VIOLET
My mother rises at the ass crack of dawn, even on the weekends. I’ve been asleep for less than two hours post stealth departure from Alex’s room when pounding on my door shocks me awake.
“Rise and shine, Vi! It’s time for shopping! We’re hitting the outlet mall bright and early!” Her shrill excitement is an awful way to wake up.
The clock on the nightstand reads seven thirty. On a Sunday morning. What the hell is wrong with her? “Go away!” I shove my head under the pillow.
As my mind wakes up, last night—or this morning—returns in a flash of orgasms. I had a lot of them. Judging by the soreness below the waist, I won’t soon forget them, either.
“You have twenty minutes to get ready. Sidney wants to hit Denny’s before the breakfast rush, and we’re flying out this afternoon. We need to get a move on!”
My stomach rumbles, sharing the enthusiasm for breakfast. I can’t argue with Denny’s. Besides, my mom isn’t going to go away; she’ll stand outside my door and annoy me until I open it.
“I need half an hour,” I say through a yawn.
“If I don’t hear the shower come on in five minutes, I’ll get Sidney to bust down your door,” she replies cheerfully.
Despite the threat, I don’t get out of bed right away. Instead, I check my phone. I have a voice mail from an unknown number. My stomach flips as I key in the code and listen to the message. It’s Alex. His sexy-as-fuck sleepy voice wakes up my beaten-down beaver. Shit. He has my glasses and wants to return them. That seems to defeat the purpose of a one-night stand. Although, being Buck’s teammate also ensures I’ll see him again, anyway. I listen to the message a few more times and save it. Now is not the time to call him; I’m on too little sleep to make good decisions where Alex and his magic monster cock is concerned.
I get out of bed and wobble to the bathroom like a newborn foal. My entire body aches as if I climbed a mountain with a fifty pound weight strapped to my back and finished it off with an Iron Man. My beaver has its own pulse. Today is going to be rough.
After a marathon morning of shopping with my mom while Sidney hangs out with some of his coach homies, we catch our afternoon flight to Chicago. Shoved in the pocket in front of my seat, along with the pamphlet on plane evacuation procedures, is a gossip rag. I flip aimlessly through it, not really paying attention to the content until I come across a picture of Alex. Some skanky, hot girl is wrapped around him, practically humping his leg. I check out the date on the cover; it’s from last week. Great. Now I’m the flavor of the week.
My mom grabs the magazine out of my hand. “Oh, he’s cute. Didn’t you meet him last night?”
“Who knows,” I grumble. “They’re all the same. Just a bunch of asshole players.”
“That’s not true. Buck’s a sweetheart.”
Sidney scoffs. “Buck’s about as sweet as a bucket of vinegar.”
By the time we land in Chicago, I’m exhausted. Sex and shopping wear a girl out. I’m all for going directly to bed, but Charlene’s car is parked in the driveway behind my SUV. I grab my suitcase and head for the pool house while Sidney carries all of my mom’s overnight bags to the house.
Charlene clearly used her spare key since I find her sitting on my couch, watching hockey highlights.
“Why haven’t you messaged me? What the hell is going on? You need to explain this.” Charlene holds up a full-color printout of two people playing tonsil hockey.
I grab it out of her hands. “Where did you get this?” It’s not one picture; it’s an entire stack.
“From the Internet, where else? I can’t believe you made out with Alex Waters and didn’t bother to text me or send an action selfie.”
I flop on the couch. My glasses don’t seem like such a big deal anymore, not compared to this. I’ve been in the paper before. I’ve even inadvertently appeared in magazine spreads. Until now I’ve always been in the background—a vague blur of female form. Not this time. Me and my tongue are front and center in Alex’s mouth.
Booze is the only way to manage this. I go straight for the liquor cabinet. I have two bottles to choose from: vodka and Sour Puss Apple. Vodka tastes terrible straight, so I opt for the Sour Puss. I set up three shot glasses and pour the electric green liquor before downing two and passing one to Char.
