Forbidden Puck Page 2

  “You've got a lot to learn, kid. You don't realize I'm setting traps for you every time we play.”

  “Oh, that was a trap, was it? Yeah, right, you gambled and you got lucky.”

  Ilya, always amused and always laughing, chuckled heartily. “That, that was not luck. You walked right into that, Lance. Everyone could see that coming!”

  “Just like everyone knew Hunter Rockwell was going top cheddar on you tonight, right Ilya?” Lance shot back.

  Someone in the row ahead of us overheard the insult and gasped, “Damn!”

  Rockwell had scored the only goal of the game for Colorado with a laser of a wrist-shot that he fired over Ilya's shoulder and into the roof of the net—AKA, top cheddar.

  Ilya grinned. “Yes. Same way you saw Beau Bradford's right hook coming right for your eye.”

  The boys in the row ahead of us went “ooooh!”

  “Can't stand that Bradford prick,” Lance said as he repositioned his ice bag. “Can you fuckin' believe he sucker-punched me?”

  I chuckled. “What did you expect? You were cracking jokes about sleeping with his wife. You gotta expect a response like that from a guy like him. You joke about a guy's family, the code says he has a right to lash out.”

  Lance patted my shoulder. “Well, thanks for standing up for me anyway, Radar. I can always count on you.”

  After Bradford sucker punched Lance, I rushed in and grabbed a hold of him. The two of us squared off and threw bombs at each other. Beau's a big kid and a tough customer, but I'm no pushover, either. We fought to a draw until the refs broke the fight up.

  That's my role out on the ice—police the code of the game. When things get too heated on the ice, I step in to calm the tensions—and sometimes, I have to let my fists do the talking. But most importantly, I have to make sure that no one takes any liberties on Lance. Because you have to protect your star if you want to go far in this league.

  “Just doing my job, bud,” I replied.

  Shea made small talk while he dealt another hand. “So, after that road trip, it'll be good to be back home, eh? Anyone got plans?”

  He was met by a few grunts and grumbles.

  “Nobody?” Shea asked with a shrug. The cards kept coming. “Hey Radar, Lance, how's that new condo of yours?”

  “It's nice,” I said. “We're in Charlestown, right downtown, close to all the bars.”

  “So when are you two gonna have the team over to your condo for a little house-warming?”

  I shot Lance a look. “Actually, we should have the boys over soon. But the place is still so empty. We need to hire someone to furnish it or something.”

  “Yeah,” Lance agreed with a frown. But then something dawned on him. “Wait a minute. My little sister! Ella. She's an interior decorator and she loves fashion and design and furniture and all that bullshit. I'll ask her right now.” He whipped out his phone and started tapping away. “And hey, I put her through college, so I figure she owes me one.”

  “As long as you gents are getting along at home,” Shea said as an aside. “That's all I care about. Because the last thing this team needs is to be torn apart by some dissues.”

  “Dissues?” Ilya asked. “What is this word?”

  “It's slang. It means 'dish issues,'” Shea told the Russian. “Like when someone doesn't clean up after themselves in the sink.” He lowered his voice. “And I'm betting that Lance is the slob.”

  Lance rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I'm a slob, so what? Radar wakes me up in the middle of the night, so it all evens out in the end.”

  Ilya joked, with his infamous shit-eating grin, “I hate it when you wake up freezing, because your lover stole the bed sheets from you.”

  He earned a few snickers from around the plane.

  “Now don't go bringing your sick wank fantasies into this, Ilya,” Lance countered. “Anyway, no, Radar didn't steal the comforter from me … but maybe that's what his lady friends are always screaming about!”

  Towards the front of the plane, my teammates' heads suddenly popped into the aisle, and every last set of eyeballs was focused right on me.

  Oh, for God's sake. Ever since Lance and I moved in, he's been spoiling these guys with the details of my love life. I felt an embarrassed heat rising in my cheeks.

  “Another notch in the belt, eh Radar?” someone called from the front of the plane.

  “Notch in the belt? Don't you mean, pair of panties for the panty-box?” someone else replied.

  And then everyone exploded into laughter with that last one.

