Pucked Over (Pucked 3)

I make some mindless chitchat for a few minutes to appear social even though I’m not in the morning, especially with the smell of old sex in the air and Tim-Tom giving my mom the goo-goo fuck eyes.

“Do you think you’ll need the car next Friday night?” I ask, swishing the teabag around in my mug.

“I work next Saturday morning at seven.”

“What if I could have it back by then?” I’m working on being super nonchalant.

“Don’t you have some skating thing on Friday night? Aren’t your girls performing?” She glances at the calendar. It’s marked with a huge red square, as is Saturday, since that’s the day of the performance.

“Yeah, but Sunny invited me to Toronto, and I thought maybe I could go after.”

“What’s in Toronto?”

“Isn’t Chicago playing Toronto? That game’s gonna be fantastic,” Tim-Tom pipes up.

I hate him.

“Is this so you can see that boy? The one with the tattoos?”

“I already told you, he’s a friend of Alex’s, and he was dropping me off.”

She sets down her mug. “He kissed you!”

“On the cheek!”

“In front of me. I bet if I hadn’t been there his tongue would have been down your throat.”

“He’s a hockey player, not a tacky, classless asshole.”

“I’m sure that’s what he wants you to believe.”

I put my hands up to stop her. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

I’m not in the mood for another lecture on how dirty professional hockey players are. I’ve already had more than one since the Randy introduction. My mother’s assumption is that he only wants one thing, and once he gets it he’ll toss me aside like a half-eaten taco. She didn’t use that exact analogy, I don’t think, but I stop listening almost as soon as she starts in on me.

She’s not exactly wrong. But the point is, I also only want one thing from Randy, and that’s his awesome dick inside me. But I can’t tell her that. She thinks I need a break after Benji. He’s still calling, and that worries her. He’s sent a few texts and left a couple of voice mails, but they were predictably him: the words were sweet, and the tone was not.

Looks like I’m out of options where seeing Randy is concerned. I’m sure he’ll get bored of chasing me soon and end up banging a puck bunny. Not that he isn’t already doing that. I just haven’t borne witness to it through social media—yet. It’s bound to happen. I can’t be the only person he’s screwing, seeing as there’s so much time between screw sessions. And that’s part of casual fun, right? I could screw someone else, too.

I don’t want that to bother me. But it does. A lot. Maybe if Benji hadn’t been such a horrible boyfriend, I wouldn’t be at risk of getting attached to the first guy who’s remotely nice to me.Chapter 18Unmade BedsRANDYWe’re in Toronto, we won the game, and I should be naked in my hotel room with Lily underneath me. Or on top of me. I checked in twice more to see if anything had changed, but she couldn’t find a way to make it work. Today I got a picture of her in her skating getup. I don’t know why, but those little skirts make me so fucking hard.

So instead of being balls deep inside that sweet, hot pussy, I’m sitting at a table in the bar with Lance. He’s past the moping phase now, or at least he’s acting like he’s past it. He’s taking bunnies home or back to hotel rooms again. And because they know that, a couple of them have found their way to our table. Lance bought them drinks, which means I feel obligated to stay and chat.

Maybe I should have gone to Guelph tonight. I could’ve cabbed it, called her, booked a hotel room for a few hours, then cabbed it back in time for my flight out in the morning. But I didn’t. So I’m here listening to these girls talk and talk about how much they love hockey.

The one sitting beside me is wearing a low-cut top and lots of eye makeup. I think her eyelashes might be fake, or they’re just insanely long. She keeps moving her chair closer until she’s almost in my lap, then she puts her hand on my arm.

“Wow! Your art is amazing! Where do you get it done?”

“I go to this place in downtown Chicago.” I’m used to handsy chicks. Normally it doesn’t bother me, but I’m in a bad mood. I wanted Lily this weekend, and I don’t get to have her. I’m bratty.

“Really? I have friends in Chicago! I’ve been thinking about getting some new art, and I’m looking for someone good. What’s the place called?”

“Inked Armor. They’re booked out, like, six months to a year in advance, and they don’t do walk-ins. I see this guy Hayden. He’s a master artist. Moody as fuck, but all his work is amazing.”