Pucked (Pucked, #1)

by Helena Hunting

Here’s the thing; I don’t live with my mom. I moved out more than four years ago—into the damn pool house. Technically, it’s on the same piece of property,

So you DO live with your mom.

I expected to have my own room. I bite my tongue and pretend it’s totally fine because I don’t want to appear ungrateful—even though I didn’t ask to come on this impromptu trip in the first place. On the upside, the suite is huge. There’s a spacious living room, and I have my own bedroom

What?

Glasses fog in arenas, so I jam in my contact lenses.

No they don’t.

Armed with my wool coat and my messenger bag, which houses a scarf, mittens, hat, my semidry copy of Tom Jones, and my phone, I’m game ready. As an afterthought, I check for my pack of cigarettes.

The lack of continuity is killing me!

As I approach my seat, I notice shit going down on the ice. Like, seriously going down right in front of me.

NO STANDING WHILE PUCK IS IN PLAY

I have no makeup on, and I’m wearing my glasses.

The horror!

Her palm slams against the lockers as she comes on my mouth.

What’s her wingspan? NHL lockers are huge, typically about three feet wide.

“Oh, God. That’s . . . I’m so leaky.”

Ew.

“Sidney told me when Buck was born the nurses wanted to take pictures. They said he looked like he was sporting a kickstand. You know how it is: like father, like son.”

EW EW EW GROSS

He was lean and dorky and completely adorable. The spandex skating outfits were something else; Alex grew into his junk, not the other way around. I can see why the girls in high school would have been afraid of his trouser anaconda.

Gross

“That’s like the yeti calling the Sasquatch

Yetis and Sasquatch are the same creature

I don’t want to be seen as Alex’s puck bunny.

But that’s what you are

Alex doesn’t love me. I was a game he played until he got bored. Then he broke all my pieces and threw me in the trash.

EXACTLY

I nab the magazine from the top of the recycling and flip to the earmarked page. There it is in print:

That’s not how it works. The magazine would have interviewed him months before Alex even met violet.

The next day, I do something I usually try to avoid: I go to the spa with Charlene and my mom. We all get mani-pedis while drinking mimosas. Then we get our hair done and buy new outfits.

Pages ago, raiding moms pantry because she’s so poor. Now spa day and shopping spree?

“We’ve only been together for six months.”