Puck Buddies (14 page)

She massages my balls, slipping her
fingers close to my asshole.

It’s too much. I grab her head, fuck her
face as hard as I can, and come down her throat.

It’s the best orgasm I’ve ever had.

She pulls back, wipes her mouth, stands
up and leaves, sashaying her sweet ass out of the shower.

I grab the soap, massaging my still rock-hard
cock with it, praying I’m dreaming and that I didn’t just have the greatest
orgasm ever with a PF.

The dirtiness washes away in the water as
I justify every second of it and rinse off once more.

When I’m done in the shower I wince as I towel
dry and pull on my clothes. Every bit of me, dick included, is sensitive.

“Lucky we don't need coats, eh?” Laramie strolls
over and bends down to get his shoes on. He has a funny look in his eyes.

“Yeah, New York is gonna be brutal to go
home to. But it might help to ice my face in the snowbanks though.”

He laughs and grabs his bag of gear. “So,
we
still drinking
after this?”

I lug my huge bag over my bruised
shoulder and nod. “Yeah. McNulty is coming too. I texted him to meet us at the
hotel bar.”

“And here I thought you had a thing for
Sami Ford.”

“What?” I say it too loud and too fast.

“You and Tandy. I just assumed you had a thing
with Sami.” Laramie’s shit-eating grin grows.

“It’s not a thing, not really. We sort
of—it’s nothing.” I hate the dirty feeling in my stomach that he knows
about Tandy.

“She’s a hot little number, eh?” Laramie
laughs.

“What?” My blood boils.

“Calm down, champ, I meant Tandy. She
deep throats like a porn star. She’s my favorite.” He nudges me and laughs
harder.

And there it is.
The
absolute grossest part of hockey.
Pass around girls. “Yeah.” They’re
like the groupies of hockey, the girls who just want to fuck. She doesn’t even
want to have a conversation with me. She just wants to fuck and leave, like I’m
a piece of meat. Fifteen-year-old me thought it was amazing.
Now,
not so much.
I should have known Tandy was in the locker room for a
reason. I never even thought about it.

“So you and Sami are sort of on or what?”

“I don’t know.
Sort of.
We’re hanging out over Christmas, rich orphans do that.” I try desperately to change
the subject. Discussing a girl deep throating us both makes me want to relive
the shower scene from
Ace Ventura
with “The Crying Game” playing and all.

“She’s not going to like this new look
you got going on. What day do you see her?”

“Two days.” I sigh.

“Oh shit.” He laughs and holds the door
for me. “That's not long enough to heal, bro. Your tux will match your eyes.
They’re swelling hard.”

“Yeah, she won’t like seeing this. She’s
not a sporty girl.” Thank God. I’ll never have to worry about other hockey
players nudging me and laughing about how tight that ass is. “I think that's one
of the things I like most about her.”

“And there it is, sports fans. He admits
it!”

“Was I that obvious?”

“Yeah, dude. You stare at her way too
much. And last time we got drunk you bitched about her nonstop. Even Henrik noticed.”
Laramie nudges me. “Sami Ford. If you weren’t a Brimley I’d tell you to be
careful with that one.”

“Rich girls only scare you ‘cause you’re
Canadian. You’re used to girls who fish and hunt and drive their own dogsled
teams.”

“I’m from Kamloops, bro. The girls from
the Okanagan are well known for tans and plastic surgery.
Especially
in Kelowna.
It’s like little California.”

“Sounds like a nice little inlet on the Arctic
Circle.”

“It’s the desert, moron. It’s hot as
balls there. Summer is like eight months long and we barely see snow.” He stops
walking. “You know most of Canada isn’t arctic, right?” He’s completely
serious.

“No. Every time we play in Canada I
almost die. Vancouver is the only place that’s not cold, and it’s always
raining there. The weather in Canada is shit.”

“I won’t argue that point, but not all of
Canada. The Okanagan is actually quite nice. And Vancouver Island is nice in
the summer. It doesn't always rain in Vancouver.”

“You called it Raincouver last time we
were there.”

“I’m allowed to call it that.” Laramie sighs
and heads for the SUV waiting for us.

