Home > Pucked Up (Pucked #2)(10)

Pucked Up (Pucked #2)(10)
Author: Helena Hunting

Dick Yeller stomps past Flash Beaver, heading for the house. The new girls notice and whisper among themselves. It’s too much drama too early in my day.

I hadn’t expected the bunnies today, although I probably should have. Lance doesn’t do the chill-out thing very often. Usually when Natasha comes by, she hangs out for a while after the workout. We BBQ and swim, and then she takes off and we plan our night. Lance always walks her out. I figured it was him being all polite or whatever, but now I’m not so sure.

“This must be torture,” Lance says from beside me.

I glance over at him. While I was busy scoping the scene, he must have come back outside.

“What do you mean?” I drain what’s left of my bottle of water.

“All the girls.”

“It’s no big deal.” Honestly, I figured it’d be a lot harder than it is. Although the bunnies are damn hard to avoid, especially with friends like Lance who throw parties all the time.

I change the subject. “Did you find Natasha?”

“Nah. She was already gone by the time I got inside.” A twitch under his eye is the only tell that I’ve hit a nerve. “You know, if you disappeared with one of the bunnies for a while, no one would say anything.”

I take off my sunglasses and pin him with a cold glare. “My balls could be so fucking blue they look like they’ve been handled by a Smurf, and I still wouldn’t do that to Sunny.”

He raises his hands in the air. “I’m sorry, man. I didn’t mean to upset you. I just figured . . . I don’t know. It can’t be easy. She’s all the way in Canada, and you’re here. Long-distance relationships don’t really work, you know?”

I drop my sunglasses back in place. I don’t want to think about it not working, which is a real possibility. I don’t know the stats on long-distance relationships, but I’m guessing they aren’t good.

Realistically, if me and Sunny are going to be long term, one of us will have to relocate. Since my job is always subject to change, that would mean Sunny going where I go, and she’d need a job that’s easy to do anywhere. It’s something I’ve already put thought into, which says more than I’m willing to admit about how I feel about her.

I nab one of the lawn chair floaty things and toss it in the water, jumping in after it. This isn’t a conversation I want to have with Lance, not before I see Sunny. Sometimes I feel like this whole thing is set up to be a failure from the start.

I must fall asleep on my floaty chair, because all of a sudden I’m really fucking awake, and I have to take a piss. Getting out means dealing with the bunnies. I paddle over to the edge and hoist myself up. Instead of passing about twenty of them to get into the house—they’ve multiplied while I napped—I head for the pool house bathroom. No one else is in here, thank God. I’ve accidentally walked in on people getting it on more than once.

When I come out of the bathroom, a familiar-looking girl is waiting outside the door.

“Buck!” She wraps her arms around my neck.

“Hey.” I pat her back, fully aware she’s wearing nothing but a tiny string bikini, and there’s absolutely no ass to the thing. I can feel her boobs against my stomach. There’s too much skin. My dick wants to react. I think about dead kittens and roadkill to stop a hard-on from forming.

Eventually she lets go and takes a step back. It’s not enough. She’s still too close. I keep my eyes on her face and try not to see her cleavage. I wrack my brain for a name, for something beyond the customary “Honey” I’m used to. I’ve got nothing.

“It’s been a while,” she says. “I haven’t seen you at the bars. You hanging somewhere new these days?” Her desperation isn’t attractive.

“I haven’t been going out as much.”

She pops a hip and pouts. Her lips are red like cherries, or blood, or Satan’s ball sac. “That’s too bad. I think some of us are going to the club tomorrow night. You should come.”

“I’m out of town. Maybe another time.” I step out of the way so she can get to the bathroom. “I should, uh . . . give you some privacy. The fan doesn’t work in there.”

It’s a stupid thing to say, but I don’t care. I need to get away from this mostly naked chick who I evidently have a brief history with. I leave her to do her thing and head back to the pool. It’s no better.

A few girls have gotten in the water. Two of them are latched onto Randy, their hair pulled up in ponytails. More of them are losing their shirts and shorts, so it’s skin, skin, and more skin. Some chick hands me a beer, and I take it, since it’s the polite thing to do.

Unwilling to get back in the pool with all the half-naked girls in there, I drop down in one of the lounge chairs on the patio.

“Oh my God! You’re Buck Butterson! But your real name is Miller, right?”

A curvy brunette is standing right in front of me, and her friend, a skinny blonde, looks horrified. I’m shocked she knows my real name.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to—God, I can’t—you’re amazing. I love you. I mean, you’re an awesome player. Chicago won after you got traded! And that was bogus on Miami’s part. You didn’t do a damn thing wrong. The media can suck it. Anyway, you were outstanding during the finals. I’m so sorry. I don’t think I can stop myself.”

I smile. She’s a real fan—the kind who gets genuinely excited about the game, and not just about my dick.

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