PUCKED Up (3 page)

“
What kind of dream? Was it a sex dream?”

“
I’m not telling you.”

“
It was, wasn’t it?”

“
I’m not saying anything.”

“
It’ll be a million times better when you let me get you naked in real life.”

“
Don’t get ahead of yourself, Butterson.”

“
I’m just sayin’, when you let it happen, it’s gonna be awesome times a billion.”

She sighs.

“
Sweets?”

“
You should sleep off whatever you drank. Are you still coming tomorrow?”

“
I’ll come for you right now, baby.”

There’s a knock on the door. I hear Randy’s voice followed by a giggle. I cover the receiver, at least I think I do, and shout, “I’m sleeping!”

“
Are you at home? Who’s with you?”

“
I’m at Lance’s.”

After a sharp inhale she asks, “Are you staying there overnight?”

“
Natasha’s coming in the morning.”

“
Who?”

“
Our trainer. We’re using the pool for plyometrics.” I’m way less slurry now, so I can get that word out without messing it up. “Plus my car’s here, and I’m being responsible by not driving.”

“
Are there girls there now?”

“
Lance invited some friends back. I’m in bed.”

“
How many friends?”

“
A few.”

“
Are any of them your friends?”

“
No, baby. The only friend I have right now is my left hand.”

A long silence follows.

“
Sunny? You still there?”

“
I’m here. I should go, though. It’s late. I have to teach yoga first thing in the morning.”

“
You sure you don’t want to tell me about that dream you were having?”

That gets a half-hearted laugh. “You’re impossible. You should lock your door. ‘Night, Miller.”

My phone dies before I can answer her. I don’t have a charger handy, and I’m too tired to put clothes back on and look for one. Instead I shut my eyes and picture Sunny in her bikini—that’s the least amount of clothing I’ve seen her in—and grab onto my kinda-hard dick. I don’t have enough coordination, brain power, or energy to keep the image in my head and rub one out, so I just hold my handle in one hand and my dead phone in the other.

Then I pass the fuck out.

CHAPTER TWO

DICKFACE

My head hurts, and my mouth tastes like ass. I try not to move, but I can hear horrible music coming from somewhere outside my room, and it’s ruining my sleep. I crack a lid and cringe at the brightness coming through the curtains. The first thing I notice is that I’m not in my own bed. It takes me a while to remember I’m at Lance’s. I have a very vague recollection of a limo ride and lying on the floor in the living room. I remember a condom and a bare beaver and panic sets in.

The other side of the queen bed is empty, so I’m taking that as a good sign. My raging case of morning wood and my aching balls are also solid indicators that I didn’t put my dick anywhere I shouldn’t have.

A few months ago the unused pillow would have been occupied by a very satisfied, very well-used puck bunny. I used to be a dog. I probably still qualify as one, but I’m working on becoming reformed. It’s not that easy. Women want to ride my dick all the time. Not bringing honeys home is like passing by McDonald’s during training camp: you know you can’t have it because it’s not part of the meal plan, so you want it even more.

Instead of sex, Sunny and I text or have video chats. I like those best, especially when it’s late at night. She hangs out in her bed, and I can ogle her while we talk.

Eventually I’m hoping we’ll graduate past conversation to Skype sex. We haven’t even had real sex yet, so there’s no damn way I’m asking her to have not-real sex with me over video chat. I need to get past third base and all the way to home first. Until then, I’ll keep up with the post-Skype-ogle whack-off sessions. It’s frustrating, even though I like that she’s not slutty like the puck bunnies I’m used to.

All this means my dick has gone unused for the last few months. We’ve done some groping and making out, and she’s had her hand down my pants and vice versa, but that’s it. It’s weird. I’ve never not had sex on the first “date.”

Before Sunny, if I needed company, all I had to do was pull up my contact list, go to my honeys, call one, and wait. Usually said honey would arrive within half an hour; the ones who wear too much makeup take longer. It’s almost like ordering pizza.

It wouldn’t matter if I’d just come home from a workout or practice. I didn’t even have to shower. I could be sweaty and gross, or eat a goddamn head of garlic raw, and they’d still come and bounce on my dick.

Now that I’m trying to get Sunny to be my girlfriend, that’s not an option, so I’m stuck with my hand. In theory, if I can go without eating wings for a few months, I should be able to go without sex. It’s a lot harder in practice.

I lie in the bed that’s not mine, trying to remember the end of my night. I have a feeling I might have drunk-dialed Sunny. I hope she didn’t answer the phone. From the little I remember, I wasn’t in very good shape.

Off season is like this—late nights, lots of partying, drinking, and eating shitty food, then regretting it all when hardcore training starts again. I reposition my pillow over my head to drown out the bad music.

I’m drifting off when there’s a knock at the door. “Natasha’s gonna be here in twenty. Get your ass out of bed, Butterson,” Randy yells.

I peek out from under the pillow and stare at the numbers on the clock, willing them to stop moving around so I can read them. It’s after nine. My phone alarm should’ve gone off half an hour ago. Usually I hit the snooze button a minimum of four times every morning. I hate waking up almost as much as I hate asparagus pee. And pop music.

A few minutes later there’s another knock at my door. “Buck?”

It’s a female voice this time. It’s vaguely familiar. I ignore it.

Another knock. “Randy told me you need to get up.”

I still don’t answer. There’s whispering and giggling on the other side, followed by the sound of the doorknob turning. It’s unlocked. I’m out of bed in a flash, slamming my shoulder into the door to hold it closed. I’m naked. With morning wood. And my head hurts like hell.