“So you think the Sami Ford thing is a
bad idea?” I can’t believe he said that. He doesn’t even know her. But Laramie
is a smart guy, so I’m intrigued.

“Yes. I do. I’m sorry. She comes across
as a rich, snobby, fake, plastic toy. All the girls I know like that are
fake
. Even in their souls. They smile for the cameras and go
to the right parties with all the right people. Everyone cares who she dates
and who she screws. You’ll be stalked nonstop by the paparazzi.”

“You forget that's the world I grew up
in. My parents are the same.”

“Yeah, but she’s been in rehab more than
Nick Carter, bro. How many coke parties you going to before you’re in rehab
too?”

“Yeah, I guess. I don’t know if she does
coke.”

“Look, she seems like a hot mess and your
career is just starting. You have fought harder than anyone I know to get here.
You’re on your own, man. Your family is the only one in the world who couldn’t
give a shit about their son’s hockey, and they’re always trying to get you back
to being a rich dick. You want a girl to drag you back into that world too?” His
face becomes solemn. “I’m sorry for the harsh honesty, but I don't like bullshit.
If I were you, I’d have fun with that girl somewhere no one can see you, and
call it a weekend. Or have her be the dish on the side. But I wouldn't publicly
date her. She’ll ruin you before you even arrive. The first thing I had to
learn when I got here three years ago was that there are wives and there are
girls like Sami and Tandy. PFs are fun for the night or the weekend when your
wife isn’t looking. But don't get caught slumming.” He says it in the nicest
way he can, which is pretty nice since he’s from Canada. But it still hurts
like a knife slice in the ribs, especially when he calls Sami a PF. My face is
pounding, my stomach is killing me, my back is throbbing, and now, because of
what he’s said, my heart seems to take the lead in what stings the most.

But he’s right. I know it deep down. I’ve
always known it. The Sami Ford the world knows is trouble. But I swear there’s
something
there
no one else sees.

And that is what’s most intriguing about
her.

I don’t discount his words. I take them
to heart and let them be the counter opinion to what the rest of me
is
saying.

Later that night when I get back to my room,
high on scotch and a couple of doses of anti-inflammatory meds, I press on her
name in my Messenger. Even her name tightens my stomach.

I type a message, telling her I need to
reschedule our date.

Made-up lies flow from my fingers,
spinning a tale of injuries so bad I can’t face her. They’re true; I am
battered and bruised but nothing could keep me away from her. I could crawl
from the airport to her door if my legs didn’t work.

Our past picks at me, combined with
Laramie’s words.

She’s a train wreck, but she’s also an
enigma.

Nothing about her is typical.

Yes, she’s spoiled. She’s rotten in so
many ways. She’s petulant and rude when she wants to be. She can be a diva.

But she’s also vulnerable and weak at
times. Her best friend is down-to-earth and calm, which speaks volumes for
Sami. You are what you hang with.

Every bit of me is tired of the Upper
East Side and the fake lives we live there.

But I feel it in my bones that she is the
same, she wants something else.

I delete the message and type a new one.

I have to know.

Even if she’s the devil and everything
she’s shown me has been an act, I have to know.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone,
ever.

And she’s already broken all my rules.

So if I’m going to hell for ruining my
career over a girl, I might as well go all the way.

Instead of messaging her, I call Bev.

“Nice game, cuz.
Hat
trick and all.
I bet there were a team of hookers waiting to soap you up
after the game.” She laughs, not knowing how close to the truth she is.

“Yeah, it was a gooder,” I mutter and
then sit up. “The game, not the hookers. I mean the hookers—
fuck.
Never mind. I called for a
reason.” I have to speak louder because she’s howling with laughter.

“You’re such a moron. I’m telling Gran
you let whores touch your ding-a-ling.”

“You’re a ding-a-ling.” I try to joke but
honestly fear her telling Gran that. No one is scarier than Gran.

“What do you want, beefcake?” She
snickers even more.

“I’m having dinner with Sami on Christmas
Eve. We’re both alone, no family in New York. Do I try to have sex with her?”

