Bed Buddies: Puck Buddies, Book Three Read online

  My throat tightens but I fight the tears.

  “Sami.” He’s not only warning, he’s also beseeching.

  “No.” I smile wide, warm and fluffy from the confession of love. I close my eyes and exhale deeply, leaning into him. “I missed you, Beast.” It might be petty but I needed that. I needed that major step from him before I could let down my guard again.

  He wraps all the way around me, pulling me so tightly into him I can barely breathe. “I love you.” He says it again and it’s officially the most magical thing I’ve ever heard.

  “I really thought we were going to have elevator sex,” I mutter into his wet jacket, feeling unsure of what to say to the declaration.

  “We still can.” He chuckles.

  “No, this is better. I’m winning.” I drag him through the door and up to my room to snuggle. I can’t wait to torture him for the last few weeks of the year.

  “Seriously, we could still go back to the elevator.” He tries to pull me backward.

  “No. I have plans for you, Brimley.” I can’t fight the grin on my face. “We’re going to snuggle and eat sundaes and watch a chick flick and maybe I’ll let you braid my hair.”

  “I told you I love you and this is your response?”

  “Yes.” I grin back at him. “This is your prize for admitting defeat. The deal still stands for a couple of more weeks. Take it or leave it.” I finally have the upper hand again. It’s cold and crafty, but I have severely sucked at this stupid game we’ve played, always letting him win.

  I might not have started strong, but I am going to finish strong.

  Chapter 15

  Lesbian lovers

  April 5, 2016

  Natalie

  Brady passes, trying to get the puck out of their end but someone on Tampa steals it, shooting at the net.

  I gasp, exhaling when Lundqvist saves it. “Oh God, he’s a good goalie.”

  Sami winces, screaming, “Come on! Get it outta there!”

  Her cries are too late as Tampa scores off the save, hitting the post and then Lundquist’s back before going in.

  “Fuck!” she screams.

  “Come on! You’re getting paid to play!” The guy next to her growls, “That fucking Boyle.”

  Watching hockey with her and the New Yorkers is embarrassing.

  The puck resets and we all sit and wait for the Rangers to get on the board.

  Lundqvist saves a long shot as Brady checks someone into the boards. The line switches and the first period ends with a 2–0 lead for Tampa.

  “Jesus Christ.” Sami does her version of pray cussing as she chomps down a hot dog. “If it wasn’t for Lundqvist this game would be over. Where is the defense tonight?”

  The guy next to her points. “Tampa is on the puck. They never let up. They outshoot us two to one. If we had a shit goalie, we’d be fucked.”

  “We’re fucked anyway. New York decided not to show up to the game.” Sami nods, chewing like a cow. “Maybe they’re forgetting it’s the end of the season, not some preseason game.”

  New Yorkers are savages. When the team is playing well, no one loves their team more. When they’re not, they turn on them faster than you can imagine.

  Second period starts and the team seems a little more alive.

  Matt skates wide, taking a slap shot but it’s saved.

  Miller, the feisty one, checks someone named Garrison who returns the favor moments later. Another slap shot is attempted, but no luck.

  “Holy shit!” Sami shouts. “Stepan is open!”

  “Why are there so many face-offs?” I ask but am waved off by the guy next to me and Sami.

  Tampa makes a shot but it’s wide, missing the net.

  Sami is frothing. The guy next to us looks like he might be choking on his hot dog, but he’s screaming to the point that there’s no sound.

  It’s tense until almost the end of the period when one of the Rangers, Derek Stepan, scores.

  Sami jumps into the arms of the old chubby guy and they jump up and down, hugging. I cheer like a normal human being. Apparently, I am one in a million in the Garden.

  The hits grow more violent as the clock ticks on, getting to the end of the period.

  Brady hits someone into the boards but ends up with penalty minutes, called for tripping.

  “Come on, ref! He tripped on his own!” Sami defends Brady, but I offer a mere wave at the penalty box. He doesn’t wave back. He doesn’t even see me. He’s in the game.

