Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

“You’re not your dad,” Miller argues.

“I’m exactly like him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Uh, dude, I grew up with you. I know what your dad’s like, and while you might look like him and you might play hockey like he did—except better—that’s where the similarities end. You’ve spent your entire life trying not to be like him. You’d never do to another person what he did to your mom. You’re a better person than he is.”

“I almost screwed another girl the last time I was in Toronto. The only reason I didn’t was because Lily showed up.”

“You wouldn’t have fucked her,” Lance says quietly.

“You don’t know that. If you hadn’t said something, I wouldn’t have checked my messages, and I would’ve taken that chick up to my room.”

“Doesn’t mean you would’ve fucked her. I wouldn’t have let that happen,” Lance replies.

“I don’t see how you would’ve been able to stop me. And that’s the point, isn’t it? I don’t have the ability to be with one person.”

“You’ve never even tried to know,” Miller fires back. “You always cut out when it starts getting real—except you didn’t do that with Lily.”

“Look how well that’s worked out! And when she told me how she felt, I told her I’d fuck her over. Why the hell would she want anything to do with me after I said something like that?”

Lance is shaking his head now, but still looking at the floor.

Miller runs his palms over his thighs. “Look how much I screwed up with Sunny at the beginning, when I was still going to parties and there were all those pictures and shit. We had fights, and we talked it out. We got over it and made it work. You can’t know what the deal is with Lily unless you see her and talk. And if she’s not on the same page anymore, well, at least you tried rather than sitting here on your couch, making everyone around you deal with your fucking misery.”

He’s not wrong. And that sucks.

“We’ve all seen you with Lily,” Lance chimes in, the hint of Scot gets thicker as he continues. “There are feelings there. On both sides. Don’t let someone else’s bad choices be the reason you give up something that could be good.”

“He’s got a point,” Miller says.

I can’t believe I’m about to take relationship advice from Lance.Chapter 26Pining: Not Just for TreesLILYI’m not a piner. I don’t sit around and wallow. Well, I never used to sit around and wallow. But that’s what I’ve been doing between packing and training a new coach. She’s fantastic, and she’ll do an amazing job. But leaving my girls is hard. I’ve worked with some of them for a long time, watched them become beautiful skaters. The change should be good, though. Will be good. When I stop pining.

I keep having moments of sheer panic in which I envision myself driving over to Randy’s, knocking on his door, and begging him to hold me/fuck me/love me. The middle scenario isn’t the most prevalent. Shocking, I know.

I keep going over my decision to move and reminding myself I’m actually doing it for the right reasons now. The whole point of ending things with Randy was so I’d have some perspective, and to ensure I didn’t make a huge life choice based on wanting something I can’t have. I still want it, but at least I’m not pretending and holding on to something that wasn’t even real any more.

In the end I can’t say I’m moving for all the right reasons, but I do know I never want to get back together with Benji, and living in a big city will definitely be an experience. Besides, my mom’s moving in with Tim-Tom, so I’d have to find a new place to live, one way or another.

I lay my suitcase on my bed and flip it open. It’s new. I bought it two days ago on a shopping expedition with my mom. She’s okay with the move. She’s not even getting on my case about the whole Randy situation—although that may be due in part to my epic fits of snot-sobbing since the end of having fun.

Things I’ve learned about myself in the past six months: I’m not cut out for casual sex. My sometimes bitchy exterior is my Lego armor against how sensitive I am. If I’d been this insightful prior to falling for Randy, I might have come out of this with a little less angst. Or maybe not. There were a lot of mixed signals, I’m coming to realize. He was the one who insisted it be “fun,” but that week with him in Chicago… I can’t help feeling it wasn’t just me. Regardless, it’s over, and I’m sad about that.

I neatly pack my suitcase, starting with my socks. I discover I have a lot of socks, and half of them are missing their partners. It seems rather karmic, considering. Fucking karma. Such a bitch sometimes.