Pucked: Pucked Over Part 41

Wow. Do I ever sound like a winner. He must have been watching me while he was in the time-out box.

"Fielding at a hockey game? Kind of cerebral with beer and violence, isn't it?"

I blink as if I've been high beamed with a flashlight. Alex knows who wrote Tom Jones, and he's used the word cerebral in the appropriate context. I was right; he did get my Shakespeare reference. Alex Waters has singlehandedly obliterated my misapprehension regarding the inferior intellect of hockey players-with one sentence. In doing so, he's become infinitely hotter than he was five seconds ago.

"You've read Fielding?" I take a step closer. My voice is low, as if I've switched into phone-s.e.x operator mode.

"I-I-I-"

It's adorable. He's wearing an expression I'm familiar with: panic merged with fear. I sport the same one when I inadvertently revealed my extreme nerdiness. Most nights I would much rather be at home curled up with a book or playing solitaire than out at a bar. Hence the excessive beer consumption and the fake smoking crutch.

"I think literacy is s.e.xy," I whisper.

"Me, too." His dimples make an appearance.

I have one of those rare moments where my brain fritzes and I do something completely out of character. It's so outside of my personal code of conduct that I'll probably relive the incident over and over trying to figure out what flipped the switch. For the time being, I'm blaming the beers, jetlag, and his accurate literary references.

I grab Waters by the s.h.i.+rt and pull his face to mine.

His mouth is soft and warm. The stubble on his chin scratches my skin, and I like it. I shove my tongue into his mouth. Well, that's not true. I slide it across his bottom lip, touching the barely healed split, and he parts for me. Soft, warm, and wet meet more soft, warm, and wet. He tastes like chocolate and, more faintly, coffee liqueur.

His hand runs a hot trail along my side, and he pulls me tight against him. He's all hard edges and heat, and I can feel . . . holy . . . there's a ma.s.sive bulge pressed against my stomach.

After far too short a time, he breaks the kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear. "Do you want to get out of here?"

"Buck will kill you."

"I can take him."

PUCKED Up Excerpt

Chapter 1.

Wasted is as Wasted Does I'm super wasted. Like, messed up to the point that Lance, my teammate, has two sets of eyes.

I need water-and that horrible drink my trainer, Natasha, gives me when I'm hungover. But Lance's kitchen is way far away. I stumble into the ma.s.sive living room and over to the unoccupied couch. When my knees. .h.i.t the arm, I fall forward like a tree. My aim is bad, and I'm on an angle, so I roll off and smack my head on the coffee table.

"Ow! f.u.c.k!" There isn't enough s.p.a.ce for me to turn onto my back, so I lie there instead, wedged between the couch and the coffee table.

Lance laughs. "You all right, b.u.t.terson?"

"There's a spent condom under here."

"Oh yeah? Wanna get that for me."

"Pretty sure I don't." It's covered in dust, but I can tell it's red-so he definitely got it from me. Or maybe I'm the one who used it. I have no idea. I always order the a.s.sorted rainbow pack that comes with the big container of lube.

I've nicknamed the condoms according to color: red is for devil d.i.c.k, green is the green giant, blue is for smurf c.o.c.k, and the black is the sledgehammer. I'm not a fan of the yellow ones; they look less banana-y and more like my d.i.c.k has jaundice. My personal faves are the glow-in-the-dark ones, which make my d.i.c.k look like a big glow stick.

"You gonna lie on the floor, or are you coming outside to hang in the hot tub?"

"I'll be out in a few minutes."

"Whatever you say, b.u.t.terson. But if you fall asleep there, I'm not waking your a.s.s up."

"That's fine."

I watch pointy heels teetering toward the patio doors.

"I don't have a bathing suit," says Flash Beaver.

Lance puts an arm around her waist, his hand settling on her a.s.s. "Who needs bathing suits?"

Loud music blasts through the house and the outdoor speakers. I hear a distant splash and a scream. Someone got thrown in the pool. I lay with my cheek mashed against the floor, staring at the dusty condom, wis.h.i.+ng I'd gone home instead of coming here. I must pa.s.s out like that, because the next thing I know, the doorbell's ringing. It takes me three tries to get up. Then the door isn't staying still, so it's hard to get to.

I pay the pizza guy with my credit card and take the boxes and six-pack of soda. I don't bother to call the other guys. If I know Lance, he's got those girls down to their bras and underwear-except for the one who wasn't wearing any in the first place.

I take the pizza over to the coffee table, crack a soda, and chug it. I need to hydrate so I don't puke like a p.u.s.s.y during tomorrow's training session. Water would be better, but I'm already sitting down. Before I dig in, I take off my pants. I'm not worried about spilling food on them; I'm just tired of wearing jeans. I also like the freedom from clothes. I run hot, so it's nice when I can strip down to the bare essentials, which is often nothing.

Since I'm not in my own house, I keep the boxers and T-s.h.i.+rt on. I don't normally do underwear, but clubs are hot. They make my b.a.l.l.s stick to my leg otherwise. I get comfortable on the couch. It's white leather, which is a stupid color choice, but whatever. I flip open the pizza box, groaning at the sight of melted cheese and piles of meaty awesomeness.

