Page 2 of The Penalty Shot (Totally Pucked 5)

The drawing sitting in my lap is the source of my tossing and turning lately, one that’s plagued my dreams, even after fruitless attempts to push it from my mind.

Her.

As if she should be here, taking up space in my head, like she’s the rightful owner.

Long, strawberry blonde hair and delectable, rosy cheeks. She's a true vision, and one that I can’t help but put down on paper when she infiltrates my thoughts the way she does.

Picking up the charcoal, I sketch the delicate slope of her nose, and the slightly upturned corner of her eyes. Her lips are bright like cherries, most of the time covered in a clear sheen of lip gloss that makes them shine.

Should I be drawing my infuriating neighbor, who I can’t seem to get off my mind? The answer is no, but it’s also impossible not to when she’s a work of art herself.

Just as I start working on the curve of her chest, the headboard starts to hit the wall again in a rhythmic thump, and seconds later, the absurd moaning starts. So damn loud I can hear it out on the balcony.

“God, Daddy, more, please.” She whines, causing me to accidentally snap the piece of charcoal in my fist.

I guess now would be the time to mention that the girl haunting my dreams is also the one who’s unfortunately become my morning wake-up call. Hudson’s right. I do have a thing for my mysterious neighbor, and it drives me fucking insane. And for some reason, when I see her, I can’t correlate the two. She doesn’t seem like the kind of girl who would sound so…dirty? It’s hard to connect the shy, quiet girl I see in the gym and the elevator to the daddy screamer.

Sighing, I toss my sketchbook onto the table and take a sip of my coffee, trying to ignore the ridiculous high-pitched screeches coming from the other side of the wall.

Easier said than done.

After spending the majority of the day catching up on laundry, talking to my parents, and catching up with Reed and Briggs, I make my way up to my rooftop oasis, once the sun has set, with my sketchbook and earphones in hand. Hudson is still on his “date,” and I’ve been itching to finish the drawing from last night.

I love it up here. The peace, the utter stillness that separates you from the city, the view that you can’t find anywhere else but here. It’s the best view of the river, and when the sun sets, the entire sky is painted in hues of orange, red, and blue. Nothing comes close; plus, it offers refuge from the sounds coming from my neighbor’s apartment.

The first thing I notice when I step out of the heavy door leading to the rooftop is that I’m not alone. There’s only one other person who comes up here, and the only person that I would want to share this space with. I walk over to the outdoor sectional and plop down directly across from him, a smirk tugging at my lips.

He’s so lost in thought; he doesn’t even hear me approach and sit down. I clear my throat, and finally he looks up, his dark blue eyes widening with surprise. A lopsided grin slips onto his face as he says, “Asher!”

I offer my fist to him, and he bumps it, and we do the special handshake we’ve been working on.

“Nailed it!” I tell him when he grins excitedly.

With my practice and travel schedule, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other. Honestly, if you would’ve told me at this point in my life that I’d enjoy spending time with an eight-year-old kid over most adults, I probably wouldn’t have believed you. But…I prefer his company over almost anyone else.

Alex lives in the building. I was sitting on the roof one evening, sketching, and he stumbled through the door with an old spiral notebook that had seen much better days pressed tightly to his chest. My first thought was what in the hell was a kid doing up here at this time of night. After a few minutes, I introduced myself, and before I knew it, we were in an hour-long conversation about our favorite artists and periods of art. His mom apparently works a lot, and she gave him permission to sit up here and draw while she made dinner. He said she gave him the third degree when she first found out, but finally agreed since there are cameras up here, and as long as he promised to always bring his phone with him so she could reach him. The apartment building, even though it costs a damn arm and a leg to live here, didn’t invest in the rooftop space which worked out for Alex and me.

It gave us a place of solace. Him, finding a creative space where he felt comfortable, and me for the very same reason.

At first, we never planned to meet up. I would come here and find him sitting there, his nose buried in his notebook or a paperback, and together, we’d work in silence. Slowly, he came out of his shell and we got to know each other. We’ve bonded over our favorite comics and manga. Our love forStar Wars, and the fact thatStranger Thingsis the best show on TV. Our favorite artists, his favorite subjects in school. Once I showed him my first print edition of Berserk, a manga that we both love, it immediately bonded us. Over time, he’s become my little buddy. I bought a couch set and put it up here because I was tired of my ass going numb from sitting on the ground.

“Did they come in?” he asks. I can see the excitement shining in his eyes. He can hardly sit still on the couch, his knees knocking with eagerness.

“They did. But, what was the deal?” I lean back and put my hands behind my head, knowing the answer that awaits me already.

He flops back against the black and white striped cushion, groaning. “I know, I know. We get our test grades back tomorrow. Will you meet me here? I’ll bring my grades, and you can bring them.”

“You got it.”

Last week, I found him up here sniffling into a piece of paper, and it turns out he was struggling with his math grade, to the point of him being worried he was going to be kicked out of the Arts and Science Academy that his mother pays a lot of money for him to attend. It’s one of the most prestigious schools in the area; I don’t blame him for being worried about losing his place.

It just so happens that in high school, on top of being a hockey player, I was also a mathlete. So…I promised him that if he did well on his next assignment, I would buy him a new set of colored pencils that he had been saving for, for almost a year. Not the cheap kind, the professional grade, lightfast colored pencils. The expensive kind artists use, the kind that most kids don’t have access to.

I would’ve fucking bought them anyway, but I didn’t want to see him suffer in school. I care about the kid, and truthfully, he reminds me a lot of myself when I was his age.

“What are you working on now?” He nods toward my sketchpad that I purposely sat facedown, so no one could see its contents. I don’t need anyone knowing that I’ve been drawing neighbor girl, and I don’t want to have to explain to the eight-year-old kid in my building why I’m drawing a woman.

I shrug. “A few things. What about you? Any new pieces?”

---