“What in the world happened at the game?”
“The pictures are pretty self-explanatory. We were mouth fucking.”
“‘Mouth fucking’?”
I grin despite the mess of a situation. “Like that?”
“I think you should try to slip it into casual conversation tomorrow.” Charlene tips her shot glass and makes a face as she swallows. “What else happened?”
“I had sex with him.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Her shock is reasonable; it’s totally un-me.
“Twice.”
“You’re not kidding.” She holds out her shot glass, so I pour her another and two more for myself. “Were you drunk?”
“Not so drunk I didn’t know better.”
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“So? Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” My stomach turns. I’m not so sure I want to hear Alex-inspired rumors.
“The ones about his junk.”
The hockey hooker discussion I overheard regarding the size of the teams’ man units comes to mind. Usually rumors are a bunch of crap. This time they’re true.
I keep my face impassive. “He has a finger penis.”
“Liar. You wouldn’t have had sex with him twice if he had a finger penis.” Her eyes light up. “It’s huge, isn’t it?”
I turn away and pour more shots to avoid her excitement. “Alex’s junk is not up for discussion. It’s not like I’m going to see it again anyway.”
“Look, Violet, if these kinds of pictures turned up of me with, say, Darren Westinghouse, I’d tell everyone how awesome he was in the sack, even if it was only a partial truth.” She points a finger. “Except you. I’d tell you if it sucked, so don’t you think for a second you can hold out on the details.”
I sigh. “Fine. He has a monster cock.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Charlene sputters.
“It’s a monster.”
Her nose scrunches in disgust. “You mean it’s deformed?”
“No. I mean it’s huge.”
“How huge?”
“Unnaturally huge.”
“Like a porno dick?”
“Exactly.”
She holds out her shot glass. “I need another one of these.”
We polish off the bottle of Sour Puss while surfing the Internet for pictures of Alex and me mouth fucking. There are a shitload of images, including thousands of Alex with various women. It appears the magazine spread I encountered on the plane and this weekend’s adventures aren’t isolated events.
Alex Waters is popular with the ladies. Based on media reports, he’s been with a hell of a lot of them. I find a two-minute long YouTube montage of him making out with various women. He’s stuck his tongue in a lot of mouths. I also discover Alex has been in several promotional ads beyond the milk one. I know with certainty he isn’t storing a sock in his boxer briefs.
Sometime around midnight, my phone rings. Charlene grabs it and checks the number. “It says unknown. Is it him? I bet it’s him!”
Before I can tell her not to, she answers the call. Char’s eyes go wide, and she covers the receiver with her hand, mouthing talk to him with an excitement I’m not sure I share.
I hold out my hand, take a deep breath, and put the phone to my ear. “Hi?”
“Violet?”
His voice is its own orgasm. “That’s me.”
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
There’s a long pause in which neither of us speak, and Charlene makes flailing hand gestures while mouthing things I can’t understand.
Alex breaks the awkward silence. “How are you?”
“Uh, pretty good. How about you?”
“Better now. Sorry I’m calling so late. I didn’t wake you, did I?”
“Nope. Just hanging out.”
Charlene points to her crotch and makes jerking motions. I turn away so I don’t start laughing.
“Are you in your jammies?” His voice is so low it’s almost a rumble.
“Pardon?”
“Sorry, nothing. I didn’t mean to ask that. It just came out. I’m sorry.”
And here I thought I was the awkward one. Maybe Alex is drunk dialing me. I go with it, lowering my voice to what I hope is a sultry whisper. “Do you want to know what I’m wearing?”
“Yes. No. Is this a trick question? Only if you won’t hang up on me for saying yes, otherwise no.” He’s cute, even for a manwhore.
“I’m wearing a black lace thong and a matching lace bra.”
He sighs into the phone. “Really? I didn’t take you for a black lace kind of girl.”