When Sunny and I order pizza, there isn't even cheese. She doesn't eat anything with a face, or that came from something with a face. I don't think I could live without cow in my life, but that's me.

As I tear a slice free, the cheese clings to his brothers like he's terrified of his fate. I lean over the box-I'm too lazy to go to the kitchen and get a plate-and take a huge bite. It's hot. Like, out-of-the-oven hot, which is crazy because it's clearly not just out of the oven. If I was less drunk, I might have paid attention to the puff of steam when I tore out the first slice, but I'm in too much of a hurry to get food in my belly.

The cheese scalds the roof of my mouth and strings settle on my chin, burning that, too. I drop the slice, half of it drooping over the edge of the box onto the coffee table and the most recent edition of The Hockey News. Cracking another soda, I chug half the can to cool my mouth. I suck at life tonight.

While I wait for the pizza to cool, I search for the remote. It's not on the coffee table or under the pizza box. I find it stuck between the couch cus.h.i.+ons along with a pair of panties. I leave those where they are.

Two in the morning doesn't boast much in the way of quality programming. Other than infomercials and p.o.r.n, I have a choice between sports highlights and old sitcoms or the music video channel. I flip aimlessly, pausing at some bad p.o.r.n. I doubt I'll have the energy to whack off later. I might be drunk enough to have whiskey d.i.c.k, even though I don't drink whiskey.

I settle on the music video channel and get back to the pizza, which is now cool enough to eat. I devour half the box and nod off on the couch. The only reason I wake up is because my phone rings. It's in my pants, which are on the floor about twenty feet away, so I miss the call. I decide I'd rather sleep in a bed than on Lance's couch. I've crashed here enough times since I was traded mid-season to have a room I call dibs on when I get too wasted to take my a.s.s home.

I have no idea if Lance and Randy are still outside with the girls. If they are, there's a good chance that hot tub is going to need a serious cleaning tomorrow. I almost trip over my pants on the way upstairs. I drag them with me to the second floor and crash into the spare bedroom.

Kicking the door closed, I pull my s.h.i.+rt over my head, drop my boxers, and fall face down on the mattress. Music still pounds through the speakers outside, making the whole house vibrate. It's not pop anymore; it's some cheesy love ballad from the eighties. It sounds like something Sunny would like.

Thinking about her makes my d.i.c.k excited, which sucks because I don't have the coordination to do anything about it. I hate that she doesn't live closer. Canada isn't that far from Chicago, but it's enough distance that it makes this whole dating thing that much harder.

I want to call her. I know it's a bad idea. I'm drunk, and she's probably asleep, considering it's after two in the morning. Or maybe it's already five. I can't read the clock. My logic filter isn't working, so I feel around for my pants. They're on the floor. I almost fall out of bed trying to get them. I dig the phone out of the pocket. The battery reads nine percent. It's enough for a quick call. It'll probably go to voice mail anyway.

As predicted, it rings four times, and I get her message.

"You've reached Suns.h.i.+ne Waters. I'm probably busy cleansing my chi, but when I'm done I'll give you a dingle. Remember, karma is your friend!"

I hang up without leaving a message and call again. I get voice mail a second time. On the third try, she picks up.

"h.e.l.lo?" Her voice is raspy with sleep. It's similar to how she sounds when she comes. I've only been able to do that with my fingers so far. Sunny wants to take things slow. I need to get control of the puck before I can score my favorite kind of goal.

"Hey, sweets. Did I wake you?" It's a stupid question. Of course I woke her; I called three times in the middle of the night.

"Miller?"

"I'm sorry. It's late isn't it?" I roll over onto my back and starfish, letting my b.a.l.l.s breathe. The rustle of sheets filters through the phone. I imagine what she might be wearing based on our late-night Skype chats. She's a baggy-s.h.i.+rt-and-shorts girl. Sometimes she wears one of those sheer s.h.i.+rts so it's like she's naked, but not. Sadly, she always wears a sports bra with it. Those things are the worst invention in the world. They ruin perfectly good cleavage.

"What time is it?"

"Uh," I squint at the clock on the nightstand, as if that's going to make it easier to read the numbers. I'm better with a.n.a.log clocks than digital ones. "Pretty early."

"In the morning?"

"Yeah."

"Is everything okay?"

"Yeah."

There's a long pause in which neither of us speaks. "Were you out with the boys tonight?"

"Yeah."

The softness in her voice is replaced by sharpness. "Who?"

"The usual. Randy Ballistic and Lance Romero. A few of the other guys showed up later."

"So you're drunk?"

I knew I shouldn't have called. I wish I had someone around to stop me from doing stupid s.h.i.+t all the time. At least Randy kept the bunnies occupied and away from me. Most of the time Lance isn't much help. He encourages bad decision-making.

"I had a few drinks. I wanted to hear your voice." It sounds like a line, but it's not. I really do want to hear her voice, even if that makes me seem whipped.

She makes a little noise, like maybe she's stretching or trying to get comfortable. It goes straight to my d.i.c.k, inflating it like a helium balloon.

"That's sweet, Miller," she says on a sigh. I love that she uses my real name instead of my nickname. "But don't you think it would be better to call when you're sober and it's not the middle of the night? You interrupted a nice dream."

"What kind of dream? Was it a s.e.x 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, b.u.t.terson."

"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?"