Puck Buddies Page 2

  I dodge a blue defender and carve out an opening, but it soon becomes clear no one’s going to send me the puck.

  The blue team scores.

  This time I double the hustle, actively seeking out the puck and trying to snatch it away. I almost can’t believe it myself when I manage to do so successfuly, skating hard towards the blue goal with the puck in front of me, side-stepping one defender and looping around the next.

  I can’t help but smile.

  I’m Wayne Fucking Gretzky, bitch!

  Something smacks into me from the side, driving me completely off my feet and into the glass. Pain shoots up my shoulder as I bounce off it and come crashing back down to the ice, the puck sliding away to be scooped up by Ricky, who skids to a stop, spraying me with ice. “Go back to your bum bandits, Beckett. There’s nothing for you here.”

  I ignore the pain and get up, notice one of the other red team members shaking his head as he skates past.

  Ricky scores, looping around the back of the goal laughing and smiling.

  I lock my eyes on him. So you want to get physical, do you? I can do physical.

  I steel myself. Fuck scoring. Fuck the rules. I only want one thing.

  I skate with long, slow strokes, ignoring where the puck’s at and setting myself as close to Ricky as possible. A blue defender goes to shoulder check me, but I’m ready, cutting hard right and hammering my elbow deep into his sternum. He goes down like a sack o’ shit.

  I keep on, brushing off another wannabee gangster and pinning myself to Ricky’s position. My confidence is building, that red hot nickel ball of Beckett fire starting to heat up inside me.

  “Hey!” another red team member shouts, lining me up.

  I take hold of my stick and draw it back, smashing him across the jaw. He spins away.

  It doesn’t go unnoticed. Everyone makes for my position—red, blue, all of them jostling to take me out, but I’m quick, dancing and darting, weaving and slipping through them until I’m right on Ricky’s tail.

  He takes possession of the puck, building up speed. He’s a quick little prick, but so I am.

  He sees me, right on him, cutting left and right, trying to shake me off as we close in on the red goalie, but he’s not going to escape this time.

  I swing left and hide myself behind a line of blue defenders, waiting until just the right moment before swooping right and lowering my body.

  Poor Ricky Lake doesn’t even see it coming.

  I collect him somewhere around his hips with my stick and body, lifting him skywards maybe four, five feet into the air and slamming him into the glass. He sort of rolls upwards even higher. For a second I think he’s going over the glass completely, but he drops onto the ice, the glass cracked from the impact.

  Silence.

  Ricky tries to get up, collapsing back to the ice dazed, blubbering away in like he’s reciting Dr. Seuss.

  I’m tackled to the ice, a punch collecting my jaw, another digging into my ribs.

  I’ve taken a beating before. I can take it again.

  Noah and the coach arrive, shouting and ripping people off me.

  I manage to get to my feet.

  The coach shoves me. “Get the fuck off my rink!”

  I put my hands up, skating backwards.

  Ricky’s being helped up by his teammates. He spots me. “You’re fucking dead, eh. You hear me?”

  “Sure do, dickhead.”

  I strip off as soon as I’m off rink, leaving the gear in a pile and heading for the doors.

  That went well. Don’t you think?

  It’s déjà vu, another walk of shame because I can’t keep my temper under control or my dick in my pants, another lecture and big boot up my ass, rocketing me off to my next failure.

  I’m halfway across the parking lot when someone grabs me from behind. I spin around with my hands up, light snow falling to the asphalt. I’m ready for a fight, but it’s Noah, the scout.

  “Wait,” he says, hands up, “Jesus Christ. Just one damn moment, eh?”

  I lower my hands. “Sorry.”

  He points behind himself. “About what happened in there? I don’t know, almost killing the team captain and leaving his best buddy with a shiner thanks to your stick tricks, all of which was completely against the rules… You’re sorry about that, you mean?”

  “It didn’t work out,” I shrug. “So yeah, sorry I wasted your time.”

  I keep walking. I left my jacket inside, but fuck it. There’s no way I’m going back into that ass factory.