“No. Not even close. It’s fun to pretend, isn’t it?” I’m thankful he can’t see my face right now. It’s hot, so it’s probably blotchy. “I’m in jeans and a T-shirt. I was thinking I’d lose the bra soon.” I shouldn’t be entertaining him after what I’ve seen on the Internet and that magazine spread.
Charlene smacks me with a pillow. I fight her off while trying to keep the phone to my ear.
“Is the shirt tight?”
I check out my rack. “Um, I guess. It’s a small. If I wasn’t wearing a bra I could probably see my nipples through it.”
There’s more heavy breathing on the other end of the line. I roll off the couch, run to my bedroom, and lock the door so Charlene can’t get in. “Alex?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you whacking off?”
“God, no.”
“Okay, that’s good. I think.” I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. As soon as I hang up, Charlene is going to lose it on me for being such an idiot. “Did you call to find out what I was wearing?”
“No. I called to apologize.”
What a kick in the nonexistent nuts. Apologies after sex are never good.
He clears his throat. “I’m sure you’ve seen the pictures by now . . .”
“Oh, yeah, those.”
“I hope Butterson doesn’t give you a hard time. There’s always someone at the bar snapping photos.”
“No worries. There are way worse pictures of Buck. Besides, there are plenty of other pictures of you out there, so I’m sure these ones will be buried soon enough.” I cringe at the way it sounds, and because it’s most likely true.
“I wanted to explain—”
“Anyway, I got your message and the text. My beaver’s fine, by the way, nothing a long bath won’t fix, and don’t worry, I have another pair of glasses, and contact lenses, so lots of backup.”
“I’d still like to drop them off when I’m in Chicago.”
“You really don’t need to go out of your way. You can mail them if you want. I can give you the address.”
He repeats it back to me. “I’d still prefer to bring them by, if it’s okay with you.”
The prospect of seeing Alex again makes my beaver all drooly. “Um, sure.”
“Great. Awesome. I’ll see you when I get back.” He sounds almost giddy.
“Okay. Well . . . talk to you later, then.”
“I sure hope so. Night, Violet.”
Charlene is waiting on the other side of the door. “So? What did he say?”
“He wants to drop my glasses off.” While part of me is excited, the other part is wary. According to media reports, Alex Waters is a player, and I don’t want to get played.
Despite the low alcohol content of Sour Puss, I’m mildly hungover the next morning. Char and I consume copious quantities of water as a means to flush the sugar out of our systems and follow it with a pot of coffee.
Too lazy to deal with my hair, I pull it up into a high ponytail, exposing marks on my neck. I have a hickey. No, wait. I have—let me count them—four hickeys. How I haven’t noticed them until now is beyond me, but there they are: faint, pinkish-purple reminders of my failure of a one-night stand.
I find an infinity scarf, which Charlene arranges artfully around my neck—i.e. she loops it twice—and covers up my misdemeanors.
Carrying my travel mug and messenger bag, I open the door and nearly have a heart attack. A guy holding a huge bouquet of flowers stands on my front steps. It’s colossal in the most preposterous way.
I can only see his eyes and the brim of his hat. “Delivery for Violet Hall.”
“Oh. Wow. Thanks.”
I’m surprised flower shops deliver this early in the morning. The flowers are heavier than I expect, and I almost drop them when he passes me the bouquet. After the flower guy leaves, I set them on the table and check out the card while Charlene hovers behind me.
I’m glad your beaver made a full recovery.
~Alex
“Beaver?” Charlene asks.
“He’s referring to my girl parts.”
“He’s a bit of an odd duck, isn’t he?”
“He’s Canadian,” I reply as if this explains everything.
Charlene plans my wedding on our drive to work. I remain mostly silent as I’m reeling from the phone call last night and the flowers. The trek to my cubicle is telling—I get a lot of looks from the guys in the office. The kind that tell me they no longer regard me as the nerdy girl in accounting. Now I’m the nerdy girl who makes out with hockey players. Someone made a collage of the Internet pictures and taped it to my computer screen.
