Page 17 of Arrogant Puck

“Damn,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “Cold-blooded.”

By the time I’m home, the house is dark and quiet. The air conditioning hums. The motion lights flip on as I walk through the living room.

I drop my bag. Strip down. Pour a glass of something expensive and sharp.

No dinner. Just whiskey and silence.

I check my phone. Lexi again.

Lexi: I’m wearing your favorite.

Attached is a photo. Red lace. Thigh highs. Lipstick.

I should say no.

Thirty minutes later, she’s on my bed, legs spread, mouth open, moaning like I mean something to her.

I fuck her slow, deep, because I know how. Because she wants to come and I’m the only one who gets her there without asking twice. Because my body still works even if my mind isn’t in it.

She says my name like a prayer.

I come. Wash my hands. Pull on sweats and walk back into the kitchen while she’s still catching her breath.

She follows me out ten minutes later, wrapped in one of my shirts like she lives here.

“Do you even like me?” she asks, leaning against the counter.

“No.”

She laughs like she doesn’t believe me.

She pours herself a drink and studies me over the rim of the glass. “You ever think about quitting?”

“What?”

“Hockey. The league. All of it.”

“Why the fuck would I do that.”

She says nothing.

The silence stretches.

Lexi’s smart. Sharper than people think. That’s why I let her stay longer than most. But she’s also looking for something in me that isn’t there.

After she leaves, I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the dresser.

Top drawer. Back corner. Bag of pills I never touched.

My nightstand has some hidden gems too.

I was buying from my drug dealer even after I stopped using, and now there are pills hidden throughout my house.

I haven’t opened any of them in over a year.

But tonight, I come close.

I open the bag. Shake one out. Hold it in my palm.

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