Page 42 of Married As Puck
When we get home, she goes straight into her room without a single word. I watch her bedroom door shut and wonder if I did something wrong. I thought we had a good night together.
Shit, maybe I did ruin it.
I do my nightly routine, not wanting to think about it. But when I lay in bed, I start getting hard just thinking about her. I finally tasted that feminine smell of hers and I felt her soft body under mine. I resist the urge to stroke myself and finish what I started with her.
Then I wonder if she really thinks Jake is good-looking.
If so, I’m fucked.
Because I look nothing like that guy, and if he’s her type, I don’t stand a chance.
The rink has always been my safe place. It always made sense to me because there is a defined purpose––win the game. Lately, it doesn’t feel the same. Something’s off.
The first time, I thought I was imagining it. My skates felt stiff, like something was lodged in them. I wore them anyway but almost tripped during warm-ups. I caught myself on the boards just in time before my face connected with the floor and brushed it off like it was nothing. Shit happens on the ice, right?
Then my gloves go missing––the regular ones and the extra pairs. I’m sure I didn’t misplace them. I scan through the locker room cursing under my breath until Keith tosses me his extra pair.
“Calm down, man. It’s just gloves.”
Easy for him to say. He knows how I hate searching for things, especially those I use daily.
Today it’s the tape on my stick. I always roll it tight, the same way I have since I was a teenager but when I pick it up before practice, the handle feels loose, like someone messed with it.
I grit my teeth in frustration. Whoever’s doing this should better get ready for what’s coming to him when I find out.
Coach blows the whistle. “Move it, boys!”
I skate out, but the whole time my mind won’t let it go. I find it hard keeping a good grip on the stick because a small voice in my head keeps telling me that it’s not the same thing until I fix it but there’s no time for that.
The first shot I take, my blade slips. The puck wobbles, ugly. I hear someone snicker under their breath.
“Rough morning, Cam?”
“Shut up, Jack,” I snap.
He holds up his hands. “Easy, man.”
He just can’t fucking help himself. He always has something to say about something.
I push harder but no matter how much I move, the stick still feels wrong in my grip.
When practice ends, I slam my gear into the locker and storm straight to Coach’s office.
He doesn’t look up from his papers. “What’s the problem, Gray?”
“My gear keeps getting messed with,” I say. “Skates, gloves, my hockey stick, everything.”
Coach finally lifts his head, thick brows furrowing. “You sure you’re not just imagining things? This is––”
“I’m sure, Coach.” I cut him off. “I know when something’s off and this is one of those times. I’ve been trying to keep it in, but it’s affecting my performance in the rink.”
“Yeah, I saw it firsthand.” The silence stretches as I stare at him waiting for his next line of action.
“Are you just going to sit there?” I ask him a few minutes later.
Finally, Coach stands, grabs his whistle, and marches into the locker room with me on his heels.
“Everybody, listen up!” His voice booms, bouncing off the walls. The guys freeze mid activity. “Someone’s been tampering with equipment. I don’t care if you think it’s funny or a prank, this ends now. You hear me? If you want toys, get your ass to the playground.”