  I take the bus to where I’m staying, a single-bedroom granny flat at the back of an old woman’s property. She’s got more fingers than teeth and smells like baking soda, but she’s been accommodating enough. Besides, it was the only place left in town.

  I take a shower, cursing when the water goes from heavenly hot to ball-cuppingly cold. I slam my open fist against the tiles. “Does nothing in this fucking town work?”

  The water remains icy.

  Apparently not.

  I dress and sit in front of the heater, watching the way the temperature dial flashes on and off, on and off.

  What now, genius?

  I screwed up the single chance I had here. This was my only ticket back into college, and what do I do? Five minutes in and I’ve gone full-on GI Joe.

  A knock on the door startles me out of my stupor.

  I answer it, holding myself.

  It’s Noah, still wearing that same Maple Leafs T-shirt. “There you are,” he says, stepping in.

  “How’d you—”

  “Find you?” he laughs. “Hate to tell you, but everyone knows everyone in Branton. You couldn’t hide out here if you were Harry Houdini.”

  I’m still not sure why he’s here. “If you’ve come to tell me to leave town… “

  “Quite the contrary. I think I can get you into the college.”

  The fuck? “You’re joking.”

  “Your skating needs work, as does your stick-handling, and your temper… Boy, oh, boy, is there some work to be had there. But,” he says, dipping forward and taking a seat at the small breakfast table, “you’re exactly the kind of raw aggression this team needs to pull itself back onto the ladder.”

  “And the coach is going to go for that after what I pulled?”

  “He will… come around.”

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “I’ve already spoken to the Dean.” He stands, reaching into his pocket and handing me a slip of paper. “Fill in the details. Classes start after the weekend. Smart fella like you can catch up from the missed week, I’m sure.”

  “Thanks,” I say, admittedly stunned.

  He takes hold of the doorknob and pauses. “But Colton, as much as we need that aggression, you’re going to have to put a leash on it, yes?”

  “Yes, sir,” I reply.

  “Stay focused,” he says. “I want to see you on the ice, not in a body bag.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  HARPER

  Branton isn’t exactly known for its bar culture and nightlife. Ice fishing? All aboard. Drinking? Here’s an overpriced Molson to share with the five other people at the bar. Which is why I’m surprised when the sole bar in town is almost full when I arrive. And loud. Wheat Kings by The Tragically Hip blares as I scan for Mindy.

  I spot her in a corner with two neon cocktails. I give her a peck on the cheek and sit down. “What’s going on?”

  She takes a sip of her cocktail. “Some kind of Sunday night free-drink clusterfuck they’re trialing.”

  I look around. I thought I was going all out in a tight black top and my best pair of jeans, but given the other girls in the bar, I’m underdressed.

  You’re losing your touch, gal. Not that I was any sort of Elle Woods at school, or even college, but I had style… once… I think.

  I pick up the cocktail. “What’s this?”

  “A ‘Winter Garden.’ I thought we should celebrate.”

  I roll my eyes, taking
off my jacket and preparing myself for a long reading of James’s many faults, the many and varied warning signs I just should have seen like my life is a giant Buzzfeed article. “Well, they got the winter part right. What’s in it?”

  “Redemption…. And gin, vermouth, rosewater yadda-yadda. Medicine.”

  “I’ve already had my medicine, the cacao kind.” I nervously bring the glass to my lips, tipping the glass-slash-bowl back. It’s surprisingly warming once you get past the overwhelming taste of alcohol. “Are you trying to get me drunk so you can have your wicked way with me?”

  Mindy arches an eyebrow. “Girl, even if I did swing that way your scrawny ass wouldn’t do it for me.”

  I look over my shoulder down to my butt. “My ass is not scrawny.”

  “You’ve never heard the phrase ‘cushion for the pushin’?”

  “How about the phrase ‘Pain in the ass’?” I retort, smiling.

  She laughs. “B-b-burn, but seriously, you got to start eating more.”

  “In-between classes, and marking, and prep, and—”

  Mindy puts her hand up. “Yes, yes, I get it. You’re busy, but if you don’t look after yourself, who will?”

