Pucked Over (Pucked #3) Page 15

  Chapter 14

  Sweet Balls

  LILY

  I’d like to say I go to work the next evening and don’t take it out on my girls that I’m missing a hockey game and an opportunity to see Randy. That would be a lie, however. I almost make one of them cry. That’s when I rein in the snap-itude and stop pushing them.

  I have the sound booth guy put on some upbeat music, and we freestyle it for the last fifteen minutes of class. They have a training schedule to keep and moves to learn, but sometimes it’s important to skate for pure enjoyment. Also, I’m struggling to focus, knowing I could’ve been at the game that’s now almost over. Even more important is the fact that instead of sleeping in my crappy double I might’ve been able to sleep in a sweet hotel bed with Randy. Or not sleep. At all. And now I have to go home and deal with my mom and work in the morning.

  I’m bitchy.

  And maybe a little sexually frustrated. Or a lot.

  I berate myself for not having a backbone all the way home. I should have pushed harder for the time off. I never take days. Ever. Then I check my messages to see if Randy’s sent me anything. He hasn’t, but Sunny’s sent me fifty pictures of the game. Half of them are blurry. Most of them feature Randy on the ice. They don’t make me feel better.

  I’m sure my not being able to come to the game means I’ve shot my chance of ever getting back into his bed, or whatever bed is available. Or bathroom. Guys have short attention spans. I’m sure he’ll be all over some bunny tonight as a result.

  I put my phone on airplane mode and hide under the covers. It takes forever to fall asleep, so I roll my marble until I come, then finally pass out.

  ***

  My mood does not improve the next morning. During my bus ride to the rink, I check Randy’s social media like an obsessed stalker. All the pictures are of him with Miller and Alex. No girls except Sunny and Violet. I hate how relieved I am. And jealous. I also hate how preoccupied I am with the fact that Sunny hasn’t messaged me since last night, and I have to work all day today instead of spending it naked with Randy.

  Damn it.

  There goes my mind.

  I spend the next four hours on the ice pretending I love teaching kids how to spin and twirl and be as awesome—if not better—than I was a couple of years ago. Most days I love what I do. Today I’m still bitchy. I wish I wasn’t. The kids can sense my mood like a pack of wolves. I stay on point, though, because last night I wasn’t, and I can’t have two bad days in a row.

  By the time I get to my older girls, I’m more focused. Which is good, because they’re all about competition, and they need me to stay on them. At least one girl is destined for the Olympics. She’s got the financial backing to make it, so I push her. It’s hard to watch them sometimes, knowing my lost dream is something they can have and might not want.

  I’m in the middle of showing the girls the last of the new routine when they become distracted. I run through the moves, finishing with the toe loop, but they’re not looking at me. Instead they’re focused on the stands.

  I stop to see what has them so flustered. My stomach flips. There’s a man who looks distinctly like Randy leaning against the boards. He lifts a hand and waves. My girl parts swoon.

  “Oh my God!” one of my girls whisper-shrieks. “Is that Randy Ballistic? From Chicago? Why’s he here?”

  “I’ll be right back,” I mutter and skate down the ice toward him.

  The girls are freaking out. I guess I am, too, except I’m better at managing myself. At least on the outside. I stop in front of him, a small spray of ice puffing out from under my blade. A grin makes his eyes crinkle. He has a tiny dimple up near his left cheek. I want to press it, like it’s a button that will undress him.

  “Hey.” I play it cool, propping a hand on my hip and cocking my head to the side. It would work well if I wasn’t huffing from exertion. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Surprise.” He does half-assed jazz-hands while looking me up and down.

  I feel naked. And hot. And sexually frustrated. “It sure is.” It comes out sounding all raspy, like I’ve just had an orgasm.

  His lip quirks up. I want to lick it off his face right after I smack it. Or his ass.

  “I figured if you couldn’t come for me, I could come for you.”

  The innuendo is intentional. I ignore it. For now. “How’d you know—” I shake my head. “Sunny told you I work here?”

  “She gave me directions last night.”