“I would play that one safe. It’s
Christmas
Eve,
you’re a horny jock. Showing some self-control
might be a nice little gift you could get her. Drinks and dinner and talking
is
about as far as I would let that go. Plus, she likes games
and control, so—”

“You think this is a game?”

“She’s a girl, everything is a game.
Don’t be daft. Anyway, she’s not going to put out. She’s going to want you to
try, not actively but let it be known you want her. But don’t try to score. It
puts the control in her hands, in her mind. But in reality the control is
yours. You could have seduced her but you didn’t.”

“You’re kind of scary.” She really is.

“Jedi mind trick.
Have
a good sleep
,
you earned it
. And word of
advice, girls don’t like to find out the guy pursuing them has whores playing
with their ding-a-ling. It lessens the odds of
her
playing with your ding-a-ling. Ding-a-ling.” She laughs and ends
the call.

I hate that I can’t argue there are no
more whores in my diet.
Whore-free since first year college.
I can’t say that after tonight.

Chapter Fourteen

The cheeseball platter for one

Sami

I pace back and forth again, glancing at
my outfit as I pass the mirror. I last three minutes before I do the thing I
promised myself I wouldn’t until after New Year’s. I tap in the number and
press the phone against my face as I take up pacing again.

“Sami?” Linda answers.

“Hey, I need to ask something quick.” I
hate that I couldn’t make it a week without calling.

“Okay. But it’s Christmas Eve. You know
that, right?” she asks quietly. It sounds like she’s getting up to go into
another room.

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Did your parents go to London again?”

“Oh probably.” I brush it off. “But
that’s not why I’m calling.”

“Do you remember what we talked about
last Christmas, and the one before that?”

“Yeah, Linda. I’m not calling to talk
about that. Seriously.” I hate it when she tries to shrink me. I’m comfortable
with the level of dysfunction I have with my parents. “We’re having dinner
tonight, together.
Me and Matt.
Alone.
Like a date.
Help.” I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep
breath.

“I see.” She sounds confused. “So after
that whole ambush we planned like teenagers would have, he asked you to have
Christmas Eve dinner with him? Just the two of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh shit. No more games, Sami. This guy
likes you. A lot. Guys don’t do Christmas unless they like you. Ever. So if you
don’t genuinely like him, abort. Now. There are real feelings at stake here.”

“You think?”

“I know. It’s what I get paid the big
bucks for.
To know this kind of stuff.
You need to
call him and cancel if you aren’t ready to completely let your guard down and
try to have a real relationship. Not one of your boy toys, where you string
them along because you need a date for an event.”

I don’t want to tell her I like him too.
I don’t want to jinx it. “Just tell me what to do.”

“I can’t do that. I have to tell you the
truth, that’s our deal. How do you feel about him? Be honest. No Sami Ford
bullshit.”

“I don’t know. I mean
,
he’s just different. I’ve been watching his hockey games and he’s really—”

“You watched his games? Jesus, Sami. This
is serious.” Her tone is funny again.

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s focus on the important stuff. You
watched his game; you clearly like him more than the other guys you’ve dated.
And honestly, he’s the first one I’ve seen you act like this with. We’ve been
talking about him for years. You dated that last guy for a while, and I can’t so
much as recall his name, but Matt has been the one constant since you left high
school. You need to think about that.”

“I am. That’s why I’m calling. This is
important.”

“Well, Christmas Eve is a whole other
ball of wax. This will be a pinnacle moment at the start or end of a possible
relationship. Either this is the guy you finally let in or you will turn him
away. The moment will present itself if he genuinely likes you and wants to
know you. And in that instant you will have to decide if you want something
more than the flirting and games.”

“Be vulnerable,” I blurt and almost throw
up at the idea of it.

“No, Sami. Be brave and believe that
there is real love in the world. Your parents have never shown you real love,
and you’re a cold bitch because of it.”

“Happy Christmas, Linda.”

“Merry Christmas, Sami.”

I hang up, attacked by self-doubt, but I
close my eyes and replay her words until I can imagine it.

He’s going to come to the door. I’ll
smile and he’ll smile back.

