Forever Pucked (Pucked 4)

Her ability to keep it together makes me worry about exactly how fail I’ll probably be as a wife. I can’t cook—at least not good food. Sure, I can manage Kraft mac ‘n’ cheese or putting a pizza in the oven, but other than opening a can or heating something from the freezer, I’m fairly unskilled.

I couldn’t even hack Christmas dinner, and that’s just turkey and potatoes and some veggies. Or at least that’s what I thought. Turns out it’s a huge production. Daisy was here to help me manage that. In actuality, she usurped my kitchen, and I was mostly a bystander, taking orders.

I don’t even have to clean this house. Not that I’d want to clean four thousand square feet of living space, but I can leave my underwear in a pile in the middle of our bedroom, and they’ll disappear once a week and reappear, clean, in my drawer every Friday.

But I can give a mean blow job. And I have a great rack. So there’s that.

I can’t decide whether I feel grateful or useless. I decide it’s probably a combination of the two. Stupid tears fall as I take the Niagara Riesling out of the fridge and retrieve two glasses. I choke back an annoying sob.

Daisy sets down her chopping knife. “Violet? Are you okay?”

I wave the bottle and the glasses around in the air and nearly hit myself in the face. “I’m fine.” It comes out all high-pitched and unconvincing.

She takes the bottle and the glasses, likely so I don’t maim one of us with them, and places them gently on the counter. Then she pulls me into a hug. I turn my head in time to avoid her helmet of hair and rest my cheek on her shoulder pad.

She pats my back while I cry. I’m such a mess. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I sniffle.

“It’s been a difficult few days.”

I nod into her shoulder. It makes a crinkly sound. It feels like it’s filled with foam.

“He’s going to be okay now, though. He’s a strong man. He’ll get through this. And you’ll be here to help him.”

“It’s going to be so hard for him.” I pull back and wipe my nose on my sleeve, leaving behind a disgusting snail trail. “Not playing for the rest of the season? I don’t know how he’s going to deal with it. Hockey is his world.”

“Alex has always been an intense person.” She smooths her hands over my hair. “When he’s passionate about something, he puts all of his energy into it—and that’s not limited to his career. He’s a very driven man, and sometimes he has difficulty with moderation. When he’s in, he’s all in; he’ll bury himself in something so he can be the best. It’s what he’s been doing for the past six years with hockey, and before that he was just as involved in school and figure skating.”

“I can see that.”

“And now that’s how he is with you as well.” Her voice is soft, and so is her expression.

“He loves hard.” And for once I don’t mean it in a pervy way.

“He does everything hard.” I’m almost certain Daisy doesn’t mean that in a pervy way either.

I also don’t think Alex will be doing anything hard right now. I’m not even sure he can get hard. Well, okay, he can get hard. I saw him sporting a semi a few times in the hospital, but I don’t know that he has the energy to do anything with it.

“Sitting around isn’t going to be easy for him. He gets pent-up a lot.”

Daisy seems to miss my accidental inappropriate reference.

“He’ll find a way to manage himself, I’m sure,” she says.

I doubt he’ll achieve that by whacking off constantly, but that’s where my mind goes, maybe because I haven’t had an orgasm in days, and now that we’re home I can. Not now, but later. When everyone else is sleeping, I can get out Buddy and give myself a little beaver bang. I stifle a laugh through the sniffles, so it sounds snort-cryish.

“I can stay as long as you need me, of course.”

“Thanks, Daisy. I know how much Alex loves your cooking.”

“I could teach you how to make some of Alex’s favorites while I’m here, if you want,” she offers.

“You’d do that?”

Her electric pink lips spread until her dimples appear. “Of course! He loves breakfast for dinner, so I thought we could make omelets tonight.”

So that’s what we do. When dinner’s almost ready, I go upstairs and wake Alex. It takes some coaxing to get him out of bed. He’s sore and grumpy, but when I tell him what we’re having for dinner, he gets up. Getting down the stairs is slow.

Daisy serves him like he’s the king of the world, and he shovels in food, groaning his pleasure. The sound is reminiscent of his orgasm moan. Or maybe I’m horny.