  “It’s a miracle you made it.” I snicker. Sunny is not the go-to girl for directions. Sometimes she gets lost coming to my place.

  I glance over my shoulder; the girls are twittering in a little cluster. They’re making their way closer. One of the girls steps in front of the others. She clamps onto her friend’s arm with wide, starstruck eyes.

  “You’ve been recognized. Get ready for the fangirling.”

  Randy waves to the girls. They burst into giggles. I give him a look. “You shouldn’t encourage them.”

  “Why not?”

  One of the girls finally takes it upon herself to skate over. She glances at Randy and then me, wringing her hands together, then playing with the end of her long ponytail. “Miss LeBlanc, um… should, uh…” She glances at Randy again. “Should we practice one more time or get changed?”

  I look at the clock. It’s almost eleven-thirty. “Oh! You girls can get changed.”

  “Okay.” She nods frantically and then gives Randy the side-eye again.

  “Unless you all want to show Randy your routine. He’s not a figure skater, but he plays hockey for Chicago.”

  “Oh my God!” She looks over at the other girls, who are pretending not to watch us, and screeches, about six inches away from my ear, “You were right!”

  I cringe at the excited squealing. For the next ten minutes, Randy’s bombarded by thirteen-year-old girls. He’s sweeter than maple-butter tarts while he signs things like binders, notebooks, and backpacks that the girls retrieve from the locker room.

  Then their parents show up and do the same thing. The moms are the worst. Especially the pretty ones. They put their hands on his arm and simper compliments. It makes me want to barf. It also makes me want to boob-punch a couple of them. I pretend to keep busy checking my clipboard. After a while it’s clear they’re not going anywhere, and I still need to get changed—and shower now that Randy’s here. Usually I do that at home as the locker room showers are questionable.

  I’m a little concerned about what the plan is going to be. I don’t have a car, so I would’ve taken the bus home, but I don’t want to take Randy there for a multitude of reasons. My mother will not approve. Also, the underwear guy has been over a lot. He puts on sweats now, but he walks around shirtless quite a bit. It’s unpleasant.

  I shoulder my bag and start toward the locker room. Randy grabs my wrist. “Just wait a minute, ’kay?”

  “I’m going to change.”

  “Is anyone on the ice after this?”

  “There’s another class in less than half an hour.”

  Randy frowns. “That’s too bad. I wanted to watch you skate.”

  “Some other time. I’ll be out in a few.” I leave him with the parents. He’s used to dealing with this kind of attention, and he doesn’t seem to mind it.

  As soon as I’m in the locker room I call Sunny, but her phone goes to voice mail. I get her message about chi-cleansing and karma being her friend and wait for the beep.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t warn me that Randy was coming here! I didn’t even shave my girl parts, and now I’ll have to… I don’t even know. It’s not good. My situation is dire here. My garden needs to be pruned. No, not pruned, sheared. I’m mad at you until further notice! God, he’s so hot,” I tack on at the end.

  I hang up and debate calling again to apologize. It’s not that bad. I definitely need to give everything a onceover with a razor, but it’s not a jungle or anything. I toss my phone in my purse and rummage
through my bag. I don’t have conditioner or soap. I don’t even have a towel, which sucks, but options are limited. I can’t leave here without showering. Luckily, I have shampoo and a razor. It’s old, with rust marks, but it’ll have to do.

  I turn on the water, take off my skates, and strip. I’m ripe after four hours on the ice. The water feels fantastic, so I stand under the spray for a few seconds, enjoying the heat. I try to keep my hair out of the water as much as possible so I don’t have to mess around with it. I squirt some shampoo on my hand and rub it all over my vag. My legs need doing as well, but the crotch is most important. I’ve got some growth from my last home-waxing job.

  The razor is super dull. It’s terrible. I can’t believe how little hair it removes on the first pass. I go over it several more times and get most of it, but it could definitely be smoother. I move on to my legs; they’re just as bad, and I make almost no progress. I might as well be using a butter knife.

