Puck Buddies Page 3

  Bree: I guess I’m starting to see your point…

  I still think you’re wrong—I’m pretty sure Shane would be fine with a purely booty-call relationship—but if there’s even a chance that you’re right, then I have to call it off. I can’t give him hope that we’re going to be something more than friends in the long term. I don’t feel that way about him, and even if I did, he’s leaving in a month, and I don’t do long-distance relationships. I tried enough of those while I was modeling to know they don’t work. Ever.

  So…I guess I’ll do what I have to do.

  Stephanie: I’m sorry *sad face emoji*.

  Bree: It’s not your fault. It’s my fault. I should have thought this through before I started scheming crazy schemes. Though, I was looking forward to finally knowing what all the sex fuss is about. I’m twenty-three, Steph. If I don’t seal the deal with someone soon, I have this horrible feeling that I never will. I’ll get set in my hermit ways, substitute chocolate-covered-espresso beans and books for physical affection, and take my ancient, dusty hymen to the grave.

  Stephanie: LOL. Oh please, you will not. You’re crazy gorgeous and sweet and fun to be with. You’re going to meet a guy who sees all that, and he’ll fall so head over heels for you he won’t care that sex is a little complicated.

  Bree: Life and death complicated?

  Stephanie: Hmmm… Maybe go for a younger guy? One who’s sweet and romantic, but not old enough to fully consider the consequences of his actions just yet? Twenty-one would be about right. Or twenty…

  Maybe nineteen?

  Bree: I don’t want to date a child! I want something real and intense and passionate and epic and magical. But the last time I started to fall for someone, he turned out to be a complete monster with anger-management issues. I don’t trust my instincts when it comes to romance, Steph, but I do when it comes to friends. I have great taste in friends. So I’ll just have to find one who feels the same way I do—that sex and friendship can coexist happily without love or romance muddying the waters.

  Stephanie: I’ll keep an eye out for potential candidates for you.

  Oh! What about Bart from the Eager Vegan? He’s gorgeous and chill and so obsessed with texturized vegetable protein I’m pretty sure he doesn’t have room in his heart for anything else.

  Bree: Um, that’s a no. A hard no.

  I’m not going to lose my virginity to a man who reeks of raw garlic.

  Stephanie: Raw garlic has a multitude of health benefits, including reducing blood pressure, improving cholesterol, and boosting overall immune function.

  Bree: And eating it raw makes you stink. And Bart’s name is Bart.

  Stephanie: Bart is a perfectly respectable name.

  Bree: It rhymes with fart.

  Stephanie: You’re impossible sometimes. You know that?

  Bree: I know. Thank you for putting up with me.

  Stephanie: Oh, it’s my pleasure. I enjoy impossible people. They keep life interesting.

  Bree: But not Drake. Drake is a dour, dreadful dud and should be dumped.

  Then we can go out looking for love together! Before June is through, we’re hitting the town—you, me, and the single men of Portland.

  Stephanie: Ugh. All right. By the end of June, it is.

  I like having a dumping deadline. It will keep me on task.

  Speaking of, my class is waiting. Touch base soon?

  Bree: Yes. Soon. And thanks again.

  It feels good knowing I’m not going to break anyone’s sweet and tender heart.

  Stephanie: Agreed. That’s always a good thing.

  Chapter 3

  Shane

  Sleep is impossible, and Sunday morning seems ridiculously far away.

  I should be terrified—or at the very least, soberly preparing to proceed with utmost caution. Being with Bree is going to be complicated, dangerous, and more high-stakes than any sexual encounter I could have imagined before she spilled the beans last night, but I’m too over-the-fucking-moon to care.

  I’m been waiting for Bree Marks to see me as something more than a Sunday fun day buddy for what feels like forever. I’ve spent hours lying awake at night, torturing myself with fantasies about what it would be like to kiss her, draw her body close to mine, make her pretty face light up with pleasure the way it does when she finds a first edition Wizard of Oz book tucked away on a dealer’s shelf at our favorite flea market.

  And now I know reality is better than all my fantasies rolled into one.

  That kiss last night…

  Epic is not too strong a word. From the moment I tasted her for the first time—salt and wine and sun-kissed strawberries—I’ve been able to think of nothing but Bree. Her sweet softness, her addictive scent, and the way she felt in my arms as we danced, like her body was born to fit against mine.

  I want to make love to her more than I’ve ever wanted anything, with the exception of a career in the NHL and a place in the hockey hall of fame.

  And it’s a pretty close competition at this point.

  I don’t know what it is about her, but from the moment I met Bree—at a Badger summer barbeque my first season in Portland, where we laughed ourselves silly playing badminton with an inflatable dong some joker had brought to toss into the pool—I was a goner. Her smile is pure sunshine, her laugh fills my blood with happy bubbles, and the way she bites her lip and glares up at me with one eye closed when she’s pissed, makes me want to scoop her up in my arms and kiss her until neither of us can see straight.

  And now, I’m finally going to have my chance with her. It’s so ridiculously exciting, I have sex-induced ADD, but I’ve got to buckle down and get into hockey-beast mode.