He’ll be beautiful in something casual
but still proper dinner attire, not going full suit because he’s technically still
a caveman, but he won’t go full barbarian either.

He’s going to kiss my cheek and maybe
linger for a second but not try anything else. Mostly because this is a night
of talking and getting to know one another, being vulnerable and not sexual.

Then we eat and we laugh, in candlelight.

He reaches across the table and takes my hands
in his and tells me he likes me a lot.

Maybe we kiss under the mistletoe before
he leaves and when I open the door it’s snowing.

I’m a cheeseball . . .

I exhale loudly and open my eyes again,
terrified. But seeing my reflection gives me one more chance to double check
the outfit.

The push-up bra beneath my blouse has
just enough cleavage going on that the buttons look strained but not like
they’re going to burst, sending button shrapnel everywhere.

The skirt is short but still respectable.
It’s church short.

My heels are comfortable, in case he
wants to do an after-dinner stroll in the park.

My hair is perfect. Nadia left my locks long,
in soft in beachy curls.

My makeup is natural. It appears as if
I’m hardly wearing any, even though there’s a cake on my face. And the glossy
lips are pouty and swollen from the
Buxom
gloss. I
have a mild allergy to the ingredients so it works even better.

Remembering everything Linda told me, I
leave the room chanting, “Be brave.”

“It’s after seven.” Nadia pokes her head
around the corner as I click my way to the stairs.

“He’s late? Shit. I didn’t even look at
the time. Is he fashionably late or
late
late?”
I slump. “Oh my God, what if he’s going to show up later, like
sleepover
later and just want sex? Is
this another booty call?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.” Nadia
doesn’t bother with the usual formalities on this one. “He’s coming for
Christmas Eve dinner and asked you to make food. He wouldn’t stand you up; that’s
a big request. Go wait in the parlor and we’ll show him in when he arrives. The
lasagna is likely ready. Wait five minutes and then take it out. Let it sit on
the counter for fifteen minutes before you cut it or it will fall apart.”

“I still can’t believe I cooked it.”

“You did great. It looks tasty.” She
smiles. “Repeat after me: take it out in five minutes, let it sit for fifteen,
then cut.”

“I got it.”

“If you say so.”

“If he doesn’t come we’ll be eating it
for days,” I grumble. “At least I learned something in all of this.”

“What?”

“I hate cooking.”

“Well, at least you won’t have to do it
again.” She rolls her eyes and goes back to whatever she was doing. She’s
gotten a lot sassier in the last couple of years.

Every step I take down to the main floor has
me more depressed.

When I make it to the parlor a knock at
the door and men’s voices in the hallway stop my heart.

I spin, staring at the doorway, waiting
for him.

“She’s in here, sir.”

His footsteps sound loud, building my suspense.
When he gets around the corner and into the doorway, my mouth hits the floor.
“Sorry, I’m late.” Matt grins but I can hardly tell if it’s him or not. His
eyes are tiny slits, his nose is bulbous and cut, his cheek has a gash, and his
lips are both fat. The bruising and disfiguring swelling is disgusting
actually. He looks hideous. Like really,
really
hideous.

“Hey!”

“Oh my God!” I take a step back, shaking
my head, lost in the sight before me. “What happened? Are you okay? Was there
an accident?”

“No, a fight. You should see the other
guy.” He chuckles and saunters in.

“Uhhhhh, is the other guy a grizzly
bear?” It takes me several heartbeats before I bounce back and speak again, “What
the hell happened?
Were you attacked by a gang
? Who
fights? Like you were mugged?”

 
“I’m fine, honestly. It’s way better
today. I can see out of this one now.” He lifts his bruised finger up to the
left eye. “Yesterday was nuts.” He walks to me, trying to act like he hasn’t
just taken a shovel to the face, many, many times.

“I don’t even know what to say. What kind
of fight?”

“Hockey.” He just shrugs. The fight at
the end of the game flashes in my mind, but there’s no way he was beaten like
this in that. He won the fight. He went full savage on them. My nickname for
him, Beast, made perfect sense in that moment.