  “Shutup,” I roared back at them. And then I mumbled quietly to the poker table, “I never should've told them about that.”

  “You didn't tell them about your panty collection,” Lance said with a glint in his eye. “I did.”

  “Right. Thanks for reminding me, dickhead. I'm trying to forget for your sake …”

  Lance knew he had the attention of everyone on the plane. He spoke loudly, addressing the team.

  “So, it was the night before we left Boston for this road trip. At three in the morning, I wake up to this guys' headboard crashing against the wall, bang bang bang! And a girl starts screaming, 'No! No … don't … no—nooo! Ohhh, yesssss!' I swear, it went on for hours! So if you're wondering why I played like shit that first game, now you know why.”

  More hysterical laughter over Lance's orgasmic dramatization.

  I gave Lance a shove. “At least I'm getting laid. When are you gonna figure out that your lovely Instagram butt model just wants to see how severe a case of blue-balls she can give a pro athlete?”

  Lance smirked. “Thanks, but I'll pass on the dating advice from the guy with the panty collection.”

  Josh Stone, a rookie sitting across the aisle, leaned over. “Wait, I'm confused. You said Radar's girl was screaming no?”

  “I don't get it either,” Lance said. “In Radar's defense, she sounded like she was having a good time. She came a lot more than once. Trust me. It was super hot.”

  Ilya's body shook with a silent laugh. “Sounds like you enjoyed listening.”

  “Honestly? Yeah, I got hard.” Lance gave a shrug. “Hey, why's everyone laughing? At least I'm man enough to admit it. And yeah, I'll admit it, I rubbed out a quick one, too.”

  “Ugh,” everyone groaned. Lance had taken it too far, as he always does, and now all the heads disappeared from the aisle, ear-buds were stuffed back into ear canals, and everyone went back to minding their own business.

  The look of amused horror on Ilya's face said it all. “And only a minute ago, you said I had weird wank fantasies.”

  I threw down a chip. “That really is fuckin' sick, Lance. I never want to think of you, one door down the hall, jerking it to the soundtrack of my sex life.”

  “Then next time you're nailing some dumb broad, keep it down! And I won't have to!”

  “Fine.”

  Long-in-the-tooth Shea wore a rare and wily smile. The old man was loving this whole exchange. “So what were her panties like, Radar?”

  You know the roast is bad when Shea wants to get in on the action.

  “Black. Thong. Pretty standard,” I said, resigned.

  “Oh, so a black thong is the standard, is it? Not a unique collector's item then?” Shea replied.

  “Guess not.”

  “And how the hell do you even get their panties in the first place? Do you steal them when they go to the bathroom or what? Don't they notice they aren't wearing any panties when they get dressed?”

  “Jesus, Shea. I'm not some creeper rifling through a girl's shit and stealing her panties. I don't even have to ask. They know to give them to me.”

  “They know to give them to you,” Shea repeated, and then he really looked mind-blown. “How the hell does that work? How do they know you want 'em in the first place?”

  I sighed. “Can someone else explain to Father Time how dating works in the modern era?”

  Shea shook his head. “No, no no no. That's not dating. I d
on't know what it is you kids do today, but it is not dating, lemme tell ya.”

  Groans arose all around us. The team feared a history lesson on what dating was like back in Shea's day.

  Someone shouted, “Thanks Grandpa, but it's time for a nap!”

  Shea ignored the comment and pressed further. “So what're you going to do when you fill that panty box up, Radar? Is that when you'll know it's time to settle down and get married or something?”

  “Get a bigger box, obviously.” I slammed a chip down on the table. “Are we going to play this hand or what?”

  “Uh oh, I think we made him mad.” Lance put his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “Don't get all unhinged-psycho on us now. We're just fucking with you, big guy.”

  Shea and Ilya both threw in their bets.

  “Lance?”

  But Lance's phone made a beep and distracted him. “Oh. Hey. Perfect, dude. Turns out my little sister is free to visit for the weekend. Said she had some plans but they fell through. You mind if she stays with us, Radar?”

  “Not at all.” I paused. “Didn't you say your sister was nuts, though?”