  I’ll get Randy to stop at a store on the way to wherever we’re going. I’ll have to fix my fuzz problem before he sees me naked. I give up on my legs, which are now red in the spots where I’ve razored them.

  I use the shampoo to wash the rest of my body and dry off with one of my spare leotards. It’s highly ineffective. I get the biggest areas, but I’m still damp, which makes getting dressed a pain. Everything sticks. And I don’t have one of my nice bras, just an old sports bra. It’s been washed so many times it’s gray instead of white.

  As excited as I am to see Randy, I feel totally unprepared, aside from the fact that my girl parts are moist. I pull on my sweats—the only thing I have other than my work clothes—and they smell like burned toast. I check my reflection in the mirror; I look like a street person.

  Holes pepper the knees of my pants. If I look close, I can see skin through a pea-sized tear at my hip. I hope Randy doesn’t notice. After the sports bra and the old University of Guelph shirt with bleach stains on it, I pull on my hoodie. I’d like to say this is an improvement over my T-shirt. It’s not. I finger-comb my hair—no brush, of course. I’m a hot mess today.

  I jam everything into my bag, aware that I’m taking a long time. I half expect to find Randy waiting for me in the hall. I’m actually a little surprised he didn’t end up in here with me. As I round the corner to find him, I run into someone I definitely don’t want to see.

  “Benny!” I step out of the way before we end up in a head-on collision. Benny is Benji’s older brother. They’re only a year apart, and they could almost pass for twins. I have no idea what his parents were thinking naming them something so similar.

  “Hey, Lily. How’s it going?” He’s laden with heavy-looking boxes.

  “Uh, good.” I look over his shoulder, past him. “I didn’t know you were still working here.”

  “I picked up a couple of shifts this week ’cause they needed some help. You look—” He glances at my horrible outfit. “Well.”

  “Thanks. You, too.” This is so awkward.

  “So I’m guessing it’s done for real this time with Benji, eh?”

  I knew the question was coming. I haven’t seen Benny since before the camping trip.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  He nods. He looks like he’s about to say something, but his walkie goes off. “Shit. I gotta go. They need these upstairs, like, ten minutes ago. Guess I’ll see you around.” He gives me a weak smile and hurries off.

  I heave a sigh of relief that there wasn’t more to that conversation. Eventually I’m going to have to get my stuff back from Benji, but that’s not my concern right now. There’s a seriously hot hockey player waiting for me.

  Randy’s still talking to parents when I return to the rink. Now he’s discussing something with a dad whose son, who can’t be more than eight, is staring up at Randy like he’s a god. I totally understand the feeling from a very different perspective.

  Randy smiles at me, then looks back at the dad and kid. “It’s been nice meeting you, but we gotta head out. You keep it up, buddy, and I’ll see you in the pros in a few years, hey?” He holds out his fist, and the kid bumps it, his smile toothy.

  Once they’re gone, he turns to me. “Wanna get outta here?”

  “Sure.”

  He slips a finger under my backpack strap and lifts it from my shoulder. “Let me take that for you.”

  I’ve got two bags and a purse, so I let him be a gentleman. That’s the heavy one anyway, and it’s sweet of him to offer.

  “You guys played amazing last night. That was an awesome goal you scored.”

  “You watched?”

  “I saw the highlights reel. I was at work until late.”

  “Right.” He nods. “I wish you coulda been there. We woulda had a good time last night.” His grin is lascivious.

  I hold in a shiver of anticipation. I sure hope today we get to have the same amount of fun, although I assume the post-win high must make for some incredible sex. Fingers crossed I get to enjoy that sometime in the future. Casually, of course.

  “Do you have a car here?” Randy asks as he opens the door.

  I’m hit with a chilly gust of wind. Late October brings the colder temperatures. I should’ve brought my winter jacket, but I’d figured it would warm up today, not get colder. “No. I planned to take the bus.”

  “That works out well.” He jams his hand in his pocket and pulls out a set of rental car keys, twirling them around his finger.

  “Sure does.”