I rip it off and survey the office for the culprit. Fortunately, Charlene and I have a pre-team-meeting meeting with two of the other junior accountants this morning, so I can evade most of my colleagues until lunch. I gather my things and avoid eye contact on the way to the conference room.
As I flip open the laptop, Dean arrives. Only Jimmy is missing now. Logging onto the system, an alert shows several new emails. Four stand apart from the rest; they’re from Alex. I don’t remember telling him where I worked. I supposed if he searched my name, it wouldn’t be hard to find my email address on the company website.
“Oh my God,” Charlene squeals. “First the phone call, then the flowers, now he’s emailing you?”
“Who’s emailing you?” Dean asks.
I pull the laptop toward me, hiding the screen. “No one.”
“Alex Waters,” Charlene says.
I shoot her a glare. “You’re suspended as my best friend. I’m not talking to you for the rest of the day.”
“I heard there are pictures of you two getting it on,” Dean replies.
“We were just kissing.”
Charlene cuts in. “Didn’t you call it ‘mouth fucking’?”
“Ooooh, ‘mouth fucking.’ That sounds dirty.” Dean taps his fingers on his chin. “So we have his account now?”
“What? No!” I’m appalled Dean would think I could stoop to such low, unprofessional tactics to secure a client for the company.
“Why not? Waters is one of the top earners in the league. He cleared almost eight mil—”
I hold up my hand. Buck makes an obscene amount of money. I don’t want to know what Alex is worth, even if it is as easy as looking it up on the Internet. “Stop! I didn’t sleep with him to get his account!”
“You slept with him?” Dean’s jaw drops, his shock is understandable.
“Shut up!” I stalk across the room and shut the door. “Why don’t you announce it to the whole building since it’s not humiliating enough to have pictures of us kissing taped to my computer?”
“For real?” Dean leans forward. “You slept with Waters? Is the rumor true?”
“I’m not answering that.”
“So it’s true.”
“Enough. We have a presentation to prepare for. Unless we’re changing the topic to the size of Alex’s dick, we need to get going.”
“It would be way more interesting than this.” Dean gestures to the PowerPoint presentation on the screen.
Of course, Jimmy, the last member of our team, arrives, and we have to go through the entire thing again, including the mouth fucking explanation, which Jimmy loves as much as Dean. It’s going to be another long day.
I check my phone when I excuse myself to use the restroom. I have three voice mails and several texts. The first voice mail is from my mom. She found the flowers. Obviously she’s been in my place without asking again. The next one is a telemarketer advertising a free trip and the last one is from Alex. It goes something like this:
“Hi. This is Alex. I wanted to call and see if anything came for you this morning. I have a game tonight, but . . . um . . . maybe I’ll talk to you later.”
I listen to it five times and save it as I did with the first one.
I move on to the text message.
Okay, so two messages checking to see if I got the flowers. Odd.
I move on to the emails.
The first one is blank.
The second one reads:
The third one reads:
The fourth one reads:
The email is completely ridiculous. As much as his persistence irritates me, I’m beginning to like the awkward tone and his inappropriate comments. Especially coming from a man who seems so self-assured on the ice—and in bed. I curb the warm fuzzies. He’s still a player.
I hold off on responding until I’m home from work. I type and retype a message fifty times before I settle on this:
I debate adding a smiley emoticon and decide against it. After I press send I have regret. It’s not the friendliest text, but I’m torn. Beyond being great in bed and possessing the ability to read above a fifth-grade level, his media persona isn’t one I like. Especially with the plethora of photos I’ve seen of him with various women.
I don’t want to put out positive vibes because in reality, I kind of like him. If he hadn’t called or texted or sent flowers or emailed, I would write him off as another asshole because it’s exactly what I expected. Except he’s done all these things that contradict my assumptions. How did a one-night stand get so complicated?
I should finish Tom Jones since my book club meets tomorrow. Chicago playing tonight, though, so reading isn’t my first priority. Bringing my book with me, I snuggle into the corner of the couch. I’d watch it with the ’rents on their seventy-inch HD flat screen, but my mom keeps asking Alex-related questions I’m not interested in answering. Sometimes she forgets she’s my mother, and it gets weird.