  “Oh, she's completely insane. She has this idea in her head that lies are the worst thing ever. If you lie to her and she finds out, she flies off the fucking handle. Just be warned.”

  I laughed. “Well, whatever. She'll be your problem, not mine.”

  Someone in the row ahead of us wisecracked, “you know Radar is going to add your sister's panties to his collection, right Lance?”

  Laughs came from all over, but Lance slowly turned his head to shoot me an enraged stare.

  “He better fucking not.”

  I patted his shoulder. “Relax. He's just being stupid. Family is off-limits and everyone knows that.”

  That put Lance at ease. Because if there was anything you could say about me, it was that I lived by the code. And everyone knows that there's no bigger sin than sleeping with one of the boys' family members. Wives, girlfriends, sisters, moms, aunts, whoever—just don't.

  Don't even look at them.

  Because there's no faster way to tear a team apart and get your ass traded than to get involved with a teammate's sister.

  Chapter 3

  Weekend Plans

  Ella

  I sat in front of my drafting table, the bright light from my work lamp focused on the layout in front of me. My work-space was, and always is, organized chaos: hundreds of overlapping photographs of the client's rooms. Floor plans. Fabric swatches and samples. Clippings from fashion magazines for reference and inspiration.

  This table might look like a mess to an outsider, but to me, it's a puzzle in progress. Each piece has been carefully arranged and belongs exactly where it is, forming a picture and a plan in my mind.

  Tonight, though, no matter how much I stared at my project, I couldn't see the next move.

  I sipped from my glass of wine and sighed. Another Friday night with no plans. Work can replace an actual, healthy social life and friends, for only so long. Soon, you'll start to feel spent, and your work suffers. And then you have to take a break.

  I flicked off my lamp and forced myself away from my studio. Into the living room, I threw myself face-first on my couch. My cat, Eucalyptus—so named because of his adorable, koala-like visage, if you're wondering—saw an opportunity to assert his feline dominance and leapt into action. He jumped on the sofa, planted his front paws on my back as if he were a soldier stabbing a flagpole into foreign soil, and loudly purred as he stood triumphantly over me.

  “Oh, yeah,” I groaned into the sofa cushions as the cat kneaded the tight muscles between my shoulders with his paws. “That feels great. Can you do that a little harder?”

  Sensing that I was actually enjoying this, Eucalyptus chuffed, leapt off the couch and trotted away with his head held snootily high.

  “Well, that figures.”

  It was, after all, the selfish behavior I'd come to expect from a man. Then again, a cat can be one selfish little asshole, but at least he can't lie to you.

  Speaking of. It'd been three weeks to the day since Matthew revealed his true and revolting colors. And what made this Friday night particularly depressing was the constant reminder that, had Matthew been the guy I thought he was, the two of us would've been en route to Key West at this very moment.

  It was all so disappointing. Not because I missed him, because I didn't at all—everything he'd said was more than enough to taint any good memories I might've had—but rather because he turned out to be such a goon.

  What was most disappointing was that I had to start over, again, and had no idea where to find any good men. And I still carried that awful v-card with me, which seemed to have only one true purpose in life: to scare men off.

  Especially the men in New York.

  It seems like every man in the city is only interested in one thing: trying to get between a girl's legs. And he'll say and do anything to get there. Every man you meet, you can just tell, is immediately calculating his odds and mentally plotting his strategy to get you into bed. It's gross and lame, and what more can I say? Maybe if I wasn't a virgin, I wouldn't find it so gross and off-putting. Maybe I'd just accept it as the reality of modern dating.

  Maybe it's true, what other girls sometimes say: all the good guys are already snatched up, married and raising kids. And if they're not taken, I have no idea where they're at or what the heck they're doing with their lives.

  Of course, it doesn't help that I spend all my time working. Back when I was in school, I couldn't wait to get out and go into business for myself. And it really is amazing, being my own boss. And I do very well for myself. But lately, I find myself wondering—what's the point? What's the point of all this work, if I can't actually enjoy the fruits of my labor? Why do I blow off my friends, every time they call wanting to get together and hang out, just so I can work some more instead?

