Pucked Off (Pucked #6)(42)

I find a picture of Poppy on my camera roll. It doesn’t look like a selfie, not with the way she appears to be yelling at the photographer. I use it as the picture for her contact.

I kill time by screwing around on social media. Tash has tagged me in a bunch of posts, as she does. Mostly it’s just stupid ranty stuff and a few old pictures. I untag myself and look up Poppy. She has the usual accounts. Facebook, Twitter—she doesn’t post there much, Instagram, and Snapchat. I scroll through the pictures she’s posted on Insta, hitting the follow button, even though I probably shouldn’t.

There’s one of her at the beach with her friends. Poppy’s wearing a bikini, but it’s mostly hidden under one of those cover-up things. She’s wearing a wide-brim hat and big sunglasses. Her freckled cheeks are pink, and so are her shoulders. I bet she burns like crazy. I bet her skin is creamy white under that fabric.

Thanks to the European genes involved in my creation, I’ve at least got the ability to tan a little and not burn to a crisp. It’s mostly a freckle tan, but it’s something.

I pause and recognize that I’m internet-stalking my massage therapist. And I’m considering how I’d like her to be more than that, except I’m not sure that’s even possible since I screwed her friend last year. But that was a long time ago. Maybe it’s fine now. She keeps saying it’s fine, though it doesn’t seem that way. I don’t know the statute of limitations on screwing one chick before you can get down with one of her friends.

Well, if they’re bunnies it doesn’t matter, but Poppy isn’t a bunny.

I could ask Miller and Randy about it, but I get the feeling Miller would be pissed, so I decide to leave it alone for now.



The next morning we have a pre-game skate, followed by a team meal and a meeting. Once it’s over, we’ve got several hours before we have to suit up for the game. I want some down time with Miller and Randy before I get out there so I can mentally prepare. But Smart pulls me aside on the way out.

“I lined up a massage for you,” he says.

“What?” For a second I imagine that he flew Poppy out to treat me. Then I realize how fucking stupid that is. But it would be awesome if she could come work her magic on me before I hit the ice.

“I need you on point tonight, Romero. Butterson’s off his game.”

“He’s got a baby dropping soon; he’s distracted.”

“You don’t need to tell me. I know what the issue is. But I need you to be focused on the game, so I set up an appointment with one of the therapists here at the arena. It’s not negotiable.”

I can’t argue. He has a point. As much as Miller would like to be able to focus on the game, it’s got to be tough. Beyond that, maybe it’s not a bad idea to see whether my reaction to Poppy is isolated. Maybe it’s massages in general that actually work for me, not Poppy.

“Fine. When and where?”

“Now. Follow me.”

The massage therapist Smart hooks me up with is a woman in her thirties whose shoulders are nearly as broad as mine.

Okay, that’s an exaggeration, but she’s substantial.

It takes all of thirty seconds for me to come to the conclusion that my reaction to Poppy is completely unique. I try to relax; I really do. But these hands are so different. Having this woman touch me for an hour is a horrible kind of torture.

After the torture-massage, I head back to my room. I’m in a shitty mood, and I’m not excited to hang out with Rookie—not because I don’t like him, but because now that I’ve partied with him, he has the same expectations of me that everyone else does. And that’s my fault.

When I get there, I find him hanging out with a chick. She looks like she’s about ready to take her clothes off, and I’m not interested in dealing with that kind of bullshit. Especially in the middle of the afternoon.

“I just need to grab a couple of things, and I’ll leave you two to it.” I point across the room to my bag.

I don’t like that there’s some bunny I can’t keep an eye on in my room with my stuff, but I grab the most important things: identification, wallet, phone, and iPad. I stuff them in my duffle, which still has my workout gear in it, and throw it over my shoulder.

“Text me when you’re good,” I call as I close the door and walk down the hall, heading for one place I know no bunnies will be.

I send Randy a text to make sure he’s in his room. I get a reply as I knock on his door. It swings open a few seconds later.

He eyes the duffle as I drop it on the chair. “You get kicked out of your own room?”

“Rookie found himself a bunny.”

“The game isn’t even until tonight. Where the hell’d he find her?”

“Who knows? Maybe she’s a friend and not just a bunny. I didn’t stop to ask. I figured I’d let him expend some energy. He’s still got some time before we have to suit up for the game.”

“That’s a bad idea before a game.”

“He’ll have to figure that out on his own, ’cause I’m not having that conversation.”

“And if she’s there when you go back?”

“She’ll have to bail, or I’ll help her find the door.”

Randy cocks a brow. “You all right, man?”