Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(30)

I just want to feel the way I did earlier today, when Poppy’s hands were on me. But these girls aren’t her, and I don’t have the energy or desire to entertain them tonight.

Rookie’s sitting on the other side of the hot tub, watching them make out.

Curvy turns to me. “Should I take her top off?”

I’ve had some shots since I started the night with half a bottle of vodka, and when I open my mouth, I realize my filter is completely gone. I look to Rookie. “You think she should lose her bikini top?”

Rookie lifts a shoulder, like this is no big deal, but I know better. He’s small town, and I don’t think this excess is something he’s used to yet, having come from the minors. I’d feel bad about corrupting him, but I’m an asshole, and I don’t feel much of anything tonight. Except all the fucking emptiness.

“Are you going to take us upstairs again?” Curvy runs her hands down her friend’s sides and grabs her hips. They grind against each other, moving to the shitty music someone’s put on.

I remember how things went down when they came up to my room before. They’d been the ones to suggest it, and I’d been drunk enough to entertain the idea, but it wasn’t something I particularly enjoyed—too much managing too many sets of hands.

While they kiss, I wonder if it would be different with Poppy. Maybe if she touched me the way those girls are touching each other, I wouldn’t mind it. And then I realize how fucked up that is, since she’s not supposed to put her hands on me like that. And I shouldn’t want her to.

“Come on, Lance, let’s go upstairs and get naked,” Curvy says, trying to drop into my lap.

I stop her by the hips before she can sit down. “You should take Rookie upstairs.”

She gives me a pouty face. “Let Tina have Rookie, and I’ll take you.”

“Not tonight, gorgeous. Go show my friend all the amazing things you can do with that pretty mouth of yours.”

And they do. No more questions asked, because it doesn’t matter who they’re fucking—me, Rookie, or one of the other players—just as long as they’re screwing someone they can brag about on social media.

I get out of the hot tub and go inside, stumbling a little on the stairs on the way up to my room. My door is locked, so I fumble for the key I keep in the secret pocket of my bathing suit and let myself in. Then I lock it behind me so I don’t get any surprise visitors.

My phone is charging on the nightstand. I drop down on my bed and pick it up. My vision is blurry, but I can see there are more messages from Tash.

I give in and bring them up, clicking on her contact. The most recent was sent fifteen minutes ago.

It includes a picture of those two girls from the hot tub making out, with me sitting behind them looking bored.



The message below reads:





I hate that her words hurt. I hate that they make me feel anything at all.





CHAPTER 9


JONESING

LANCE

Although I read her messages, I don’t respond to Tash over the next few days. There’s a certain gratification in the torture of her silence and mine—although it’s unlikely she feels the same way I do about it. If I’m lucky, I won’t hear from her for a couple of weeks. If I’m extra lucky, she’ll stay quiet for a month. It’s happened before.

I don’t have a game in LA until the official season is underway, so she doesn’t have a reason to contact me, other than to send more pissy messages about how I’m an asshole, which basically sums up the content of her entire message feed. A bunch more pictures from the party I had showed up on social media, and Tash was pissed about that. My satisfaction over that is a problem I’m aware of. It makes me complicit in this game we play.

I also don’t hear from Poppy, which isn’t unexpected considering the only reason she would contact me is to report a cancellation.

My lower back still aches, and yesterday’s practice didn’t help at all. Still, I’m about to head out for a training session at the gym. The last thing I want is to be benched for the game. I don’t want to go into the season as a target.

Tomorrow morning we fly out to Philly. We’re only ever gone for a couple of days at a time, but soon there will be longer stretches. If I’m going to get relief for the aches, I need a massage or something today. I send Poppy a message asking about cancellations, then pack my gym bag and drive over to Randy’s.

A few minutes after I text him that I’ve arrived, he comes out of his house, tosses his stuff in the back, and climbs into the passenger seat.

“How’s it going?” he asks.

“Not bad. You?”

Before I can shift the Hummer into gear, Lily bursts out the front door. She’s holding something as she runs toward my Hummer. Randy rolls down his window, and she steps up on the running board.

“You forgot your phone.”

“Thanks, luscious.”

“No problem.” She kisses his cheek, then turns to me. “You’re looking better.”

I raise a hand in a wave. “Thanks.”

“I’ll see you around seven, okay?” she says to Randy.

She goes to step down, but his arm shoots out and keeps her where she is. He leans in and whispers something in her ear.