Page 34 of Puck Me Twice

“So, rules?” I ask, circling back to our earlier conversation that neither of us finished.

“Rules.”

I nod. “Okay. Let’s talk about it.”

twelve

. . .

Sven

There is often a strange routine to the inconsistency in my schedule. Regardless of where I play, most home games start at seven o’clock, which means they end close to ten, and we’re on the plane around midnight. Time zones may be different, but the hour remains the same. I find a lot of solace in that.

But then, there are times the games start an hour earlier or later, it messes everything up. On weekends, sometimes we play a matinee, when we start just after noon but have to get to the arena ass-crack early. Some days we play back to back, and some weeks we only play one or two games instead of four or five.

These are the times when there’s too much variation.

In general, I’m not a night owl. Mornings are my preference. But I don’t get to have a choice, not really, not when hockey dictates my schedule.

Vanessa is coming on the road trip with us. I know this, because she texted me the other day and said “I’m going on the next road trip,” and I typed back “okay,” and I also said “your hair looks very nice today and I want to kiss you.”

Except I deleted that last part.

I don’t think I’m supposed to tell my fake girlfriend that I think she’s pretty and I want to kiss her. Even though I think she’s pretty and want to kiss her, like, all the fucking time.

We had the rules conversation the morning after she stayed at my place. And up until now, there have been very strict boundaries. She stays home, and I go away, and then I come back, and she’s there looking irresistible, and I go back to my house and masturbate to the memory of our one-night stand all those years ago.

After our Tuesday night game, it’s time to head to Pittsburgh. I only know we’re going to Pittsburgh because tomorrow we have a team dinner at the same bougie steakhouse we always go to, and also because it says so on the team email.

Following my teammates, I board the plane and sit in row 13. Nobody else likes row 13. I do. The number makes me happy. Everyone else’s avoidance of it only adds to its appeal. They give me a wide berth.

Vanessa boards the plane with a group of other staffers. There’s Patrice and Angelica, and Joaquin-with-a-J, and George-with-a-G.

Her eyes meet mine from the entrance to the plane, and immediately I feel like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I haven’t seen her in a few hours. I missed her.

Fuck. I need to chill out. I need to cool down. I need⁠—

She’s approaching. Quick. Pretend like⁠—

Apprehension covers her face like a mask.

Silently, I tip my head to the seat beside me.

She hesitates.

I catch sight of Andrews and the rest of the equipment staff boarding the plane. My good mood sours.

Ducking into the row, Vanessa takes the open seat, leaving the middle seat empty. Jenkins, sitting in the row ahead of me, swivels his head to stare at her.

I glare at him, and he flinches.

“This okay?” she whispers. Her hands are shaking.

Taking her hand in mine, I squeeze her fingers, rubbing my thumb over the back of her knuckles.

Jenkins’ eyes go as big as saucers.

Andrews glares at me.