Pucked Over (Pucked #3) (38 page)

“It’s not like talking about it is gonna change anything.”

“How do you know that?” Miller asks.

I run a frustrated hand through my hair. “Because it was supposed to be just fun and now it isn’t for her.”

“Can you explain that?” Miller asks.

“It was getting too serious,” I summarize.

“For who?” Miller scratches his week-old beard.

We’ve been over this before. I don’t see why we’re having the same conversation again. “For her.”

“So all she wanted was dick?” Miller asks.

“Well, yeah. We had a conversation right at the beginning about it being just fun and keeping things light.”

“Can we back up a second, because I’m still confused. Sunny says Lily’s a fucking mess over this. I don’t get why she’d be so upset if she was only in it for the dick.”

“I’m her rebound. I didn’t think it was going to turn into a case of the feelings.”

“Am I the only one here who’s acknowledging that you’ve been talking about Lily like you two were in a relationship?” Lance asks.

“No, we were—”

“Just having fun. We know.” Lance rolls his eyes.

“Well, what else could it reasonably be with her all the way in Canada and me traveling half the year? Besides, she just got out of a seven-year relationship—”

“From the sound of it, that relationship was over long before that,” Miller says.

“It’s not like it matters. It’s better this way. Ending shit was smart before I could ruin it by doing something stupid.” Shit. I am teen-girl PMS-y.

“What are you even talking about?” Miller asks.

“She’s moving here, and I’m gonna want this to be something it can’t be.” I think it should be clear by now who I am.

“You mean a relationship?” Miller presses. Lance is staring at his Xbox controller.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t get why it can’t be exactly that, especially with her moving to Chicago. That’s way easier to manage than her living in Canada. I would know. It seems like that’s what you want.”

“Yeah, but I’m gonna fuck her over eventually.”

“How can you know? They replace your balls with crystal ones? Can you see into the future?” Miller looks extremely unimpressed.

“That’s what my dad did. He fucked my mom over. Repeatedly. I don’t ever want to do that to another person. I don’t wanna hurt someone like that.”

“You’re not your dad,” Miller argues.

“I’m exactly like him.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes. I am.”

“Uh, dude, I grew up with you. I know what your dad’s like, and while you might look like him and you might play hockey like he did—except better—that’s where the similarities end. You’ve spent your entire life trying
not
to be like him. You’d never do to another person what he did to your mom. You’re a better person than he is.”

“I almost screwed another girl the last time I was in Toronto. The only reason I didn’t was because Lily showed up.”

“You wouldn’t have fucked her,” Lance says quietly.

“You don’t know that. If you hadn’t said something, I wouldn’t have checked my messages, and I would’ve taken that chick up to my room.”

“Doesn’t mean you would’ve fucked her. I wouldn’t have let that happen,” Lance replies.

“I don’t see how you would’ve been able to stop me. And that’s the point, isn’t it? I don’t have the ability to be with one person.”

“You’ve never even tried to know,” Miller fires back. “You always cut out when it starts getting real—except you didn’t do that with Lily.”

“Look how well that’s worked out! And when she told me how she felt, I told her I’d fuck her over. Why the hell would she want anything to do with me after I said something like that?”

Lance is shaking his head now, but still looking at the floor.

Miller runs his palms over his thighs. “Look how much I screwed up with Sunny at the beginning, when I was still going to parties and there were all those pictures and shit. We had fights, and we talked it out. We got over it and made it work. You can’t know what the deal is with Lily unless you see her and talk. And if she’s not on the same page anymore, well, at least you tried rather than sitting here on your couch, making everyone around you deal with your fucking misery.”

He’s not wrong. And that sucks.

“We’ve all seen you with Lily,” Lance chimes in, the hint of Scot gets thicker as he continues. “There are feelings there. On both sides. Don’t let someone else’s bad choices be the reason you give up something that could be good.”

“He’s got a point,” Miller says.

I can’t believe I’m about to take relationship advice from Lance.

Pining: Not Just for Trees

LILY

I’m not a piner. I don’t sit around and wallow. Well, I never used to sit around and wallow. But that’s what I’ve been doing between packing and training a new coach. She’s fantastic, and she’ll do an amazing job. But leaving my girls is hard. I’ve worked with some of them for a long time, watched them become beautiful skaters. The change should be good, though.
Will
be good. When I stop pining.

I keep having moments of sheer panic in which I envision myself driving over to Randy’s, knocking on his door, and begging him to hold me/fuck me/love me. The middle scenario isn’t the most prevalent. Shocking, I know.

I keep going over my decision to move and reminding myself I’m actually doing it for the right reasons now. The whole point of ending things with Randy was so I’d have some perspective, and to ensure I didn’t make a huge life choice based on wanting something I can’t have. I still want it, but at least I’m not pretending and holding on to something that wasn’t even real any more.

In the end I can’t say I’m moving for
all
the right reasons, but I do know I never want to get back together with Benji, and living in a big city will definitely be an experience. Besides, my mom’s moving in with Tim-Tom, so I’d have to find a new place to live, one way or another.

I lay my suitcase on my bed and flip it open. It’s new. I bought it two days ago on a shopping expedition with my mom. She’s okay with the move. She’s not even getting on my case about the whole Randy situation—although that may be due in part to my epic fits of snot-sobbing since the end of having fun.

Things I’ve learned about myself in the past six months: I’m not cut out for casual sex. My sometimes bitchy exterior is my Lego armor against how sensitive I am. If I’d been this insightful prior to falling for Randy, I might have come out of this with a little less angst. Or maybe not. There were a lot of mixed signals, I’m coming to realize. He was the one who insisted it be “fun,” but that week with him in Chicago… I can’t help feeling it wasn’t just me. Regardless, it’s over, and I’m sad about that.

