Page 42 of Puck Happens

“I have all the coachs’ personal information,” he said, walking past me into my apartment and making it even smaller. “Including phone numbers, so be prepared for me to call you.”

“I don’t answer unknown numbers,” I told him.

“Then get me known. Jeez, they really moved you out to Siberia, didn’t they?”

“I don’t mind it.”

“Who’s the creepy guy downstairs?”

“Heiscreepy, right?”

“Pretending to wash his car so he could stare at your door.” Dillon shook his head in disapproval.

There was some comfort in that the creepy downstairs guy now knew I was friends with a big hulking guy.

A big hulking guy making his way into my apartment like he owned the place.

“Nice plants,” he said, testing his finger against Style’s spikes.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“We need to talk. For real,” he said, and then just made himself comfortable on my couch that his size turned into a love seat. Or tried to anyway. “Jesus,” he muttered, shifting his butt around. “What is this stuffed with, rocks?”

“Let me guess, you want to talk about how awesome I was today?” I asked him. I didn’t join him on the couch.

He looked me up and down and smiled. “You look nice.”

“Yeah?” I said. “This look works for you?”

I was in what I wore to work: leggings and a Bruisers’ jersey. My feet were bare and that seemed more than a little intimate. Mostly because I did not have pretty feet. Nearly every toe, down to my pinky toe, had been broken and reset at some point. I didn’t wear toe polish because that felt like trying to shine up a turd.

But he didn’t look twice at my gnarly feet.

“Whose jersey is that?”

I peeked over my shoulder but couldn’t see the name on my back. “I don’t know. I asked the equipment guy for a spare jersey, and he gave me this.”

I turned and showed him my back.

“Carver,” he grunted. “He got traded at the end of the year.”

“So, am I breaking some unknown rule by wearing a traded guy’s jersey?”

“No, I just don’t like you wearing some other dude’s name on your back. I’m the captain, you can wear my jersey.”

“Your jersey,” I snorted. “What are we, in high school?”

“Nah,” he stretched out his legs looking every bit the professional athlete he was. “I wasn’t as good at sex back then. You know, just starting out, learning the ropes. You want fully mature me. But you should be wearing the captain’s jersey.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“You gotta be careful with the sensitive male ego, Coach. You’re going to hurt my feelings.”

“Or you could grow a pair.”

He laughed and the Dimples Grande came out. Funny thing I realized just then. The beer league bartender smiled a lot. The professional hockey player not so much. I liked his dimples. So much.

Too much.

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