Chapter 8
Puck Bunnies
Radar
I was still in the shower when I heard a huge commotion out in the living room. I was sure it was Lance and Ella, but what were they doing? How were they making so much racket?
Hope they're getting along, I thought to myself. I don't know how much more of their fighting I can take.
I wasn't sure how much I could take being in the middle of those two, either. Last night was on my mind all day. I realized how weak I'd been in the moment last night—how Ella's big, expressive eyes had captured mine, how her sweet smell had intoxicated me and made me almost do something really, really dumb. I still didn't know what the hell came over me. Was I really that close to kissing her? Or was I just drunk and not thinking clearly?
Man. Talk about a dangerous situation. Don't get me wrong, I wouldn't touch Ella. Not in a million years. It'd be bad enough, since she's my roommate's sister—but the sister of my best friend and teammate? Nope. You can't get any more off-limits than that. If I went anywhere near her, I'd create a firestorm on the team.
Hell, I've heard rumors of locker rooms that were split over less. I'd heard of guys getting shipped out of town because he boned a teammate's distant cousin. I wasn't about to invite any of that drama onto our team.
And besides. Not to sound like a dick, but Ella wasn't the type of girl I went for. I liked girls who gave me that star-struck look. Girls who were easily entertained, and easily kept at a healthy distance. Ella? Something told me I'd never dealt with a girl like her before. That she wasn't quite so impressed by the fact that I was an athlete—that she wanted me to be something more than that.
Why the hell are you even thinking about her like that? I thought to myself as I shut the shower off. You're losing your mind. Cut it out.
I wrapped the towel around my waist and headed back to my room. That's when I saw what had made all that noise earlier—Lance and Ella had managed to bring home a big and red leather couch.
I tried to hurry past without stopping. “Hey guys. Sweet couch.”
“Oh, there he is! Hi RyRy!” Ella sang. She jumped off the sofa, hooked her arm through mine and pulled me to a stop.
RyRy? The hell?
“We were just talking about you,” Ella said with mischief in her eyes—eyes that stole a glance at my bare chest. “So what do you think of the new couch?!”
“Looks great. It's huge.”
She smiled. “Yeah. We must've looked at 80 different red leather couches today, but they weren't big enough for Lance. I know how much you athletes love furniture made for giants …”
“It's true.”
She pulled on my arm, tugging me towards the couch. “Don't you wanna sit and test it out?”
Lance groaned. “He's wearing a bath towel, Ella.”
“Yeah, maybe later,” I said.
“So what'd you do today, Radar?” Lance asked.
“I hung out with Ilya and his girlfriend.”
“Cool.” Lance added to Ella, “Ilya's our goalie. He's Russian. So's his girlfriend. She's actually a star in women's tennis—maybe you've heard of her? Natalya Anasenko.”
“Neat,” Ella said, pretending to be impressed when she clearly wasn't.
“How about you guys? How'd the shopping go?” I asked, pretending that it was totally normal to be wearing nothing but a sopping-wet bath towel while my teammate's sister clung to my forearm and discreetly ran the pads of her fingers over my muscle.
This is insane.
“Good,” Ella said. “We brought home what we could. The rest of the big things are getting delivered tomorrow.”
“Cool,” I croaked, “thanks for making our place nice.”
The smoothness of Ella's nails, lightly dragging along my warm and shower-fresh skin, was a dangerously seductive sensation. I had to get away from her, and I had to get away from her now, because a carnal pulse began to pump between my legs, whether I wanted it to or not.
And I was not about to pitch a tent in my bath towel.
I put a foot or two of space between us. I couldn't help but notice that Lance made the smallest of approving smiles.
If Ella felt rejected, she didn't show it. She hopped right back to her spot on the couch. “Well, anyway, Lance and I are going out tonight and we were wondering if you wanted to come with us?”
“Nope. I've got plans. Thanks though.”
“Aw, c'mon,” she said with a frown.
Lance butted in. “You heard the man,” he said, and now he was really smiling. “He's got plans.”
“What kind of plans?” Ella wanted to know.
“It's none of your business, Ella! Leave Radar alone! Can't you see the poor guy is still dripping wet from his shower?”
On cue, her eyes swept down my bare upper-torso.
“The last thing the team needs is this guy coming down with a cold! We've got a game tomorrow!”
Lance was carving out my escape path for me, and I'd be a fool not to take it. With that, I excused myself and retreated for my room.
Ella whined to her brother. “If you two have a game tomorrow, then why are you going out tonight at all? We should stay in and play cards or something, just the three of us. … you know, that could be fun …”
I shut the bedroom door behind me, and their bickering stopped. Or at least I couldn't hear it anymore.
I dropped my towel and rolled my eyes at myself—sure as hell, I'd grown half-hard out there. I hoped they hadn't noticed. What was she thinking, touching me like that?
***
Having escaped those two, I could breathe a little easier, and was eager to take my mind off Ella. I got dressed, jumped into bed and fired up my tablet. I loaded the MeatMarket app and opened the first few messages I'd gotten in the past couple hours:
“Hi Radar! Plans tonight?”
“Ryyyyyyyyyyyyan. Ur so hot.”
On my MeatMarket profile, I don't openly advertise who I am. Some guys do, some don't. I'm more of the private type of guy. No revealing bio information whatsoever. There's only two pictures of me: the first is me, shirtless at the beach, posing with two good friends of mine from back home. But the camera is far enough away that even the casual fan Brawlers wouldn't know it was me if they happened to see it.
The other photo was taken in a dimly lit bar, and I'm wearing a ball-cap. Again, most hockey fans wouldn't know the man in the photo was me if they saw it. The most revealing thing about me in that photo is the Brawlers logo on the cap—along with my signature smile.
It doesn't matter that the casual hockey fan wouldn't spot me in my profile pictures, because my profile isn't for them. It's for a specific group of girls.
They're called puck bunnies, and they're hockey's version of jersey-chasers. They know my smile by heart—and that smile, along with the hat, all but confirms my identity. And they know that the sparsity of information in my profile is another big clue.
The puck bunnies have internet communities and forums dedicated to trading information about us players. What our favorite bars and clubs are, and when we're likely to be there; the links to our private social media accounts; whether we have girlfriends or not. When a puck bunny finds a player, she posts the link to his profile so all the other bunnies can find him too. They'll discuss things like what we're like outside of the rink. They'll share their intimate knowledge of us, too. Our likes, dislikes. Turn-ons, turn-offs.
What do they know about me? That I'm discreet. That I never text the same girl twice. That, just like on the ice, I've got a motor that won't quit.
And oh yeah. There's one other thing—one secret about me that the puck bunnies won't share so openly, but only give to other girls they trust.
I thumbed over to the next message, from Brawlersbabe90, and opened it. Her name was Kara. She'd sent a selfie. She was posing in front of a mirror. She'd unzipped her jeans and tugged them down just enough to give a scandalous glimpse at her lacy pink panties, with a little bow over the crotch.
I rumbled with a hungry growl.
“How do you like my panties, Radar?” her message read.
“Very nice,” I texted back.
I went back to studying her selfie. Brawlersbabe90 was a babe alright, a petite blonde with a hard body. She was wearing a shirt with my name and number 90. A nice detail. One that appealed to my most base, possessive desires. Made me feel like she belonged to me before I'd even met her.
Kara texted me back. “Think they'd look good in your collection?”
“Maybe. Club Regret. Midnight.”
“See you then. xoxo”
Don't tell old man Shea, but that's how it's done. That's how a guy in my profession has all the no-strings-attached hook-ups he could ever want.
And that's how I'm gonna forget all about Ella, too.