Page 115 of Puck Love

“Van?”I say tapping thescreen of my phone as if it could bring him back. But all I get is a Skype message saying our conversation has terminated. “Shit.”

I flop back on the bed, completely naked. The air con is set to freezing, so I climb under my covers feeling a mixture of elation and terror.Surely he didn’t mean it? There’s no possible way he just . . . It’s too soon. He was caught up in the moment, and the excitement of today’swin.

I grab my phone and try calling a bunch of times, but it goes to voicemail, so frustrated and wired, I switch off the lights. I don’t sleep, though, and sometime two hours later in the dead of the night as our bus flies along dark highways toward Grand Forks, I get dressed and quietly tiptoe from my room to make a hot tea with honey. I think about Van, and how every second since we met has been one huge learning curve. It’s been one surprise after the other, and tonight is nodifferent.

I sit at the small table and scroll through my messages.Nothing.

The curtain above Lana’s bed rustles, and she pokes her head out. She might be in satin pajamas with an eye mask pushed up on her forehead like a headband, but she’s wide awake and the glow from her laptop illuminates her bunk. On most tours, the talent gets their own bus, but that seemed like an awful waste, and I don’t feel right about making her sleep on one of the other buses for the roadies. They’re all really good people, but Lana isn’t the kind of woman who can share close quarters with men who don’t get the chance to shower everyday.

“Sorry.” I smile apologetically. “I didn’t mean to wakeyou.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. Haveyou—”

“Vanproposed.”

“What?”

“I . . . it was weird. We were Skyping and . . .” I’m sure she doesn’t really want to know the details, but given my lack of experience with men, I feel like this is an important one to not leave out. “We were . . . fooling around via Skypeand—”

“You werewhat?”

Shit. I forgot about her ‘no nudity near any devices with a Wi-Fi connection’ rule. It’s something she’s drummed into me from day one. Don’t be one of those idiot girls with nudes or a sex tape to haunt me. I took that rule one step further and wore boy shorts under every skirt because I did not need a wardrobemalfunction.

“Er . . . we wereSkyping.”

“Naked?”

“Yup,” I sayquietly.

“Oh my god,Stella.”

“It’s okay. No one could see it; he was in acubicle.”

“You were sex Skyping an NHL player in a public restroom?” A teeny tiny wicked vein pops out in her forehead, and I’m pretty sure I can hear teeth grinding. Yep. Definitely grinding herteeth.

“Chamomile?” I ask offering up my tea to theslaughter.

She snatches the cup from my hands, and I rise and walk over to the kitchen counter to make another. “It’s not like it was just any NHL player, you know? It’sVan.”

“Who has a reputation longer than the Declaration ofIndependence.”

I flinch. “Okay, well, yeah, maybe his past isn’t so great, but we’re moving pastthat.”

“Have you checked his Instagram feedtonight?”

“No.”

“Honey, I think the last thing you need to be worried about is a half-baked marriage proposal. I think you and Van have bigger things todiscuss.”

“What are you talkingabout?”

“There werephotos.”

Dread fills me, and I swallow hard. I’m almost afraid to ask. “What kind ofphotos?”

“Photos with bunnies, I guess. Look, I didn’t want to say anything because I know how these things come across. When I was with Drew the football hookers were everywhere, and he always swore it was worse than itlooked.”

“And he was cheating onyou.”

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