  And there I go again imagining myself as that forlorn spinster knitting by a window, wondering where her youth went. I shake my head. “God, I feel so crappy. This whole thing with James…”

  “No, no, no,” Mindy shakes her finger. “I’m not going to sit here and watch you sink into a big pile o’ pity. Forget James and his bendy penis.”

  I lift my head from the table. “I told you about that?”

  “Oversharing doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  “You love it,” I laugh. “You live vicariously through me.”

  “Do not.”

  “Do so.”

  Given what I’ve heard through the wall of late, however, suggests Mindy needs no help on the living front. I’m waiting for the day Mrs. Robinson upstairs knocks on our door asking who’s being murdered.

  We’re smiling at each other, and though my spirits are momentarily lifted, I think of James and all the bullshit that is my life and start to sink into that pity puddle all over again.

  Mindy sees it. “Oh no you don’t.” She stands, scanning the room like a sailor looking for land. “We need to get you an emergency lay, stat.”

  I exhale. “Can we not?”

  She narrows her eyes, examining the crowd. “Nah, too old. Too… fugly. Too… uppity. Too… Just no.” She stops. “Hello.”

  I follow her eyes to a guy sitting at the bar with a beer between his hands, looking down into it like it’s a magic eight ball. We’re side on, but he’s definitely attractive—sharp jawline, inky hair, thick arms. He’s wearing a tight black tee, casual, clearly not a local.

  A man of mystery, right here in Branton, the black hole of the western world.

  “Go and talk to him,” Mindy demands.

  I look over again, take in the competition, and turn back to Mindy defeated. “I can’t do it. I’m out of practice.”

  Mindy stands, swiping her cocktail up. “Fine. You won’t, I will.”

  “Wa—” But she’s already heading over there, weaving her way to the bar.

  Damn it.

  She sits down besides Mr. Broody. I see her introduce herself, extend her hand. She’s smooth, always has been. She was a boy magnet in high school and remains so now thanks to her exotic South American-cross-French heritage. Guys pick up on that kind of cultural catnip instantly.

  My stomach tightens while I watch her. It takes me a while before I work out it’s jealousy. I’m sitting here actually jealous at my best friend.

  Because unlike you, my dear, Mindy is not a coward.

  I sort of wanted to sit here and vent, get all this toxic crap out of my system, but now Mindy’s off doing what she does best. I give her five minutes before she’s fucking this guy’s brains out in the bathroom.

  I should leave. I should get the hell out of here and rug up back home with a good book and box of Parisian truffles, maybe a little Gabriel Macht to wash it down.

  “Harper!”

  I look back over to Mindy, surprised to see her waving me over, Mr. Mysterious locked onto me with such a heavy, demanding gaze it’s a wonder I’m still standing, ah, sitting.

  I can feel myself flushing hot. What the hell, Harper?

  I’m frozen. Get over there! my head demands, my legs remaining rock solid.

  “Harper!” shouts Mindy, using her loudspeaker of a voice to summon almost everyone in the bar.

  There’s no way out of this. I stand, reluctantly, clutching my jacket as I make my way over. I am going to kill Mindy later. Death by Here Comes Honey Boo Boo reruns. The way she’s smiling like a Cheshire cat is making it all the easier to plot her demise.

  Mindy scoots down a stool, forcing me to sit right next to Sir Sexual. He smells good—cinnamon, leather, even though there’s none of the latter to be seen. And those eyes… Cornflower blue and bright as a meteor shower. They’re pinning me with such intensity, such depth I’m starting to think I should have worn two pairs of panties to soak up my arousal.

  This guy is beyond anything I’ve seen in Branton before. Seriously. This is the kind of crazy, outrageously hot individual that would be whipped in public in lesser countries simply for being so sinfully sexy. And that damn dark, messy hair, that sex hair… How does that even happen? How do you roll out of bed, brushing aside your conquests, and leave the house looking like that?

  Mindy’s straight into the introductions. “Harper, meet Colton. Colton, meet Harper.”

