Page 10 of Pucked and Pregnant

When the penthouse elevator dings, we all stand up to greet them. I hear Mrs. Winters start to sniffle behind me. As soon as the doors open, she steps forward with outstretched arms to greet her daughter.

“…My panties are none of your business.” Liv seethes, backing out of the elevator.

Mrs. Winters drops her arms and shares a long-suffering look with her husband. I don’t blame her, Max and Liv are always like this—either best friends or bitter enemies.

I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t be able to recognize a happy medium even if it danced a naked jig in front of them. You’d think after five years of living in different states—nine, if you don’t count summer breaks—they’d have worked out whatever beef they have between them but that’s obviously not the case.

Why Max wanted her to come back is beyond me because she clearly still has some unresolved resentment toward him.

Then again, maybe them living together is a good thing. Constantly being in the same space might finally give her anopportunity to work through whatever she’s upset about or resentful of.

Even though I’ve known her, well, both of them really, since we were practically toddlers, I still can’t figure out what the issue is.

Sure, Max can be overprotective and annoying, but that’s basic brother stuff and to be honest, he kind of had to be.

From the second the five of us stepped into Foxcroft Prep, every single head turned her way. After hearing the talk in the locker rooms after our respective games—Max was the only freshman on varsity while Connor, Dimitri, and I were slumming it on JV—he set up a schedule so someone would always be available to walk her to every class.

So, for the first few weeks of school, she went from class to class with her nose in a book, completely oblivious to the herd of guys trying to “accidentally” bump into her.

Shit really hit the fan once the Foxes won three games in a row. Max was always three deep in a crowd of girls after that, and he could never manage to walk her to class. As a result, some creeps were able to slip through our net.

She couldn’t still be upset about that, could she? I mean, he tried his best, we all did.

On second thought, that would explain why she hasn’t gone out of her way to reach out to Dimitri, Connor, or me.

Talk about denial… don't tell me you actually believe that the reason she stopped talking to you when she went off to college was solely because some creeps hit on her in high school and not anything to do with…

Liv turns around, probably to find somewhere to stomp off to, and my mind immediately goes right into sketch mode. My hands twitch in search of a pencil that isn’t there as I take her in.

She’s always been beautiful, but now she’s a force to be reckoned with. The girlish roundness of her face hastransformed into a near-perfect heart shape. Her outburst of temper has colored her cheeks pink, her eyes blazing.

I’d draw her—fierce, vibrant and powerful—with a spear or maybe a bow in her hands, I can’t decide.

Her arms are all lean muscle which would be perfect for an archer but then again, she’s also got legs like a ballerina, perfect for someone bracing themselves to throw a spear.

Maybe I’d do two drawings—one with the spear and a second with the bow.

I think about how I'd position her in the sketch, what expression I'd give her, and who or what else might be in it.

In my head, I force myself to list out all the names of the muscles, every single groove and nodule on the bones that make up how the human leg is formed. I cocoon myself in the technical knowledge so I can stay on my best behavior.

All I have to do is continue focusing on her from an artist’s distance. That way, I’ll be able to keep at bay the thoughts of those long legs wrapped around my head, tensing as I eat her like my last fucking meal.

I’m not sure how much time I’ve spent lost in my own head but the room is dead quiet.

Oh god, did I say any of that out loud?

No. No way. Max would have punched me already if I had.

Still, I feel the pressure of needing to break the tension and get everyone laughing again settling heavily on my shoulders. So, I blurt out the first G-rated thing I can think of.

“Uh, welcome home?”

Truly a masterstroke of conversational genius, Aiden. Why don’t you ask her about the drive over here next? That’ll definitely break the tension.

I clear my throat and try again. “You look nice. Did you have a good flight?”

She just stares at me. Thankfully, her mom saves me from any further embarrassment.

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