  In the third period the Rangers finally score two more times to win against Tampa, but it has been a brutal game.

  For me, the high of watching them play has worn off a little. I like the game, just not the way Sami, Brady, Mike, and Matt do.

  Liz and I are still fairly into it, but more in a “that's a hot guy smashing into another hot guy and I like it” sense.

  Personally, my favorite is the end of the game when they win. Brady smells like a man and fucks like an animal. It’s the best in this world. The reward for eight months of him being busy, distracted, sore, tired, and cranky. May can’t come fast enough, although apparently, they still have to play in June, something I still don't get. Preseason is a creature I am confused by, it and the points.

  But I don't care.

  Brady and I are going to spend May, July, and August together.

  I can’t wait.

  First, I need to refinish the entire apartment with the design team so I appear to live there in the place for the Pauper. And then I have to find a beach house for poor people. I’m actually dreading that part. Beach houses for poor people have rodents and weird smells and hookers for neighbors.

  “What a game!” Sami claps her mitted hands together, beaming like she just played. Technically, she coached the whole game but who’s counting? “You ready to get some food?”

  “You just ate an entire hot dog.”

  “I worked up an appetite.” She burps and rubs her stomach.

  “Clearly.” I laugh and link my arm in hers, leaving the arena in our incognito outfits. There’s dressing down and then there’s Sami at a hockey game.

  I don't understand why I had to wear a hoodie, loose-fitting jeans, and a ball cap with my fingerless gloves but whatever.

  “When we get outside the arena, we’ll run for the limo and meet the guys after, okay?” We always leave a tiny bit early and pretty much sprint to the car with paparazzi chasing us. Which is also why I don't get the dressing down. No one is fooled, and we end up with shitty pictures in the rag magazines anyway.

  TMZ got a photo of me last week I’m still a little sore over. I had dubs and was mid sneeze so I appeared to be having a seizure. I felt like Melanie Griffith eating a donut. They snuck out of the bushes and caught probably the worst photo ever taken of me. Being friends with Sami has amazing moments, the kind regular friends won’t ever have, but it also has the TMZ photos.

  When we get to the doors, she runs for it. She’s winded in seconds, of course. She’s the fattest skinny person ever. I grab her arm and drag her through the crowd as they hit.

  “Sami! Sami, look over here!”

  “Ms. Ford! Were you here watching Matt Brimley’s game again?”

  “Has he popped the question? We heard you’re going for a summer wedding in France!”

  Vincenzo shoves them back and gets us inside as the doors close to the sound of someone shouting, “Is that your lesbian lover, Sami?”

  She scowls. “Why is it whenever I dress like this they think I’m gay? Do they seriously not know a single well dressed lesbian?”

  “I don't know.” I can’t help but laugh.

  “I know tons. Like handfuls of women who dig chicks that I can name off the top of my head, that I have met, who dress impeccably. Portia de Rossi is the first on that list. She’s stunning.”

  “She’s stunning,” I mutter and shoot Brady a quick text, congratulating him on the win and that we’ll meet them at the restaurant. The word “restaurant” pops a thought
into my mind. “We’re going home to change, right?” I glance at our jeans and hoodies.

  “Duh.” Sami rolls her eyes. “Like I’d be seen anywhere except the Garden in this.” She puckers her perfectly glossed lips. “I have Nadia setting us up some outfits and we’re going to do a Taylor Swift costume change. It’s a little whirlwind, but it’ll take a while for the guys to shower.”

  “Okay good.” I sit back. “They played well tonight.”

  “They got lucky in the last period, they played for shit. Tampa was 2–1 for shots on goal. If our goalie wasn't so good, we’d be in trouble.” A scowl crosses her brow. “And it’s going to be us and Pittsburgh in the end, battling for the East. If they don't pick up their socks we’re out.”

  “Don't jinx them.”

  “I’m not.” Her eyes widen. “I want them to win the cup. That would be the epic end to this season, but I don't think it’s in the cards.” She narrows her gaze and points at me. “Don't tell them I said it.”