I slide to the floor, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I’m up. I’ll be down in, like, ten.”

More giggling follows and then the patter of feet as they move on down the hall, yelling, “He says he’s up!”

I’m still sitting on the floor with my head in my hands several minutes later when Randy comes knocking. “If you’re not down there in eight minutes, Natasha’s gonna make you do suicides.”

“
I’d like to see her try.”

Natasha’s been my trainer since I was traded from Miami to Chicago. She’s tough, but awesome. Sometimes I hate her for it. The threats are enough to make me pick my ass up off the floor. I flip the lock, though, in case someone else decides they want to barge into my room.

I check the nightstand for my cell, but it’s not there. It’s not on the floor either, so I sweep my hand across the comforter to see if I accidentally brought it to bed with me. I find it under the pillow. I take it to the bathroom with me, pushing the button so I can key in my password and check my messages, but the screen stays blank. My battery must have died. I set it on the back of the toilet and flip up the seat. I’m hard, so it’s almost impossible to pee.

If my phone wasn’t dead, I’d pull up a picture of Sunny and take care of my problem like that. Instead, I have to use my imagination. This morning sucks worse than usual. Since I haven’t seen her naked yet, I have to cobble together images of her mostly naked in her bikini and imagine what her bare tits would look like. Eventually I give up and grab one of the trashy magazines from the rack on the floor and flip it open. It lands on a hot blonde with fake boobs. It’ll do.

When I’m about to blow, I brace my hand on the wall and let my shins rest against the toilet seat. My knees buckle at the end, and my aim is off, so I hit the back of the toilet lid. The whole unit shakes with my weight, and my phone shifts forward.

I’m too slow to catch it. It bounces off the seat, and instead of landing on the floor, it falls straight into the bowl.

“
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” I reach in and grab it, not caring that I’m sticking my hand in toilet water and my own jizz. Shaking it off, I grab the closest towel and wipe it clean. The battery’s already dead, so I have no idea if I’ve ruined it or not.

And of course, that’s when there’s another goddamn knock on my door. I stalk my way across the room, holding the potentially ruined phone in a hand towel. I throw open the door.

“
Dude, are you—” Randy stops mid-sentence.

There’s a girl behind him. She looks vaguely familiar. She’s sporting last night’s makeup and wearing Randy’s too-big shirt, and possibly nothing else. Her eyes drop below my waist.

“
Oh my God!”

I’m naked and still half-hard after the whack-off session. I cover my junk with the hand towel. Randy puts a hand up to cover her eyes. She tries to pry it away, but Randy has huge hands, and he’s way stronger than she is, even if he is hungover as shit.

She points in my direction even though she can’t see me. “You have something on your—”

“
Baby, why don’t you go downstairs and see what the girls are doing?”

“
But—”

“
I got it covered.” He whispers something in her ear. One of his hands slips under the shirt. I look away, because I don’t want to see as much of her as she’s seen of me.

She laughs and takes off down the hall, yelling, “I saw Buck’s dick, and it’s huge!”

“
Seriously, man?” Like I need this shit.

“
You’re the one answering your door like this.” He motions to my lack of clothing. “The world isn’t your locker room, Miller.”

“
My fucking phone fell in the toilet!” I hold out the hand towel with my phone still wrapped in it.

“
Facebooking on the shitter again?”

“
Laugh it up, asshole. All my contacts are in there.”

“
Does it work?”

“
The battery died, so I have no idea.” He throws me a pair of swim shorts.

“
Put these on and bring it downstairs. I’ll get a bag of rice.”

“
What the hell’s rice gonna do for my phone?”

“
Calm your tits, dude. It’s supposed to dry it out or something. We’ll charge it and put it in rice. Hopefully it’ll be working in a couple of hours.”

I pull the suit on, tuck my deflated junk away, and follow him downstairs. Randy doesn’t look nearly as rough as I feel this morning.

Two girls—the one who announced the size of my junk to the entire house, we’ll call her Dick Yeller, and another one I vaguely recognize from last night—are sitting at the breakfast bar with coffees. Another one lounges on the couch in the living room, clicking away on her phone. The girls at the breakfast bar stare at me, then drop their gazes to their cups, shoulders shaking.

“
Showing off your jewels again, huh, Miller?” Natasha, our trainer, says from the other side of the kitchen, focused on the fruit she’s throwing in the blender. She seems like she’s in a mood, which means our workout is going to be extra painful today.

“
Not on purpose.”

She’s got one hand on top of the blender and a finger poised over the button. She looks up as she hits the switch. I don’t have time to cover my ears before she lets it rip. It’s like a bomb going off in my head.

Natasha’s eyes bug out, and she barks out a laugh, dropping to the floor. I’m grateful the blender stops grinding.

The room is filled with snickering. “What the shit? Is everyone high?”

“
You said you were going to take care of it,” Dick Yeller says to Randy.

He shrugs.

“
Take care of what?” I’m totally confused.

Dick Yeller shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “Go look in the mirror.”

I drop my phone on the counter and step into the closest bathroom. On my forehead, in black marker, is a giant jizzing cock. It even has ball hairs. “Who did this?”

“
It wasn’t me,” Randy yells. “I can’t even draw stickmen.”

I pump a handful of soap into my palm and rub at my forehead, but the ink stays put. I stomp out of the bathroom and yell, “Get ready for an ass kicking, Lance! If anyone took pictures I’m going to stick you in the balls, motherpucker!”

The two girls at the counter look like they’re trying to decide whether they should laugh or run. Natasha is still on the floor, and Randy has his hand over his mouth.