Pucked Off (The Pucked Series) Read online

  “That’s a long time to be with one person.”

  Lily nods. “We started dating when I was in grade nine. He was…stable. Well, more stable than my own situation. I grew up without a dad, and my mom wasn’t very good at picking decent guys. Neither was I.”

  “We can’t make good choices all the time.” Randy’s mentioned Lily’s douche ex a couple of times. She’s a good person, so I can see how an asshole might use that quality to his advantage.

  “He wasn’t always a bad choice. For a lot of years he was good to me, or at least relatively speaking. Anyway, after a while it stopped being a good thing. He spent a lot of time bringing me down. He could be mean, abusive.”

  I think about what it would be like if Randy lost his shit on her and got physical, the kind of damage he could do. She’s so small—one hit could break bones. I can’t believe Randy hasn’t knocked this guy’s teeth out if that’s what she’s talking about.

  “He hit you?”

  Lily raises a hand, and I realize I’m halfway out of my seat, like I’m going to find the guy and beat him for her.

  “It wasn’t like that,” she says. “It was emotional. He manipulated me a lot. He was subversive, antagonistic. He said things that were intentionally hurtful. It got worse over time, and I just sort of put up with it, thinking it must be normal. I stayed with him a lot longer than I should’ve.”

  “Tash is good at manipulating, but that bullshit is done.” I don’t buy the words as I say them, even if I want them to be true. I haven’t even listened to her voicemails yet, or read her messages. But I probably will, because I torment myself this way.

  Lily finishes the last bite of her first sandwich, swallowing before she responds. “Benji and I used to break up a lot. He would make threats, tell me he was going to sleep with other girls.”

  “That’s a dickhead thing to do.” And exactly what Tash has done to me. And still does even though we’re not together, except it’s not isolated to one sex or the other.

  “It is.”

  “Did he screw other girls?”

  “Probably. I can’t ever be sure one way or the other because he lied a lot, and sometimes it was just to make me jealous. But the not knowing was hard. His actions caused a lot of damage on the inside. The kind you can’t see, but affects a lot of things. I get that now. For a long time I kept letting it happen until I realized it wasn’t going to get better.”

  I get what she’s saying. I understand it perfectly. But there’s a distinct difference between me and Lily: She’s actually a decent human being.

  “What changed?” I ask.

  “I decided I didn’t want him to have any more power over me, so I took it away.”

  “Was it that easy?” I think about how things went down last night. How Tash duped me again. How I shouldn’t have gone to see her in the first place, but I couldn’t find it in me to stay away. I knew it wasn’t going to go the way I wanted. I knew there had to be a ploy, but I went anyway.

  “It wasn’t. Randy made it easier.”

  “He’s all about you.”

  “And I’m all about him.”

  I don’t have anyone to distract me from Tash. Of course there are bunnies. Lots of them, and they’re always interested in getting fucked. But that’s as far as it ever goes.

  “Can I ask you something else?”

  “Sure.”

  Lily’s eyes dart away. “It’s personal.”

  “I’ll continue to reserve the right not to answer if I don’t feel like it.”

  She chews her lip, and a flush creeps up her cheeks.

  “Why didn’t things work out with Tash?”

  “I wanted something she didn’t.”

  “Which was what?”

  For her not to fuck other people, or bring me other people to fuck. “I just wanted it to be her and me, but she didn’t.”

  “So she wanted to see other guys?”

  “Or women, whatever. She was very inclusive.”

  Lily looks confused. “And you told her what you wanted?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And she didn’t want to be exclusive?”

  “Nope.”

  “But you were still with her, even though she was with other people?” The flush in her cheeks deepens to a red that touches the tip of her ears.

  “I thought maybe it would change eventually.” No need to tell her Tash and I have been with the same woman at the same time. She’s shocked enough as it is.

  “The thought of being with anyone other than Randy makes me feel sick.” Lily cringes, and I drop my head.

  I don’t want to see how her opinion of me has changed.