“After the game?”

“No.” He is seriously acting as if
everything is normal. “How’s it going here? Smells good.”

“Fine,” I answer blankly, still lost in
the harshness of the
wounds
as he gets closer. “Can I
get you anything? A plastic surgeon?” My great plan of how things would go
ignites in flames. There won’t be any kissing or laughing and talking unless
it’s at the emergency room.

“Really, I’m good. It was just the game.
It got a bit rough. I got into a fight—”

“When the benches cleared I knew it was
bad but the cameras didn’t show these kinds of wounds—” I pause as his
constricted eyes attempt to narrow more.

“You watched the game?” I don’t like his
tone. He sounds annoyed.

“No.” I lie too fast. “I mean, I watched
like a couple of minutes. I was scrolling.” I act like it’s nothing. “Not like
the whole game or anything.”

“But you were watching hockey?” He leans
against a pillar next to the baby grand piano. “Do you like hockey? Is this a
thing for you? Hockey players? Is this something I should know about?” The way
he asks it makes me uncomfortable, as if I shouldn’t bring up the hat trick and
how cool it was to see the ritual of everyone throwing their hats onto the ice.
He sounds crazy. Maybe it’s the brain damage from the beating of a lifetime he
apparently took.

“God, no! I don’t even understand it. I
literally watched a couple of minutes at the end when the benches cleared.” I
lie like a rug. “I thought maybe if I caught the ending I could see you, like
if there were awards or something at the end.” I say the dumbest thing I can
think of. It’s an actual thought I had when his first game ended months ago.

“Oh.” He laughs, mimicking a scary mafia
thug. “No. No awards. Just one at the very end of the season but it’s more of a
trophy.”

“Cool.” I know what the Stanley Cup is,
but the smug way he’s talking now makes me think I need to keep that a secret,
which is weird. I would have thought he’d be excited about playing, not
ashamed. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No thanks. I’m on some meds and
shouldn’t have booze with them. I had some drinks the night it happened after
the game and it was the wrong choice. I slept through my morning flight. I was
really drowsy all day.”

“Drugs for this?” I wave my hands in
front of his face.

“Yeah. I need to bring the swelling down.
We have another game on the twenty-eighth and I need to be in tip-top shape for
it.”

“Oh, so soon?” Like I don’t know the
entire schedule. I hate that I have to lie to him about this. I thought hockey
might be something we could talk about, since it’s an obvious passion for him.

“Yeah.
A game every
second day for the entire season.
It’s aggressive. It’s why I don’t date
or have relationships with anyone but friends who understand they’ll sometimes go
the whole season without seeing me.”

The last sentence hits me right in the
gut. He’s telling me he doesn’t want a girlfriend, but he’s asked me for
Christmas Eve dinner. I can’t even with him.

“Seriously.” He turns and glances at the
hall, changing the subject, “It smells great in here.”

“Right!” I turn and hurry to the kitchen,
trying not to focus on the comment about not having relationships. “The
lasagna.” I click along the wood floors to the oven, turning it off and opening
the door.

“No smoke and no burnt smell. Must be all
right.” He mocks me.

“Otherwise we’re getting takeout. Because
if this tastes gross, I don’t expect you to pretend it’s fine. I’m not going to
pretend yours is fine if it’s not.” I point at the weird-looking container on
the counter. I can only assume it’s his. It wasn’t here when I made the
lasagna.

“You don’t have to be scared of mine. I’m
actually not a bad cook.” He strolls over to the oven and plucks the hot mitts
from me, pulling the casserole dish out for me. He attempts a grin but it’s
terrifying.

“You look like the scary guy on that
weird movie,
The Goonies.
Natalie
made me watch it. She’s a fan of eighties movies.”

He wrinkles his puffy forehead. “I never
saw that. Is it bad?”

“Yeah.” I don’t try to sugarcoat it.
“Super bad. You look like you got hit by a car.”

“No, just a couple of huge defensemen.”

“I don’t want to think about that. It
must have been terrifying.” I shudder and tilt my head, flashing back to the
other thing he said. “Did you just say you
can
cook?”