By the end of the first period Chicago is losing by one goal. No one scores in the second period and the players are getting chippy. Alex ends up with a two-minute penalty at the beginning of the third for interference. The camera zooms in on him. He’s tight-jawed and livid as he sulks in the time-out box. His knee is bouncing a mile a minute as if he’s barely managing to contain his frustration. I bet sex with him when he’s this riled up is amazing. I can imagine him being intense, dominating, and possessing.
When Alex returns to the ice, he finally pulls it together and scores a goal, tying the game. Aggressive and focused, he’s clearly determined not to let his team down because he lost his temper. Chicago scores another goal in the final minutes of the game and win by one. According to the sportscasters, it’s an important game that gives them the advantage moving forward, so the team’s excitement is understandable.
Alex is edgy during his interview with the sportscaster; maybe because the final score is too close. He rubs the side of his neck, his chagrin over his penalty obvious. I notice the dark pinkish-purple hickey, which matches several of mine. He angles away from the camera as if trying to hide it. I remember giving him one on his shoulder, but after what I’ve discovered in my research, I can’t be certain this one’s from me.
I climb into bed with the hickey on my mind. It’s all I can focus on as I toss and turn, trying desperately to get my brain to shut off and let me sleep already. As the cusp of dreamland makes my eyes droop, my phone buzzes, signaling a text. I sigh and grab the device from my nightstand, highly aware I don’t want it to be Charlene.
My stomach does a weird flip thing when it turns out to be from Alex, in response to my earlier text thanking him for the flowers.
I wait exactly four minutes to respond, so as not to appear too eager.
It buzzes less than a minute later.
I smile. He’s fishing for compliments.
I’m graced with a winky emoticon and another message.
While my lower half gets all excited, I don’t fail to recognize he could easily pick up any puck bunny and celebrate his brains out. I must not reply fast enough because another message arrives.
I send one final text in response, my uncertainty as pervasive as my excitement. If he keeps this up, I’m going to start to like him more than I already do.
The week follows with daily deliveries from Alex. I receive a complete set of Tom Fielding’s works with a note suggesting that he read them to me so I’m not bored to tears. I laugh and send him a text in return. He calls again during my book club meeting; I let it go to voice mail rather than answer. The butterflies in my stomach unnerve me.
The next day he sends a USB stick with a compilation of albums for a band I’ve never heard of called The Tragically Hip—they’re Canadian, like Alex. It’s accompanied by another note in his messy scrawl, citing all his favorite songs. Next is a box of truffles from Godiva and then a gift certificate from Victoria’s Secret for an unknown amount. It’s made out to my boobs, which Alex officially asks on a date.
He sends an email the same night, apologizing for the content of the card and asking the rest of me out on a date, as well. He’s beginning to wear me down with the cuteness. It takes me a good hour to compose a response. I remain evasive by saying I’ll check my schedule.
The next day I receive a giant tin of coffee from a Canadian diner called Tim Horton’s. It’s named after a famous hockey player. Sidney tells me it’s like Starbucks, except cheaper, and if I won’t drink it, he sure as hell will.
The gifts aren’t the only thing I receive from Alex. Daily texts and emails follow, checking to make sure my packages have been delivered. They’re always thoughtful, often explaining the nature of the gift he’s sent. At the end of each email, he offers to take me out for dinner when he returns to Chicago. I don’t give a definitive answer.
The day before Buck is scheduled to come home, I open a box to find a stuffed beaver wearing a jersey with the number eleven and WATERS embroidered on it. It was accidentally delivered to the main house, so my mom stands beside me as I open my newest gift. She giggles like a teenager over how cute it is. She thinks he sent it because the beaver is Canada’s national animal. I don’t correct her.
I miss Alex’s call that night because I’m watching the game highlights at Charlene’s, and her basement apartment is like a cellular signal black hole. Solace comes with knowing Alex will be in Chicago tomorrow. My excitement is a problem.