  “I’m sorry, Lance. I shouldn’t have said that. It sounds judgmental, and I didn’t mean it to.”

  “It’s okay. I get what you mean. How you feel is the way it’s supposed to be.”

  “Still, it’s not my place to put my feelings on anyone else.” She shoves the last bite of her second sandwich in her mouth and pushes away from the table.

  I’ve made her uncomfortable. But I don’t want her to look at me like there’s something wrong with me, even though there is.

  “I don’t know. I kept hoping she’d decide I was enough. Stupid, huh?”

  “It’s not stupid, Lance. Sometimes it’s hard to tell your heart not to want someone, even if all they do is hurt you.”

  Lily drives me to the south side, and I’m embarrassed to discover I can’t remember exactly which bar I went to. After twenty minutes of driving around, I finally find the place, but my Hummer isn’t on any of the surrounding streets.

  Eventually I realize it’s been towed. I’m already cutting it close. I still need to go home and grab my gear before I go to the rink.

  I feel like shit having Lily drive me to get my stuff and drop me off at the arena, but she’s nice about it, not making it a big deal. Still, this would’ve been easier with Randy. By the time I get to the rink, the aspirin I took this morning has worn off, and all the aches are back.

  I’m stiff and slow during practice. Evan Smart, the team trainer who replaced Tash, pulls me aside.

  “You wanna tell me about this?” He motions to my face.

  If my shorts had pockets, my hands would be in them. “I ran into a problem last night.”

  He crosses his beefy arms over his chest and waits.

  “I got into it with some asshole who thought degrading women was an awesome pastime.”

  “So you started a fight? Jesus, Romero, it’s pre-season. You need to keep your shit together.”

  “I didn’t start it. A guy the size of a tank came after his girl, and I stepped in the way of his fist.”

  Evan doesn’t look like he believes me. Which isn’t a surprise. He and I don’t like each other all that much. I’m thinking it’s ’cause he’s under the impression I’m the reason Tash lost her job. I’m also aggressive and volatile on the ice. I spend the most time in the penalty box out of all the guys on the team. Actually, out of almost all the guys in the league.

  Evan sighs. “Where’s the damage?”

  “I’m fine. Just a little sore. I’ll do some stretches so I’m good to go for tomorrow’s practice.” I use the hem of my shirt to wipe the sweat from my face.

  “Jesus Christ, man.” Evan prevents me from dropping my shirt and covering all the bruises I’d forgotten about. “You look like you got steamrolled by a truck. You’re not fine. Is anything broken? Did you even go to the hospital?” When he tries to touch my ribs, I pull away.

  “I saw a doctor last night. It’s just bruises and some glue in my eyebrow.” I smooth my shirt out.

  “I want to see the X-rays and reports on that. You need to see a massage therapist at the very least, and get in a couple of physical therapy sessions if you think you’re gonna play on Sunday.”

  “It looks worse than it is. I’ll be fine.”

  “This is not a request. I’ll set up the appointments, and you’ll go or you’ll be benched.”


  “Fine. I’ll do the therapy, but I don’t do massages.”

  “Again, not a request.” He pulls out his phone and makes a call. I think I’m in the clear when the team massage therapist tells him they’re all booked up, except he gets another number and makes a second call. There are a few minutes of back and forth during which he glares at me. “In an hour? Yup. Perfect. He’ll be there.”

  “Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair. I want to argue, but there isn’t an option. Explaining why I hate massages will raise more questions than I want to answer.

  “Get your ass in gear, Romero. I called in a favor. You need to be on the ice on Sunday for the sake of your team, and that’s not going to happen if you don’t take care of yourself. The clinic I’m sending you to is about twenty minutes from here. Get showered and changed and go. I’ll get a call if you don’t show up, and you’ll be watching the game from your couch at home if you don’t make it.”

  He messages me the directions. I hit the shower, and Randy offers to drive me since I still don’t have my vehicle. He’s got Miller with him. Apparently Sunny and Lily decided to do pedicures or some girly crap and won’t be home for a couple more hours, so they’re happy to chauffeur me around.

