Page 50 of My Pucking Enemy
Luca
We win the next five games in a row.
If it weren’t for the fact that Wren and I are publicly dating, and not one of them wants to cross me, I’m convinced half the team would be in love with her. Every time she pulls one of them aside and tells them exactly what they need to do to improve their play—to beat their direct opponent in an upcoming game—I can practically see their heart eyes beating for her.
Our strategy sessions continue on as they’ve been going, and every morning when I see her, something lights up in my chest. At night when I’m alone at my house, I wish she was with me. Wonder if I could talk her into coming over.
I wonder what it would be like for her to sit at the breakfast bar while I cook. What it would be like just to know that she was in the other room—that each time I have a thought, I could find her and share it, rather than having to text her.
And one night, when I pick my phone up, thinking about the Penguins and their strong defense, I don’t send her a text.
“Luca McKenzie,” Wren says, and I have the feeling she knows the effect it has on me. “Is this abootycall?”
A shock runs through me, and my cock twitches in excitement.
I didn’t know booty calling was an option. Even though I hate the term, I don’t hate the idea of it. Especially if it would get Wren over here at my place, in my bed.
Hell, I’d give anything to wake up next to her again. She’s been so casual about what happened that night at my parents’ house, and this is just another example of it. Like the sex meant nothing to her.
Maybe it didn’t.
Wren doesn’t strike me as the kind of woman who gets attached. The kind who falls in love after a one-night stand.
Was that what happened between us?
“Luca?” she asks now, drawing me out of my thoughts and reminding me that I called her. “Are you there?” She pauses, laughing to herself, “Wait, it’s not a booty call, but a butt dial.”
“Hilarious,” I say, but my mouth is dry. How can she be so casual about this? Without a clear read on the situation, it feels like I’m coming apart at the seams. “It’s not a butt dial. I’m calling you about the Penguins.”
There’s rustling on the other end of the line. “Oh, perfect—just let me grab my notes.”
I picture her—realizing I don’t even know where her apartment is, let alone what it looks like on the inside—grabbing her notes, uncapping her pen, and sticking the end of it in her mouth. No matter how many times I’ve reminded her how disgusting and germy those things are, she does it anyway.
We talk for an hour, and I settle back onto the couch, my fingers laced over my chest, head tipped up to the ceiling, eyes shut. It’s less about the Penguins and more about the sound of Wren’s voice. It scratches at something inside me, soothing, like a TV show you’ve seen a million times. Something so familiar and comfortable that you could fall asleep to it.
Even though we’ve barely known each other for six months, and I was highly suspicious of her for the first one.
“In other news,” she says, veering sharply from a discussion about the strategy they’re going to use on us, “the internet iseating usup. I’ve seen like four TikToks about the whole thing just today.”
“Is that a good thing?” I pause, think. “And isn’t TikTok for teenagers?”
“Oh my god, wait—how old are you?”
“Are you saying you didn’t Google me?”
“Google can be wrong. Are you one of those guys who’s secretly super old and nobody knows it?”
“First, I’m not sure that’s a thing. And second—would I be able to play hockey still if I wassuper old?”
“Romaine smoothies, apparently.”
“They’re good,” I protest, regretting ever telling her about my smoothie ingredient choices. “And lettuce is scientifically proven to help you sleep.”
“Are you having troubles sleeping? I didn’t notice that at your parents’ house.”
Throughout the conversation, it’s felt like we’ve been slowly dancing our way towards the topic. Now that she’s brought it up, I have two options. I can ignore the in and steer us back toward something safe, like work.
Or I can push us even closer to it.
