The third page of last week’s entertainment section confirms this hypothesis. The evidence is splashed all over the grainy two-page spread of Buck with his hand up some woman’s skirt. In a public bathroom. He appears to be devouring her face while getting her naked inside a stall—with the door open. So dirty.
The picture itself isn’t a surprise. Hundreds of similar images can be found through an Internet search. Buck has shared his manstick with half the female population in the continental US, and probably a few up in Canada. The woman he’s making out with is the problem. He’s not macking on a random hockey hooker. Oh no. It’s his former coach’s niece. Her name is Fran. She’s adorable, and now she looks like a total puck bunny, thanks to Buck.
In his defense, he said he didn’t know who she was. He’s not bright and he was hammered, so it likely was an honest mistake—not that it makes his whoring ways any less abhorrent. This little incident is the reason behind his recent trade to the Hawks. His return to Chicago means I’ll be seeing a lot more of him again.
“Well, I think they’ve blown this way out of proportion. Sidney’s excited to have him back in the city, though. Anyway . . .” She pushes a piece of paper toward me. Upon inspection, I realize it’s a plane ticket.
I snatch it up and frown. “What’s this? Why does it have my name on it? What’s in Atlanta?”
“Surprise!” She does jazz hands. “It’s Buck’s first away game with the Hawks.”
“Mom, I can’t—”
“We’re going as a family to support him. He’s had a rough couple of weeks.”
“It’s not my fault Buck can’t keep his dick in his pants and out of his coach’s niece.”
“Violet!” Her brow arches and her lips purse as if she’s sucking a lemon. “Don’t be so crass! This isn’t about Buck’s . . .” She trails off and gestures below the table.
“Yes it is. Buck doesn’t care if I come to his games.”
“He was very upset when you couldn’t make the last few. Maybe if you’d been at this one”—she points at the magazine—“he might not have gotten himself into so much trouble.”
“Are you guilting me into coming?” I glare over the rim of my mug.
“Not at all. I’m just throwing out hypotesticals.”
I cough-choke. “Do you mean hypotheticals?”
“That’s what I said.”
Correcting her is as pointless as fighting her on this. Once my mom makes up her mind, rationalizing an alternative is like slamming your head into a titanium wall—painful and futile. I need to reconsider the apartment situation.
I give getting out of going to the game a last-ditch effort. “I have to work this weekend.”
“No you don’t.”
“How do you know?”
She ignores the question. “A car will be at the house to pick us up at six.”
“I don’t get off until five. How are we even going to make it to the game on time?”
“The flight isn’t until tomorrow morning.” She taps the date on the ticket, which I’ve failed to read.
“Oh.” So much for finding a way out. It looks like I’m going to another hockey game. Yippee.
“It’ll be so much fun! We can go outlet shopping! Whelp, I’ve got to go! Don’t want to be late for my Pilates class!” She jumps up and bounces out the door, off to her next thing.
After my mom leaves, I check the time. I have half an hour to get ready. Nabbing the magazine from the table, I rush to my nightstand, grab my vibe, and hit the bathroom—first it needs a wash—then I flip to the milk advertisement. The subject matter is a fuckhot guy who completely misses his mouth and dribbles a glass of milk down his chest. I don’t know why it’s so hot. I mean, milk isn’t really a sexy drink, but whatever.
I heft my foot onto the vanity and go to town while looking at the milk porn guy. The orgasm I missed earlier takes me to the floor, and the magazine lands on my face. It doesn’t matter. I’m coming and it feels good.
The jilling session takes longer than I expect, so I have to drive faster than usual to get to work. As a recent graduate from the accounting program at the University of Illinois, I scored the job through my internship—which Sidney set up for me. Having a stepfather who scouts for the NHL does have some perks. I’m a junior accountant for a PR firm specializing in—wait for it—sports financial management. This includes investing professional hockey players’ fortunes. I’m surrounded by hockey all the time.
Charlene, my bestie and colleague, sits on the edge of my desk, sipping her coffee while I frantically organize files.
“I can’t go out tonight. I have too much to do for the Kuntz account,” I tell her.
“You’re bailing on me to work late on a Friday?”
“My mom’s making me go to Buck’s game tomorrow in Atlanta. Apparently, we need to band together as a family to support his inability to keep his dick in his pants.”
Charlene makes a sympathetic face. “He really messed up this time, didn’t he?”
“Don’t get me started. He’s such an idiot. Anyway, we’re flying out early in the morning, so I need to be prepared for Monday before I leave for the weekend.”