  He extends his hand I take it. It’s warm. No, hot, searing really.

  My breath catches. This is no James. This is a bonafide, real, flesh-and-blood man pulled straight from a centerfold.

  He ignores Mindy completely. “Tell me, Harper,” he starts, lips moving hypnotically, “what counts for fun in Branton?”

  His voice has a low rasp to it, a come-hither pull perfected from years in the game. I almost choke, Mindy poking me from behind. “Um,” I stammer, trying to form a response, “there’s ice fishing?”

  Ice fishing?! Are you trying to turn this guy off? I’ve never even been ice fishing.

  He smiles, sin incarnate. “You don’t strike me as the ice fishing type.”

  Mindy hovers over my shoulder. “Oh, she loooves reeling them in… the big ones, you know?”

  Yep. I’m definitely strangling her in her sleep tonight.

  Colton raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

  “No,” I reply firmly. “I’m not into fishing.”

  “What are you into?”

  Hot, Hollywood guys dripping sex appeal. I swallow hard again, can feel Mindy willing me on from behind. “You go first,” I say, turning the tables like we’re sixteen playing truth or dare.

  And perhaps seven minutes in heaven later…

  His eyes drop down to my cleavage, further to my supposedly scrawny hips and legs. This guy? I doubt he’d even need his hands to get my dress off. He’d say a single, magical word and poof, it’d be gone, a grand illusion.

  I press my legs together hard to ward off the need that’s growing there, the very alien and strange need I haven’t felt in years.

  “You,” he states, “for one.”

  He just said he’s into you. Or did he mean ‘in me’? I almost choke again, picking up Mindy’s cocktail and drinking, anything to lubricate my throat that suddenly seems so bone dry. “You are?” I rush out.

  “I am,” comes the sultry response, his frosty lake eyes once again on mine, reeling me in like the aforementioned fish.

  I don’t know if I can do this. I’m burning up, a human Hindenburg heading for the ground. I spin to get Mindy in on the conversation, get some kind of chroma XX support, but she’s gone.

  I look around frantically, but she’s nowhere to be seen.

  Crapola.

  “Your friend took off,” Colton says, sliding closer to me.

 
I can’t believe it. This was all a wingwoman’s gambit. Now I’m stuck here with this sexy, clearly overconfident creature without a single lifeline. Phone-A-Friend is off the table, Ask the Audience is a lost hope, and there’s a 50:50 chance I’m going to spontaneously combust… or pee myself.

  “Which is fine by me,” he continues, “because all I want is you—out of that dress, waiting and willing.”

  And I swear to god I burst into flame.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  COLTON

  And here I thought Branton had nothing to offer but snow and sour faces.

  I’d be lying if I told myself I didn’t want to fuck this girl in front of me right now, take her out back and pin her hard against the wall, cover her mouth while I make her come. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  Full lips, high cheekbones, cute sort of elf ears pointing out of long, deep brown hair that flows around her shoulders like honey… To say she’s fuckable would be an understatement.

  She’s babbling away about ice fishing, anything to avoid getting down to what she really wants. I can tell, I can smell it—the need, the heated yearning for my cock. She’ll get it alright, but I’m having too much fun to draw this to a quick conclusion.

  She looks over her shoulder for her friend again, but hip girl’s gone. It was a pro move on her behalf. I’ll admit that.

  “So,” says Harper, ignoring my initial come-on and facing back to me. She runs an errant lick of auburn hair over her ear, “you’re new in town?”

  I pick up my beer, take a swig. “You could say that.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Abottsleigh,” I announce.

  “USA?”

  I nod. “I was attending university there.” Before getting expelled.

  This impresses her. I spot the confirmation in her eyes, the surprise. “Wow, that’s quite an accomplishment. It’s a great college, one of the best.”

  I could tell her the whole story, maybe drag up some sympathy points, but I don’t see the point. She’ll be a memory come morning. We both know this is nothing more than an inevitable hook-up, a way to keep warm in the coldest fucking town on earth.