  I’m fifteen minutes early for the appointment, so I pull my hood up and make a half-assed attempt at filling out the paperwork. I don’t want to be recognized, and I don’t want to invite conversation. The receptionist is chatty, and if I make eye contact, I know she’ll have all sorts of questions I’m not interested in answering.

  My picture’s already ended up on a few sites in the past twenty-four hours. My agent and publicist are going to be on my ass. I haven’t called either of them, though I have messages from both on top of all the ones from Tash I haven’t looked at yet.

  I put my phone on silent, stuff it in my pocket, and close my eyes. The messages and problems aren’t going anywhere. They’ll all still be waiting for me after this torturous massage.

  CHAPTER 4

  THIS IS NOT

  A HAPPY ENDING

  POPPY

  April sticks her head in the door and makes a face. “Good Lord, Poppy, how do you manage? It looks like you sheared a black lab in here.”

  “He’s as friendly as one.” Mr. Stroker has more hair on his back than a hibernating bear, but he’s a nice man. He also has a herniated disc, and vertebrae three through five have been fused, so his mobility depends a lot on his weekly visits. Excessive hair aside, I like that my treatments help alleviate some of his pain.

  The sheets I’m rolling into a ball are covered in his black fuzz. I wonder if his wife has ever suggested waxing and what kind of bribery would be required before he agreed. I have to use an excessive amount of oil on him to avoid ripping out too much hair. Even so, the sheets are always covered in man fur when I’m done with him.

  The bodies I’m exposed to on a daily basis are as interesting as they are disgusting at times. But despite the excessive hair on my last client, I’m still starving.

  “Want to run across to the bakery with me? I was thinking about walking to the park and eating there since I have lots of time before my next appointment. It’s such a beautiful day.” I’m irrationally excited for a ham and cheese croissant—and maybe one of those delicious tarts—and an ice-cold soda. It’s a warm day, and I want to take advantage before the cooler fall weather sets in.

  I toss the sheets in the laundry basket.

  April makes another face, along with a weird, sucky sound.

  “I don’t like that face, or that noise.”

  “About your dinner break…” She trails off, still making the face.

  I prop a hand on my hip. “Don’t tell me they booked me another appointment.”

  Her expression holds genuine apology. “We’re all back to back today, and you had the only spot left. It’s a favor for some big NHL player or whatever. You know how Tim’s always trying to get them in here for rehab. Well, it looks like you’re the guinea pig.”

  Tim is the owner of the clinic. He’s a nice guy, but I don’t like him much right now. I’m also the one he comes to when he’s in a bind because I’m the least likely to say no.

  Normally I’d agree that this is a fantastic opportunity. Athletes tend to have interesting muscular issues, and helping to resolve those is something I’m usually excited about.

  I loved studying human physiology in school, and while I wasn’t great at sports, I was always good at figuring out how to manage the injuries that occurred, which is a big part of the reason I went into this field. Helping people makes me happy.

  But not so much when it interferes with my dinner plans.

  “So I get to rub oil all over an NHL player instead of eating? Awesome. I’m overwhelmed with joy.”

  April rolls her eyes and passes me the clipboard with his information. “If it’s any consolation, he’s a serious hottie. I’m sure most women would trip over themselves for the honor.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m not most women.” My experience with NHL players, while limited, hasn’t been particularly fantastic. The form is covered in masculine, barely legible scrawl. I blink a few times as I read the name, positive I can’t be seeing this right.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then open them again. Heavy black pen still spells out Lance Romero across the top of the page.

  Talk about ruining what started as a moderately decent day... I must groan out loud because April makes another one of her faces. It should be unattractive, but April is stunningly beautiful, so it’s just animated.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I try to pass her back the clipboard. “Why don’t you treat him and I’ll treat your client. Who is it?”

