Page 5 of The Pucker and the Princess
Follow the new neighbor lady to see where she goes every day.
I bat away that creepy thought like a puck in a passing drill—get it away as soon as it hits, no lingering, always keep the puck moving.
Bowman, our coach, prioritizes speed, so everything has to be done as fast as possible—skating, passing, shooting. Don’t hold onto anything for longer than you have to. Always keep it moving, always giving it to someone who has the opportunity for a shot on goal.
As one of the D-men, that’s not me as often, but I get my fair chance at scoring. And these few weeks of training camp followed by the pre-season games are all about him finding the best combinations of players to put on the ice together, solidifying lines, and forming the bonds that’ll take us to the Stanley Cup.
That’s the goal, at least.
We made it to the playoffs last season for the second year in a row, but we got knocked out early, and we were all pissed about that, wanting to send Easton off on a high, but unable to deliver. So we’re more determined than ever to win it this year.
That’s obvious even now. Some people—non-hockey players—might think that with that contest nine months away, we wouldn’t be as focused on it now as we will be in March or so, but that’s not how it works. In hockey, the Stanley Cup is always the goal, no matter what part of the season—or preseason—we’re in.
As I get ready to head to the rink for our first preseason game, I wonder if I’ll bump into Little Miss Princess again today. I haven’t seen her in a few days …
Which is for the best, I remind myself sternly. I’m supposed to be avoiding her anyway.Notseeing her is what I should be hoping for.
But the part of me that likes pretty women—my little head—desperately wishes I could see her daily, even if our interactions only amount to breathing in her perfume or catching her triumphant smirk as she closes the door in my face.
What does it say about me that I’m turned on by this woman being mean to me?
I’ve heard of that as some kind of kink but never found it appealing myself. Not until now, anyway.
Grabbing my suit jacket, I shrug it on and check it and my tie in the mirror before heading out.
Even though I keep an eye out for Little Miss Princess, she’s nowhere to be found. Not even a faint whiff of perfume to indicate she’s been through the building recently.
Pushing aside my disappointment, I head for my car.
My teammates tend to give me shit for her—she’s an older Toyota Tacoma, a dark teal pickup that I bought with my earnings from my time in the Junior A league. It was the first big purchase I made all on my own, and yeah, I could definitely afford something nicer by now, but I don’t really see the point. This pickup has carried me through a lot, moved me all over Canada and the US, and it still runs great.
Sure, I know that someday I’ll have to trade her in and get something else—or if I drive her until she’s unrepairable, I’ll have to just buy something new outright—but that day is not today.
It serves as a good barometer for women too—not that I’m planning on dating anyone again soon. But looking back on all my failed relationships, those women were always bothered by my pickup, pushing me in ways big and small to get a flashy sports car or luxury SUV. Jenny high-key hated my truck, making me rent a car when we went on vacation so she could ride in something more comfortable, she said.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, is there, baby?” I whisper to my truck as I climb in, patting the dashboard with affection. “You’re plenty comfortable. Just further proof that Jenny was definitelynotthe one, and even though she pretended to think my sentimental attachment was cute, by the end, I could tell that was all part of her act.”
Taking a deep breath, I fit my key in the ignition, smiling as I turn it.
But my smile falls, my brow furrowing with concern when all I hear is a faintclick click clickinstead of the reassuring sound of the engine starting. I try again and only get more clicks.
I hit the dome light button, and it doesn’t come on.
“Fuck,” I mutter, reaching for the latch to release the hood, though fuck if I know what I’m going to do once I get it open.
Taking off my suit coat, I toss it onto the passenger seat and roll up my sleeves. Sure, I know fuck all about cars, but I know that I don’t want to get my shirt dirty.
I fumble for the release and prop the hood open, staring blankly at the engine. There’s the battery. Still there. That’s good, I guess, though it’s clearly not working.
Glancing around the parking garage, I don’t see anyone out here. I’m pretty sure I have jumper cables, but that doesn’t help if I don’t have anyone to give me a jump. And I’ll probably have to Google how and where to connect the cables, because I sure as hell don’t remember.
With a growl of frustration, I lean into my car to grab my phone. Dammit, I need to leavenow. Maybe I can get a ride with one of my teammates. I start a group chat with Jenkins and Bouchard.
Can I catch a ride with one of you guys?
Drumming my fingers on the side of my phone, I wait for an answer. And wait. And wait.
Finally, three dots pop up showing that someone’s responding.
