced to a slight ache. I’m still straining the front of my shorts, but Michael’s situation puts mine into perspective.

As directed, I check in with Nurse Debbie on my way back to the cabin. She still seems concerned by the swelling, but happy about the lack of pain. In the cabin, a few of the senior counselors are playing cards and drinking contraband beers. Randy is nowhere to be seen.

I check my phone, hoping Sunny’s called. She hasn’t. It’s already eleven. She’s probably out with Patch McBushman and the gang.

The connection is in and out, but I manage to get on Instagram. While I wait for it to load, I stare at the wooden slats of the bunk above me. We decided it’d be best if I didn’t sleep on the top, in case I ended up being too heavy. Nothing says shitty camping experience like being crushed by a bunkmate in the middle of the night. It happened back in high school during one of my summer hockey camps. Carved into the wood are names. Some are tagged with “waz here” and other say “+ so-and-so” but there’s a name instead of so-and-so.

The first girl I ever groped I met at hockey camp the first year I was a junior counselor. My buckteeth—thanks to my thumb-sucking as a kid—were finally en route to being fixed. And by kid I mean ten years old, still trying to break the habit. I started after my mom died, according to my dad. I didn’t do sleepovers with friends because there was a damn good chance I would wake up with my thumb in my mouth. It was fucking embarrassing.

Anyway, this girl was dorky, but she was amazing at hockey, and she had great legs, so I liked her. We were walking from the lake to the mess hall, and she pulled me off the trail, behind some big evergreens. Then she laid one on me, just crushed her mouth against mine and rammed her tongue right in there.

I didn’t know what to do. Well, that’s not true. I’d watched enough movies and checked out the magazines my dad had hidden in his workshop to understand the mechanics, but she took me by surprise. When I recovered from the shock I full-on groped her and kissed her back.

It was close to dark, and the mosquitoes were terrible. I was covered in bites when we came back out five minutes later. It was worth it, since I managed to go right past first base and directly to second. Sadly, I found out later that night that Slutty Shellie—that was her nickname, not created by me—had kissed almost every single junior counselor in the camp. At least I got in the extra boob grope.

I imagine the number of guys she made out with might have been a bit of an exaggeration. Either way, it took some of the shine off the moment.

I think about that Michael kid, and how his future is up in the air. If treatment doesn’t work, he might never have the chance to get past first base. All those experiences, the good and the bad, will only ever be ideas in his head. Sometimes the world sucks.

My phone vibrates with an alert. There are new pictures. Some are posted by Patchy Bushman, but there are also a few from Lily and two new ones from Sunny. They were all added a few minutes ago. In one, Bushman has his arm around Sunny’s shoulder, his hand perilously close to her boob. It’s a selfie. They’re holding up bottles of beer. Bushman is staring right at her while she looks at the camera. In another, posted by Sunny, she’s in the middle of a Lily-and-Bushman sandwich. They’re, hugging her from either side. He’s not groping her, but it doesn’t seem particularly innocent, either.

At first glance she looks happy, but upon closer inspection her eyes are puffy and her cheeks are blotchy. I can’t tell if it’s the quality of the picture or not. Still, they’re smiling, and I’m not there to stop whatever might happen later in the night. And she hasn’t bothered to call me.

My phone rings. It’s not Sunny; it’s Violet.

I don’t have a chance to say a word before she yells, “Why are your disfigured balls all over the Internet?”

I’m going to drown Randy in the lake when I find him.CHAPTER SIXTEEN

ALWAYS WITH THE OVERSHAREI roll off my bunk and limp-run to the porch so I can get some privacy.

I go with the most logical reaction. Denial. “What are you talking about?”

“Your inflated balls are everywhere, clogging up my feeds.”

The next step is deflection. “How would you know it’s my balls, unless you’ve been looking at that naked spread I did a couple of years ago? It’s okay, Vi. You can tell me.” I never did a naked spread. I was asked; my agent thought it best not to go there.