Pucked Up(4)

By: Helena Hunting


“Whatever you say, Butterson. But if you fall asleep there, I’m not waking your ass 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 ass. “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, wishing I’d gone home instead of coming here. I must pass 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 pussy 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-shirt on. I don’t normally do underwear, but clubs are hot. They make my balls 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 cushions 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 porn, I have a choice between sports highlights and old sitcoms or the music video channel. I flip aimlessly, pausing at some bad porn. I doubt I’ll have the energy to whack off later. I might be drunk enough to have whiskey dick, 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 ass 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 shirt 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 dick 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.

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