I arrive home from work the following evening to find Buck on my couch, drinking my beer and eating my leftovers. I should’ve anticipated this; he does it almost every time he comes home from an away game. It’s his way of scamming a meal while he waits for a truckload of food to be delivered to his house since he doesn’t do his own shopping.
“Where’s your car?”
“A friend dropped me off.”
I drop my purse on the kitchen table and head straight for the fridge. If Buck is home, Alex is, too. His voice mail from the previous night is the last I heard from him. It’s disappointing to have Buck taking up space in my living room yet hear nothing from my sometimes-stalker.
“Wow. You sure don’t waste any time.” By friend, I’m assuming Buck means one of his puck bunnies. Buck doesn’t “date” in the traditional sense of the word. He does, however, have a rotation of women he sleeps with in Chicago. He calls them his “regulars.” One of these days he’s going to contract an STD and put his parts out of commission.
“What can I say? My ladies miss me when I’m away.” Buck sets up the Xbox with a lecherous smile.
“You’re disgusting.”
“I have needs.”
He regales me with the finer details of the last four games while we play NHL hockey. Buck plays himself, and I have my own awesome avatar which I created. His phone keeps dinging with endless messages while we play, so it’s easier to kick his ass.
“You’re popular tonight,” I say after the eight-millionth text comes through.
“Some of the guys are picking me up in twenty.”
“Didn’t you spend the last two weeks on the road with them? How aren’t you all sick of each other?”
Buck shrugs. “I’m new to the team. We need to talk strategy for the next game since we’re facing our biggest competitor in the league.”
“Oh. Right.” I try not to perk up, curious who might be coming to get him and if Alex is among his buddies now.
Ten minutes later, he gets a call from some girl named Honey. All the puck bunnies who call him are named Honey. Probably easier than remembering their real names. He pauses the game while he sets up round two of puck bunny lovin’ for later in the evening, inviting Honey to the bar. He even goes so far as to suggest she bring some friends. This is where my beliefs about the habits of hockey players originate from. Once he hangs up, Buck makes another call, this time to a teammate. He kindly informs whoever it is that he has bunnies lined up and primed for action. He really is a dog.
Buck pockets his phone. “The guys’ll be here in two—you cool if we rematch later?”
“You would’ve lost anyway.” I turn off the Xbox and flip through the channels, looking for some crappy reality television show to watch. Might as well turn my brain into sawdust seeing as I don’t have any other plans, because I’m sure as hell not waiting for Alex to call.
“Don’t forget to bathe in bleach later,” I say, just to get a dig in.
“Not all the chicks I hang out with are dirty.”
I drop the remote and slow clap. “Congratulations. You said it with a straight face.”
He flips me the bird on his way out the door.
After five minutes of reality television, I want to poke my eyes out. I surf through the music channels and stumble on a station dedicated to The Tragically Hip. I’ll have to tell Alex about this station since he seems to love the band. When he texts me. If he texts me.
Annoyed I’m being such a girl, I decide it’s time to change into jammies and prep for my meetings tomorrow. I give the Waters beaver a rub under the chin as I pass him on the way to my dresser. Of all the gifts I’ve received from Alex, the beaver is the most bizarre. It’s found a special home on my bed, between my pillows. I regret to admit I snuggled with it last night. The stupid thing is cuddly.
Once I’ve changed into boxers and a V-neck tee, I grab a stack of client portfolios and the box of Godiva and settle on the couch again. Two paragraphs into the report, I’m interrupted by a knock at the door. Buck probably forgot something, such as an industrial-sized bottle of hand sanitizer. He’ll need it after he sleeps with whatever puck bunny he’s called upon this evening. I shove my pen in my hair and push my ill-fitting spare glasses up my nose, ready to yell at him for making me get up.
I wrench open the door, scathing comment ready to fly. Except it’s not Buck.
It’s Alex. He looks like shit. Hot shit, but shit nonetheless.