  “Like I would want them to know we’re already counting them out. They don't shave or change their underwear; I’m not going to make it sound like Madam Sami had a prediction. Jeesh.”

  “Madam Sami?” She chuckles. “Madam Sami is predicting some serious carbs for dinner. I am starving.” She rubs her stomach.

  “You should weigh five hundred pounds. This is where all your heartburn’s coming from.”

  “I know.” She doesn't even try to argue the fact. “Mom keeps saying it’s going to catch up to me, but I don't think so. I think all the heels make normal walking more like a workout.”

  That makes me laugh. “You’re an idiot.”

  “Maybe. But look at my calves.” She pulls up her pant leg and flashes her leg at me.

  “Oh my God.” I can’t help but laugh harder.

  I love days like this with her. No work or relationship crap, just she and I and of course her amazing calves . . .

  It’s a perfect day.

  A perfect calm before the storm.

  Chapter 16

  Not Chinese New Year

  December 3, 2015

  Sami

  My head aches as I crawl from the covers and stumble to the bright bathroom. The morning light is actually trying to kill me.

  Everything hurts but the explanation as to why is delayed.

  What did we do last night?

  Leaning against the tile surrounding the tub, I lift a trembling hand to my head and try to sort the memories.

  The dragon stamp on my wrist reminds me there was something about Chinese New Year, and we ate Chinese food. I remember that but I can’t remember why. Do we celebrate Chinese New Year now? Is it even Chinese New Year? How can it be New Year if it’s still December?

  I don't remember drinking much but the whole evening is fuzzy.

  Leaning forward in the stark white bathroom, I catch a glimpse of the hairy man-leg poking out of my pristine pale bedding.

  My stomach sinks. I let him stay over? We’ve almost made it to the end and now he’s in my bed again? He hasn't really left much since the confession a couple of days ago.

  Shit!

  Drunk Sami and Matt in bed is always a bad outcome. I reach a hand down over my underwear, feeling if we had sex. I want to believe I held out, but you can’t tell with us. Drunk sex is a problem. I suspect it’s always going to be a problem. Because it’s the only time we’re both a hundred-percent honest with each other about how we feel. Although he’s been particularly honest this past few days.

  Heart racing and stomach tight, I tiptoe from the bathroom, fighting the urge to throw up, and search the room for a condom or a wrapper.

  But there’s nothing.

  Sighing, I creep back into the bathroom and close the door.

  Maybe we didn’t have sex. I wiggle my body, trying to see if anything feels different, used. It doesn’t. I feel achy and hungover, but other than that, I feel normal.

  My reflection would beg to differ. My hair is everywhere, strands of honey-blonde locks are matted to each other like there might still be a bun in there somewhere. My eyes are slightly swollen, like maybe I cried.

  Shit, did I cry?

  Why would I cry?

  I swallow and notice the ache in my throat suggesting I might have puked which would explain the puffy eyes.

  I am a hot mess. I hope we didn't have sex, Jesus help me.

  My white tank top is see-through like Baloney Barb’s and my pale blue shorts are so short I look like I’m smuggling a beaver in there. I lift my arm, revealing a tuft of fur. It’s time for a wax, everywhere.

  Our game of no sex has me off my schedule.

  I haven’t been doing the weekly or even monthly maintenance. I haven’t needed to. No one sees me naked, ever.

  The only person snuggling up to my wooly legs is Nat and she’s barely home, ever.

  Speaking of Nat, she was at the party. I remember her there. It was a team party.

  What was it for? Why was Chinese New Year the theme?

  A light comes on in my still tired mind.

  Rangers lost against Colorado so they decided they wanted a pity party. I must have drank. A lot. I haven’t been drinking at all. I haven’t had time.

  The games room in some random apartment flashes back into my memory, something about a games room.

  It’s there but not.

  Unlike the lingering flavor of vomit. That I can taste clear as day.

  Shuddering, I peel my clothes off and step into the shower, setting it to warmer than I should and turning the steam on. I need to sweat a little. Or a lot.