  I follow him to a Jeep with seriously tinted windows. He unlocks the door and helps me in. He doesn’t even try to feel me up, although there are kids and parents in the parking lot, so that might be why. It’s chilly inside, but at least there’s no wind. Randy tosses my bag on the console, then climbs in and turns the engine over. Country music blares through the speakers.

  He rushes to turn it down and blasts the heat, wearing a sheepish grin. “Sorry ’bout that.”

  “Country, eh? I didn’t figure you for the type.”

  “No?” He frees the tie from his hair, then gathers up the fallen strands, pulling it back into a little nub. “What kind of music did you think I’d listen to?”

  “I don’t know. Pop? Dancy stuff.”

  “Really? Huh.” He moves my bag to the backseat. “Why’d you think that?”

  “I don’t know. You’re always at the bar, and that’s what they play there.”

  “I’m not so big on the bar scene lately.” Randy digs around in his back pocket and tosses his wallet on the seat next to him. “You don’t have to work until five, right?”

  “Right.”

  He stretches his arm across the headrest and fingers my hair. It probably looks like crap. Much like the rest of me. “So we have a few hours to kill.”

  “Yup.” My stomach is doing all sorts of acrobatics. It feels like there’s an entire amusement park inside there, and I’m on all the craziest rides. The one I want to get on is sitting right beside me.

  “You wanna go get something to eat? You must be starving.” Now he’s drawing lines on my neck, or something. Tiny pleasure currents are being radio-signaled through my body. They’d be attached to a satellite in my underwear—if I was wearing any. I’m not very focused on his words. Instead I’m staring at his mouth.

  “Lily? You wanna go for lunch? My treat.”

  I snap out of my vagina-induced trance and look down at my outfit. “Sure. We can hit a drive-thru or something.”

  “Drive-thru? I was thinking an actual restaurant.”

  And I’m thinking about how tinted the windows are, and how roomy the backseat of this Jeep is. He hasn’t even tried to kiss me yet. What kind of casual-sex business is this?

  “I can’t go to a restaurant dressed liked this—unless you want to hit a crappy diner. Then I’ll fit in with the bums and potheads. We’ve got lots of those downtown.”

  He looks me over. It lights all my special parts on fire. “You look great.”

  I glance down at my old hoodie and my
pilly, holey sweats and then back up at him. “You didn’t take a hit last night, did you?”

  “What? No. Why?”

  “You do see what I’m wearing, right? I can’t go out in public like this. Especially not with you looking all—” I motion to his hotness.

  “Me looking all what?”

  I give him the cut eye. “Are you seriously fishing for compliments? Like you don’t already have a huge hockey-star ego. You need me to stroke it now, too?”

  His tongue peeks out to touch the scar on his top lip, the one I like to run my tongue across before I stick it in his mouth. I am so sexed up right now. I need to get a razor and fix my forest-style legs. Beyond that, I need to make out with this man again. I’m so busy thinking about what I want to do to him, I almost miss his snappy response.

  “I have things that need stroking more than my ego.”

  I shouldn’t want to launch myself at him for being such a cocky bastard, but I do. I manage to keep it together enough not to offer to eat his cock for lunch.

  Instead I fire back with some snark, because it’s more acceptable. For me. “Would you like me to leave you alone for a few minutes so you can take care of that?”

  Randy grins. “I’m good. I can wait until after lunch. Why don’t we stop at your place and you can change, if it isn’t too far.”

  Nothing in Guelph is far away. Everything is twenty minutes, give or take. But there’s no way in Satan’s hairy ball sac I’m letting Randy see where I live. I’m not ashamed of my apartment—but I know exactly how much a professional hockey player makes a year. It’s a lot of money. Randy wears nice clothes. His underwear is expensive—I ruined them knowing this. And I bet he drives a sweet ride with leather seats.

  I don’t need him to know my life isn’t as easy as his. Then he might feel like he needs to “save me” or “take care of me” or something like that. It’ll make things weird. Well, weirder than this casual-sex thing that apparently includes lunch dates. I need to learn more about how this works.