  I’ve grown so much during my time with the Badgers. I learned to survive the NHL’s grueling schedule, built the mental toughness necessary to perform at a pro level, and shown I’m a goalie who gives his team a real chance at winning—every game.

  But I want more.

  That’s why I’m logging extra solo training sessions twice a week until I leave for Kansas City, even though on my worst day I’m already going to be a huge upgrade for my new team.

  The Kansas City goalie situation is dire. Their backup goalies couldn’t stop a beach ball tossed by a toddler, and their old starter was the laughingstock of the NHL. His own fans used to boo when he took the ice and mock-cheer every time the guy managed the simplest of saves. His team was so demoralized—no amount of high-powered offense was enough to compensate for their poorly defended net—that their performance suffered, too.

  But I’m going to turn that all around. I’m in peak condition, poised and ready to blow the Kansas City Highballers’ fans away.

  I’m finally going to have the chance to stand out from the crowd, to make a name for myself in the league, and to leave a legacy I’ll be proud of when I’m too old to play hockey for a living.

  I am an eager beaver on any given Saturday, but this morning I’m up and out of my apartment in record time, waiting by the back door of the Murkwood ice rink forty miles southwest of Portland when Tank roars into the parking lot on his Harley.

  Because of course, a guy named Tank rides a hog, wears a battered leather vest and shit-kicker boots, and has so many tattoos spiraling around his arms he looks more like the leader of a biker gang than a hockey player. He would be verging on cliché if he weren’t every bit the badass his wardrobe and shiny black chopper imply.

  Tank had been well on his way to being goalie legend material when a drug violation earned him a suspension from Washington that turned into early retirement when a drunk driver hit him on his way out of a bar. He’s spent the past two years getting clean and fighting his way back into NHL-level shape, and as far as I can see, he’s ready for a victorious return to the ice.

  But he can’t seem to land a tryout contract.

  Life’s not fair—not even close—which is why it’s so important to game the odds in your favor when you can. I have no control over who wins the popular
ity contests for big sponsorships or airtime on the sports networks, but I can make damned sure I’m the strongest goal-keeper I can be, and that my skills are honed to a razor’s edge.

  Though, showing up half an hour early for training might be overkill…

  Tank’s brow furrows as he slides off his bike and sets his helmet on the seat. He starts across the pavement toward me, lifting his chin in greeting. “Did I miss daylight savings time?”

  I grin. “Nah. Couldn’t sleep so figured I might as well get my ass out of bed and get ready to work.”

  Tank’s gray eyes narrow on my face. “Sleep is important.”

  “It is.” I stand aside so he can get to the locked door behind me, but he makes no move to reach for the keys on his belt.

  Instead, he crosses his thick, inked arms over his chest. “Without proper rest, this is going to be a waste of our time.”

  I shake my head. “I got enough, man. Seriously, I’m ready to go. I’m amped actually.” My fingers flex and release at my sides. “I’ve got energy I need to leave on the ice.”

  Tank grunts. “This is about a woman, isn’t it?”

  “No,” I lie with a laugh. “I was the best man in a friend’s wedding last night. I had to make a toast and there was beer and dancing. Just got too keyed up to sleep.”

  “Are you twelve years old?” he asks, face as deadpan as ever, making it hard to know if he’s kidding or legitimately giving me shit. “Because that’s the last time beer and music got me too keyed up to get a solid eight hours.”

  Driving a hand through my hair, I let out a long sigh. “Fine. It’s a woman.”

  “Knew it.”

  “But I’m not seeing her until tomorrow,“ I say. “I told her I had an unbreakable commitment this morning, and that whatever comes next between us is going to have to wait.”

  Tank’s scarred eyebrows—a little white line intersects the left, and a larger one clips the end off on the right—arch in what looks like respect.

  “And I’m really into this woman,” I continue, wanting to make it clear how serious I am about getting down to work. “But I’m more into being ready to rule the net come game time. So are we hitting the ice or what?”

  After a beat, Tank reaches for his keys. “We’ll hit the ice, but only after you clear your head. Suit up and meet me at the Zamboni. We’ll talk while I drive.”

  Surprised, but not daring to question him—complete obedience to the Tank Training Regime is required to even get on this man’s client waiting list—I suit up in the locker room and skate out to where the vintage ice-smoother sits idling near the scoreboard.

  Almost everything in this vintage rink has seen better days, but I love it here. I love the peace and quiet and the slightly foot-funky smell of the ice. I love the old-fashioned winter landscapes painted on the walls, and the creaky wooden seats, and I especially love this model F Zamboni from 1964. It’s built on a stripped Jeep chassis, is covered in baby-blue paint and creepy cartoon dancing clowns some long-ago owner must have thought were charming, and scores top marks across the board for character.

  Everything about this place reminds me of playing hockey as a kid, and climbing onto the Zamboni seat beside Tank takes me back to my fifth birthday, the first time I went skating at a rink instead of cruising around the frozen pond behind our house. I’d gotten to ride the Zamboni—an honor bestowed upon every birthday boy—and was pretty sure I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Even back then, I was a creature of simple pleasures.

  But as Tank shifts into gear and starts the slow journey around the outer edge of the rink, I find myself wishing the Zamboni could move a little faster. I’m ready to get on the ice and purge some of the nervous energy from my system.