  But the chills and hangover shivers won’t let go of me, even in the steam. I need emergency services. I need an IV and some greasy breakfast.

  I wash up, taking an extra clean sweep through the areas that might hint at whether I had sex or not.

  I feel normal, thank God.

  We haven’t had sex since the last time I gave in, the night at the beach.

  But we’ve been tormenting each other with possibility.

  I really want to make the New Year and start over, exactly like he said. He just wants this over, now. He’s begged, pleaded, feigned indifference, and flat-out tried dragging me to his place to fuck but I’m staying strong. I made a deal and I need to finish it as I’ve envisioned it.

  Which also means I can’t wait for the New Year and new us.

  It’s been an interesting year. A slight grin crosses my lips as I deem devising the demise of William the highlight of the year, no contest.

  Blow Job Brady, the master of the disgusting, dehumanizing Clinton, was the perfect roommate.

  Gorgeous. Check.

  Chiseled. Check.

  Slutty. Check.

  Seductive. Check.

  Completely turned on by nerdy girls. Check.

  Without morals. Check.

  And yet the nicest guy in the world and a complete gentleman to girls he isn’t Clintoning. Check.

  It had been the perfect plan, until they took it too far and fell in love.

  There have been some rocky moments, but they got ironed out in the wash, as Nadia always says. Now they’re dating like adults.

  I can’t help but wonder if everyone else is hungover too or if I got food poisoning or something. The shower isn’t helping. In fact, the water pounding my head starts to make my headache worse.

  I climb from the shower, ready to tuck tail and order my hangover cocktail when the bathroom door opens.

  “Ah!” I scream in surprise, and from the pounding in my head getting worse and grab for a towel on the wall. Matt snatches it away too fast, his eyes sparkling with delight. “Give it to me,” I growl, clutching my head.

  “Not a chance.” His eyes traipse my drenched and naked body. I don’t even try to cover up, hoping this burns his balls even more. “Going wild with the natural look, huh? Nice.” He winks. “It’s not my favorite but I do dig it on you. You look good no matter what state you’re in.”

  “You’re di
sgusting.” I strut to him, snatching at the towel.

  Matt lifts it in the air behind him so I have to slide my wet body across his bare chest. “I love it when you rub your wet ti—”

  “Don’t say it,” I snarl and grab at the towel, letting him enjoy the feel of me naked. It’s all he’s getting. “We have rules, Brimley. This game isn’t over yet.”

  “You have rules, Ford. Not me. I told you, I’m done.” He grins.

  Him half naked, leering, and flirting is one of my favorites, but I need to maintain the boundaries. I’m so close to the end and I’m finally winning.

  Drying off, I leave the bathroom, padding over to the phone to text Nadia.

  “Sami, come on. All joking aside, I figured after last night we might actually be making some headway—”

  “What happened last night?” I turn fast, lowering the phone and swaying from the room spins.

  “The talk we had, at Miller’s. Your confession.”

  “Talk?” I lift my brows, completely confused by it. “Confession?” Shit!

  “You want to play like it was just the booze?” He loses some of the humor in his face.

  “It was the booze. I don’t remember drinking so much. I recall the game. That guy, Lindberg, scored the only goal. Miller decided to have a spontaneous pity party and we ate Chinese food with half the team and spouses.” I narrow my gaze, trying to recall even a single other detail.

  “Unbelievable. It’s been almost a year of this, with no end, and now we finally finish it, and you were so drunk you don’t remember?” His voice raises, making me cringe in pain. “You’re never going to get over this, are you? It’s going to be this same shit show until you’re tired of whatever the hell this is”—he waves his hands between us—“and then you’re going to break things off and laugh about it for thirty years.” His eyes are getting to that dark and scary place, the place where the beast lives. “Laugh about how you made Matt Brimley your little bitch because he gave you one single moment to doubt him and accidentally humiliated you. So you showed him? Jesus Christ, Sami! I can’t keep doing this! I can’t keep paying for not being smart enough to see Laramie for what he was.”