  April’s jaw drops, and she taps the paper, right beside Lance’s block letters. “Are you high right now? Do you even know who this is?”

  Oh, I know exactly who Lance Romero is. He’s number twenty-one for Chicago. I saw him for the first time in more than a decade just over a year ago—not that he remembered me from when we were kids. If I could never see him again, that would be awesome, and extremely preferable to being locked in a room alone with him. For an hour. Where I have to touch him. With my hands.

  I don’t say any of that, though, because then I’d have to offer an explanation. No thanks to that.

  “Can you trade?” I ask again.

  “I would love to, but I have Ms. Thong next, and that won’t fly. What’s the deal? Why wouldn’t you want to get your hands all over this guy? Maybe he’ll want a glute massage.”

  Sometimes we nickname our clients. Ms. Thong is seventy-six years old and wears the kind of panties you’d find on a stripper. Usually I think that’s funny, but right now I’m panicking.

  “April.”

  “Seriously, Poppy, what’s the deal? Why’s your face red? Why don’t you want to treat him? Do you have a secret crush on him? Do you lurrrve him?”

  April and I have become good friends over the past year, since we took massage therapist positions at this clinic. We were in the same program in college, but we had opposite schedules, so we only ever saw each other in passing. We’re pretty close now, though.

  Sometimes we even go out on the weekends together. Most of the time we just watch movies, because I’m not much for partying, and most of the time neither is she. On rare occasions we’ll go to a bar and laugh at the ridiculous guys who try to pick us up. But I have never, ever talked to her about the time I spent the night at Lance Romero’s house. Not in his bed. Oh no, my no-longer-friend Kristi was the one who had the pleasure of messing up his sheets. I know all about how outstanding Lance is in bed, thanks to her detailed recount.

  Not that I’d want to sleep with him—or would have had opportunity presented itself. He’s an absolute dog. Who’s apparently amazing in bed. And a real giver.

  I offer April a version of the truth. “I went to school with him.” And he’s the first boy who ever kissed me with tongue.

  “No way!”


  “It was grade school. It’s whatever. It’s not like he’ll remember me. We were kids. It’s not important.”

  Mostly I’m trying to convince myself. He didn’t remember me last time. I can only hope it’ll be that way again. Otherwise this hour is going to be the worst. I wish my face didn’t feel like it was on fire right now.

  April narrows her eyes. “Why do I feel like there’s way more to this story?”

  The little buzzer goes off, signaling my next appointment, who happens to be the first guy I ever crushed on.

  April points a finger at me. “We will talk about this later. I want to know why you look like you’re about to burst into flames.”

  I ignore her and grab fresh sheets so I can dress my table.

  April stops before she opens the door. “I can’t believe you went to school with him. I want a firm ass report.”

  “Way to keep it professional.”

  She slips out of the room, leaving the door open a crack. I finish putting fresh sheets on the table and arrange the pillows before I take a few deep, cleansing breaths to prepare for what is likely going to be a painful hour.

  There’s so much irony in this situation. If this was a year ago, I probably would’ve fainted at the sight of Lance’s name scrawled across a patient sheet. But no matter how I feel, I need to put aside my personal issues and focus on the purpose of him being here. People come to see me when they’re in pain. If Lance is here, it’s likely an issue that’s impacting his ability to do his job, and my role is to help. I manipulate the human body in simple, gentle ways to help make that pain go away. I can keep this professional.

  Armed with my clipboard, I walk down the hall to the waiting room. Lance is impossible to miss. Despite the fact that he’s wearing a sweatshirt and the hood is covering half of his face, he’s more than six feet of broad, hockey-playing man.

  He’s so wide his shoulders encroach on the chairs on either side, which would explain why no one is sitting next to him. He’s slouched down so his head rests on the back of the chair, and his hands are clasped in his lap, a baseball cap hanging off one knee. His lips, plush and soft—I know since I’ve had them on mine; it might have been a decade ago, but I remember it clearly—are parted. He looks like he’s asleep.