  “Spill,” Tank says, glancing my way. “Get it off your chest so you can get your mind where it belongs.”

  “There’s nothing to get off my chest,” I lie again. I don’t know Tank well enough to spill my guts to him. And call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure a guy like him has never harbored a secret crush. Everything about the man screams realist not romantic. “I’m cool.”

  “If you waste my time, I’m going to charge you double for the next session.”

  He can’t legally change his price—we have a contract—but I’m not about to start a fight about it. I’ve seen huge improvements in my positioning and flexibility since I started working with Tank, and I want the upswing to continue more than I want to maintain my emotional privacy.

  I swallow my irritation and confess, “The girl’s been my friend for a long time. Until last night, that’s all we were and all I thought we’d ever be.”

  “So what happened last night?” he prods as he spins the wheel in a gentle circle, bringing us back down the other side of the ice.

  “She kissed me and made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.” I briefly fill him in on Bree’s “friends with V-card-punching benefits” proposal—the fact that Tank doesn’t run in my circle and that I’m not using Bree’s name makes it feel acceptable to spill private details—before adding with a sigh, “Which is all good, except that she’s got this…allergy.”

  “An allergy,” he echoes. “To what? Don’t make me pull it out of you, Wallace. I’m too old for this shit.”

  He’s two years older than my twenty-six—hardly a geriatric—but he’s got a point. Better to get it all out so we can get back to the real reason we’re here. So I take a deep breath and spill the semen-allergic beans, gratified when I finish and glance Tank’s way to find an almost comically shocked expression on his usually cool and collected face.

  “You’re fucking kidding me,” he finally says. “That’s a real thing?”

  “It’s a real thing.”

  “She’s not fucking with you? Some women enjoy head games, you know.”

  “She’s not that kind of woman,” I say without a sliver of doubt. “And I looked it up online when I got home. It’s for real. It can even be fatal in some extreme cases.”

  Tank curses under his breath.

  “That’s what I thought,” I agree, “once I had time to sit down and really think about it. But if she’s determined to do this, I would rather it be with me than some prick who isn’t going to take her safety seriously.”

  “Why?” Tank asks bluntly.

  “Because we’re friends and I care about her. And that kiss last night…” I shrug self-consciously. “It was special. It woke me up, you know. Made me feel alive in a way I haven’t in a long time.”

  “So now you’re what? Snow White?”

  I laugh, deciding if I can’t beat him I might as well join him. “Maybe. Though I prefer Sleeping Beauty. I’ve got a thing for blondes. Especially this particular blonde.”

  Tank’s jaw works back and forth as he spins the wheel again, tightening the circle he’s tracing on the ice with the machine. “Sounds pretty selfish to me.”

  My brows snap together. “How’s that?”

  “Even if she didn’t have this weird medical shit, she’s a virgin.” His tone makes it clear he’s bought into the “high maintenance virgin” stereotype hook, line, and sinker. “That’s not something you take on if you’re only sticking around for a month.”

  “She knew I was leaving before she pitched this plan,” I explain. “She’s not some trembling teenage kid working up the guts to ‘do it’ for the first time. She’s a twenty-three-year-old woman who knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to ask for it.”

  Tank’s side-eye is intense enough to make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. “Twenty-three? Dude. You need to run away from this woman. Run. Don’t walk.”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know her.”

  “I know the type. Any woman still holding on to her V card past twenty has issues a fuck buddy isn’t prepared to handle.”

  “Yeah, her issue is that she’s got a freak allergy,” I say, frustration creeping into my voice. “She’s been medically prevented from sealing the deal. She hasn’t been abs
taining because of religious reasons or because she’s got some rose-colored-glasses idea about what making love for the first time is supposed to be like.”

  Tank jams his foot onto the brake, bringing the Zamboni sliding to a full stop, and turns to pin me with an unusually piercing expression. “Unless she’s had the kind of shit upbringing that convinces a person she isn’t worthy of love, every woman has rose-colored-glasses on when it comes to her first time. Every. Single. One. If you think different, then you haven’t been paying attention to the women in your life.”

  I shift uncomfortably in the cold metal bucket seat. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe she does want something special, but…” I shrug. “Maybe that’s why she asked me. We’re close, man. Really close. And I don’t know about her, but I’ve wanted to be more than friends for a long time.”

  Tank’s narrow gaze relaxes, and empathy softens his features. “But you’re not going to be more than friends. You’re going to be fuck buddies. You’re going to take this huge step with her, hang around just long enough to make shit complicated, and then hit the road, leaving a mess behind. Making a friends-with-benefits thing work isn’t easy under the best circumstances, dude, and this ain’t that. The chances you get through this and are still friends on the other side are slim to fucking none. Are you ready for that? To lose her? Is getting your rocks off worth it?”

  I thread my fingers together in my lap and stare down at the faintly blue skin around my knuckles. It’s cold, and I would much rather be skating than talking. But Tank isn’t the kind of guy who asks idle questions, and he isn’t the kind of trainer who’s going to let me onto the ice unless he feels I’m ready to do the work.