  Keep treating your friends like that, and soon they'll stop calling. Ask me how I know!

  Just then, my private pity party was interrupted by a buzzing; the bzzt-bzzt of an iPhone-on-glass. I snatched my phone from the coffee table, wondering if my guardian angels had heard my laments and delivered some evening plans for the night …!

  But I groaned when I saw it was a text from my brother Lance instead. I opened it and read.

  “Sup Honey Badger?”

  Honey badger: that's my nickname in the family. I don't love it, but I don't hate it, either. (If you've seen the YouTube video about the honey badger, you'll understand. If not, well, I'll explain more later.)

  I tapped out a reply. “Just being super cool and hanging out by myself on a Friday night. What's up with you?”

  “LOL, loser. Hey, what are you up to this weekend? I moved into a new condo in Boston this season with Radar. You should come visit! I'll be home for a week, so you can stay as long as you like!”

  Red flags started going off in my head.

  “And why do you want me there?” I replied.

  “Uhhh, because you're my sister? And I love you?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Look, do you wanna come or not?”

  I started tapping out my reply: “I'd love to, but I have to work.” But before I hit send, I stared at those words. The same words that I was just complaining about, because they cost me my social life.

  Then again: spending a week with my brother? Surrounded by his hockey friends, who were just as bad as he was, if not worse?

  Oh, what the hell, Ella, I thought to myself. Why not? It'll help you forget about Key West and you haven't seen your brother in a while. Just do it.

  Besides. My bag was already packed. After the blow-up with Matthew, I never had the heart to unpack it.

  I texted him back: “Short notice, isn't it? And who is 'Radar,' anyway?”

  “My teammate. Look, I need a yes or a no, Ella.”

  “Gosh, you sure are persuasive. But yeah, I can come for a few days. I actually had plans for a va
cation, but they fell through. Womp womp, sadface.”

  “Holy shit. You sure? You're not gonna change your mind at the last minute like you always do, right?”

  “Yes, I'm sure. Don't make a big deal out of it. So which flight should I take?”

  “Check your e-mail inbox.”

  Just as he sent that text, my phone chimed to announce a new e-mail. I opened it and saw the itinerary, a ticket to Boston departing tomorrow evening, bought and paid for.

  “You didn't have to do that,” I texted Lance. “I've got money. I can pay for my own stuff.”

  “Hey, don't mention it,” he replied, and I could just hear him saying that in his sarcastic-as-hell voice.

  “… Thanks,” I texted back.

  “I'll send a car to pick you up at Logan Airport. By the way, if you got any hot roommates, I'll buy them a ticket too.” Insert creepy super-happy-winky-emoji.

  I groaned, and said aloud to Eucalyptus, “really? Lance thinks that's funny, even after the thing with Quinn?”

  Eucalyptus sat in the corner and gave me a strange look, as if he were regarding this entire development with skepticism.

  I texted Lance back a simple message that simply said, “NOPE.”

  With that, I had plans. Sure, they involved my stupid older brother. But they were plans, dammit.

  Chapter 4

  Meet Honey Badger

  Radar

  After a long road trip, there's nothing quite like waking up in your own bed and realizing you've got the next few days off. Sure, your body is still fatigued from all the travel, and a weeks' worth of hockey wear-and-tear …

  But damn, it's good to be home.

  I was still in bed, my thoughts wandering, when there was a knock on my bedroom door.

  “Come in,” I answered.

  The door opened. Lance stepped in and leaned against the door-frame. “Hey Radar.”

  Besides the black eye, he looked good, dressed up and ready to go somewhere.

  “Hey Lance. You heading out somewhere?”

  “Yup. Lindsay wants to meet up.” He smiled boyishly, eagerly.

  Lindsay—she's the girl that Lance is currently obsessed with. She's an Instagram booty model. Which is just what it sounds like: she takes pictures of her butt, from various angles and in various outfits. How this makes her money, or if it actually does at all, I don't really know or understand. All I know is that, as soon as we're home, Lance wants to spend all his time with her. He's started saying he loves her, even though he still hasn't gotten with her yet …