I neatly pack my suitcase, starting with my socks. I discover I have a lot of socks, and half of them are missing their partners. It seems rather karmic, considering. Fucking karma. Such a bitch sometimes.

I put on some music—emo, of course, to match my constantly fluctuating mood—and move on to my underwear drawer. Half my panties need to be replaced because they’re old or falling apart. I still have the ones Randy bought for me over the holidays.

We didn’t so much exchange Christmas presents as we exchanged underwear. I’m missing the pretty blue pair with the lace, but I have the pair of his pink boxers I vandalized—a parting gift to remember him by.

It’s a little creepy-stalker, but I’m okay with that. I’m also guilty of creeping his social media accounts and trolling the puck bunny/hockey hooker groups. So far there are no reports of Randy going ballistic (ha) on any new bunnies. It’s a terrible form of torture, waiting for it to happen and break me all over again.

At the knock on my door, I stuff Randy’s underwear under a pile of socks. “Come in.”

My mom pokes her head in. “How’s it going?”

“Good. I’ll be done with this in a bit, and then I can help you with the kitchen.” I close the empty drawer. I feel something wet on my face and realize I’m crying. Again. Emotions blow dick. Randy’s badass scarred dick. Thinking about that definitely doesn’t stop the tears.

My mom folds me in her bony embrace. We’re both lean, so it’s nothing like hugging say, Randy, who’s all hard lines and muscle and man, and
—shit
I really need to stop thinking about him.

My mom strokes my hair, like she used to do when I was little. It’s soothing. “Is this because you’re moving away from me, or because you’re still sad about your hockey boy?”

“I don’t know. Both I guess.” I sniffle. It’s rather pathetic.

She lets go and takes my face between her hands. Her smile is sad. “He’s an idiot not to want you.”

“He wants me, just not the way I want him.” I try to stifle one of those horrible snot-sobs. I’m unsuccessful.

“You’re sure about that?” she asks softly.

“He made it clear from the beginning it was only ever going to be casual.”

“Feelings can change, Lily.”

“His haven’t.” I think about that phone call, the one about the girl at the bar who looked like me. In a matter of hours he’d been looking to replace me. “He said he’d fuck me over, eventually.”

My mom sighs. “Sometimes when people are scared of what they’re feeling, they push people away.”

“Maybe. I don’t know. He hasn’t tried to call me lately, or text. I think it’s just done.”

She gives me another bony squeeze. “I won’t tell you there are plenty of fish in the sea, even though there are. And you’ll find the one who’s right for you, at the right time.”

It doesn’t feel like I’m going to find another fish right now. I sniffle. “You probably shouldn’t since you turned forty and the verdict’s still out on Tim-Tom.”

“It’s Tim, honey, and he’s good for me.”

“Tim-Tom has a nice ring to it, though.”

My mom laughs, and then grows serious. “I know I made a lot of mistakes along the way, and a lot of bad choices, but I want you to know I have no regrets when it comes to you. Well, that’s not true. I wish I could’ve given you more. You deserved so much more than you got, but I did the best I could—”

She chokes on the rest of the words. Which is probably a good thing. My mom and me, we don’t have these deep, heartfelt conversations, likely because we both end up ugly-crying.

I pat her back. “You did great, Mom.”

“I’m sorry about the hockey boy.”

“His name is Randy, and me, too. The sex was really great.”

“I definitely didn’t need to know that.”

“I’ve seen Tim-Tom’s woody.”

“I think we should have a drink.”

I follow her out to the kitchen where she pours me a glass of wine, and we watch the hockey game. Toronto is playing Chicago. Randy’s beard is beautiful. He looks fantastic. And he scores a goal. My phone buzzes about half an hour after the game ends. I won’t lie; my entire being wants it to be Randy—from my hair follicles to my Vagina Emporium.

It’s not.

It’s Benji. I dropped his stuff off a few days ago. It went slightly better than I’d expected. He tried to convince me I was making a mistake by moving to Chicago, and that we should get back together. I pointed out that it definitely wouldn’t work with me moving. He got mad and then cried. It could’ve been way worse. But in my haste to leave, I forgot my box.

I groan and check the message. He’s letting me know Benny is stopping by in the morning with my stuff.

There’s some relief in not having to deal with him directly again. We have a lot of history, and I’m a little sad that this is how it’s ending, but I’m also aware that I’ll be back, and sometimes time and distance makes it easier to be friends. Who knows if that will ever happen with us.

I go to sleep with my suitcase taking up half my bed, and I wake up to my phone going off. It’s Benny. I forgot to set an alarm.

“I’ll be right down,” I tell him.

I pull a hoodie on over my tank top and shove my feet into my slippers. They’re huge and cumbersome, but at least they’re warm. Sunny got them for me for Christmas. I don’t bother checking my reflection in the mirror before I go down. Frankly, I don’t give a shit what I look like.

I close my eyes for the ride in the elevator. I have a headache. I only had one glass of wine, but it was a big one.

Benny’s car is parked in front of my building. I pad across the snowy sidewalk in my moose slippers. I’ll need to set them on a vent to dry, but I don’t want Benny to offer to bring my stuff up.

He gets out of the car. He’s got a beard going on. It’s neater than Benji’s, but when they both have one, they could pass for twins. He raises a brow at my outfit. “Looks like I woke you. I could’ve met you at the door.”

“It’s fine. I needed to get up anyway. Lots of packing to do.” I don’t have much left, but it’s something to say.

“So you’re moving to Chicago, eh?”

I shove my hands in the pouch of my hoodie. “Yeah.”