out her name, but I'm met with silence. The bathroom door is open, so she’s definitely not in there. The sitting room is the next logical option. Flicking the light, I discover it’s as empty as the bathroom. My glass of Perrier and her mostly full grapefruit and soda water are on the table where we left them last night. Her phone is missing, so is her pajama top, and her glasses are on the floor beside the couch.
Those glasses—Christ, they’re hot. The Spiderman jammies, too. It should be illegal for a grown woman to look so sexy in comic book-inspired bed wear. That's when I realize she left without waking me up. I almost double-check the suite, but it’s clear she’s gone, which sucks. Disappointment deflates my dick.
If I was like some of my teammates, I’d be relieved she left. I’m not. The puck bunny thing isn’t my game. That’s not to say I’ve never had a one-night stand with a bunny. It’s more that there have been very few in comparison to media speculation. I’m not all that keen on being someone’s claim to star fucking fame.
Violet strikes me as the opposite of a puck bunny. She was reading Fielding, of all things, during the game. It was as offensive as it was refreshing. As I head to the bedroom, it occurs to me she may have tried to wake me with no luck. I’ve slept through fire alarms in the past, and I’d been up since six yesterday morning. Practice, the game, the fight, the bar, and the phenomenal sex marathon have worn me out.
I drop facedown on the bed. The pillow smells like Violet, and it’s soft like her boobs. I haven’t touched ones that nice since freshman year in college.
I roll over with her glasses still in my hand, unsure how to proceed. It’s too early to stop by her room and return them. Besides, she’s staying with her parents so that’s out. I settle on calling. Her phone goes to voice mail, which shouldn’t surprise me considering the early hour. Violet’s message is short and funny—it cuts off in the middle of a string of profanity—so I’m unprepared for the beep.
“ Uh, hi. Hey. It’s Alex. Waters. You spent the night—uh. . . Yeah. I’m sure you remember. Anyway, you left your glasses in my room. So I have them. I’ll hold onto them until you call or I see you. I’ll be back in Chicago in a week and a half. I hope you have an extra pair. Or maybe you wear contacts. You weren’t wearing glasses at the game. About last night. . . I—” The machine beeps, cutting me off. It’s the worst message ever. There isn’t even an option to rerecord.
I don’t call again, afraid I’ll say something even worse. I set Violet’s glasses and my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. My head is pounding from too little sleep. As exhausted as I am, I can’t relax enough to pass out. I have Violet on the brain. I’m not sure what happened between the time she said she wouldn’t have sex with me and the moment she suctioned her face to mine, but I sure don’t regret her change of mind.
Sleeping with my teammate’s sister, step or not, isn’t something to be proud of. Ironically, based on the media, it’s exactly what’s expected of me, and it blows. If Violet finds out about my reputation—assuming she hasn’t already—she may very well never want to speak with me again, no matter how many orgasms I fucked out of her last night. It’s thoughts such as these that keep me awake for the next two hours, wishing she’d call back so I can talk to her before someone else does. Especially Butterson.
My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hit talk, and grumble into the receiver.
“ Hey, man. Where are you? You’re holding us up.”
“ Darren? Dude, it’s early. What’s the deal? We don’t leave until—” I hold my phone out to check the time. It’s almost one in the afternoon. I was supposed to be on the bus twenty minutes ago. “Shit. I’ll be right down.”
I throw on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Tossing the
Those glasses—Christ, they’re hot. The Spiderman jammies, too. It should be illegal for a grown woman to look so sexy in comic book-inspired bed wear. That's when I realize she left without waking me up. I almost double-check the suite, but it’s clear she’s gone, which sucks. Disappointment deflates my dick.
If I was like some of my teammates, I’d be relieved she left. I’m not. The puck bunny thing isn’t my game. That’s not to say I’ve never had a one-night stand with a bunny. It’s more that there have been very few in comparison to media speculation. I’m not all that keen on being someone’s claim to star fucking fame.
Violet strikes me as the opposite of a puck bunny. She was reading Fielding, of all things, during the game. It was as offensive as it was refreshing. As I head to the bedroom, it occurs to me she may have tried to wake me with no luck. I’ve slept through fire alarms in the past, and I’d been up since six yesterday morning. Practice, the game, the fight, the bar, and the phenomenal sex marathon have worn me out.
I drop facedown on the bed. The pillow smells like Violet, and it’s soft like her boobs. I haven’t touched ones that nice since freshman year in college.
I roll over with her glasses still in my hand, unsure how to proceed. It’s too early to stop by her room and return them. Besides, she’s staying with her parents so that’s out. I settle on calling. Her phone goes to voice mail, which shouldn’t surprise me considering the early hour. Violet’s message is short and funny—it cuts off in the middle of a string of profanity—so I’m unprepared for the beep.
“ Uh, hi. Hey. It’s Alex. Waters. You spent the night—uh. . . Yeah. I’m sure you remember. Anyway, you left your glasses in my room. So I have them. I’ll hold onto them until you call or I see you. I’ll be back in Chicago in a week and a half. I hope you have an extra pair. Or maybe you wear contacts. You weren’t wearing glasses at the game. About last night. . . I—” The machine beeps, cutting me off. It’s the worst message ever. There isn’t even an option to rerecord.
I don’t call again, afraid I’ll say something even worse. I set Violet’s glasses and my phone on the nightstand and close my eyes. My head is pounding from too little sleep. As exhausted as I am, I can’t relax enough to pass out. I have Violet on the brain. I’m not sure what happened between the time she said she wouldn’t have sex with me and the moment she suctioned her face to mine, but I sure don’t regret her change of mind.
Sleeping with my teammate’s sister, step or not, isn’t something to be proud of. Ironically, based on the media, it’s exactly what’s expected of me, and it blows. If Violet finds out about my reputation—assuming she hasn’t already—she may very well never want to speak with me again, no matter how many orgasms I fucked out of her last night. It’s thoughts such as these that keep me awake for the next two hours, wishing she’d call back so I can talk to her before someone else does. Especially Butterson.
My phone rings on my nightstand. I grab it, hit talk, and grumble into the receiver.
“ Hey, man. Where are you? You’re holding us up.”
“ Darren? Dude, it’s early. What’s the deal? We don’t leave until—” I hold my phone out to check the time. It’s almost one in the afternoon. I was supposed to be on the bus twenty minutes ago. “Shit. I’ll be right down.”
I throw on a pair of jeans and a wrinkled shirt. Tossing the
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