Pucking Ever After: Chapter 1

“I need to grab some deodorant.” Without waiting for my response, Caleb wanders off the moment we step through the sliding doors into Publix.

“Hey—meet me in frozen!” I shout at his back.

He doesn’t respond, head down as he checks his phone.

Asshole. He always disappears and then it takes me like ten minutes of prowling the aisles to find him again. Why can’t he just stay by my side? We only came in here for one thing. I swear, next time I’m gonna put Poseidon’s leash on him and give him a tug whenever he tries to wander off.

Speaking of the dog, he’s out waiting in the car with the window cracked. And I’m itching to get to Seattle. I wanna make this detour quick. I snatch up a green shopping basket by the handles and head in the opposite direction of Cay, down towards the ice cream aisle.

It feels like it’s been days since I’ve seen her, instead of only hours. We crossed paths a few times at the practice rink this morning. She watched me doing some drills with the other defensemen out on the ice. Later, she flashed me a flirty wink in the gym that had me adjusting myself over by the elliptical.

But then Mars had to offer her a ride home while I was still tied up with my strength and conditioning coach. Of course, he didn’t mean our home. You know, the one where she lives. With me. Cay and I got home to find the house empty. Sy was whining and doing his pee dance by the front door.

Well, fuck that. I’m not spending the whole night crawling out my damn skin needing my girl. I don’t care that she’s off fucking Mars right now. I’m not jealous about the sex. He just wanted time alone with her. As much as I like sharing her, I need my time alone with her too.

But even with his magical Viking cock, he can only go for so many rounds, right? The solo sex is one thing, but he doesn’t just get to keep her locked up all night. She’s mine too. She’s ours. Our Finnish friend is gonna learn to share, or I’m about to become a major pain in his sculpted ass.

Rachel brought this on herself when she gave me his address. And with the email that just pinged on my phone fifteen minutes ago, I now have the perfect excuse. We’ll watch game day footage at Ilmari’s house. It’s foolproof. He can’t say no, not when I’m bringing ice cream to share. Their twosome is about to become a foursome.

Well…technically a fivesome, because Caleb made me bring the dog too.

I make a sharp right turn down aisle 12. I’m actually excited. I haven’t had a chance to flex my super power in a while. With Rachel, it was almost too easy. Of course, she’s a sorbet girl. She likes to think she’s cutting the calories with sorbet. And since it’s fruit flavored, instead of chocolate or caramel, she doesn’t have to feel as bad about pounding an entire pint in one sitting.

The only tricky thing is that her tastes change. Does she want something sweet tonight, like a cool refreshing raspberry? Or a tart lemon? What does post-sex Rachel need? Going with my gut, I snatch up a lemon sorbet, and drop it in the basket. Then I stand before the wall of Häagen-Dazs.

“Game time,” I mutter, looking over the labels.

I pluck out a pint of Mint Chip for Caleb from the bottom row. If the special edition Peppermint Bark was available now, I’d be reaching for that instead. But you can always count on that weirdo to want mint in his coffee and his ice cream.

The funny thing is that he doesn’t like mint gum. Or mint toothpaste. He prefers cinnamon for his gum. And he uses that weird toothpaste with the baking soda that makes your teeth feel all grainy. It’s gross. Give me peanut butter in my ice cream and mint in my toothpaste.

Eyeing the Chocolate Peanut Butter one row up from the Mint Chip, I grab a pint for myself and add it to the basket. Now comes the hard part. Mars Kinnunen. Usually my super power is almost like a reflex. I just know…you know? Tess walked in my house the other week and before she even spoke a word, I was ready to offer her a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia.

Our team captain, Sully, is a total Rocky Road. No brand names though. Price over quality. He wants the cheapest, most freezer-burned Rocky Road you can find. I swear, that man has forgotten how to live.

And Morrow tries to play it off like he’s so laid back and cool, but I know he’s a White Chocolate Raspberry Truffle guy.

Novy is lactose intolerant. He had cheese on a pizza once, and I was the unlucky asshole sharing a hotel room with him. I almost made him sleep in the bathtub. So, no ice cream for him.

I smirk, glancing to the left of the Häagen-Dazs case, to see a box of banana pops on the top shelf. Yeah, Novy is a kid’s popsicle. Cheap, sticky sweet, but reliable and satisfying.

None of this helps me now, of course. I’m not here picking out popsicles for Novy or ice cream for Tess. I need to focus. What kind of ice cream would Mars want? My eyes scan the wall of flavors as I mutter under my breath. “Nothing fruity…and nothing with cookies…”

He just doesn’t seem like the type to want fruit in his ice cream. And he’s like Cay with the no drinking thing, so the special edition boozy flavors are out too.

As I deliberate, Caleb saunters up behind me, dropping deodorant, floss, and suntan lotion into the basket. “You ready to go?”

“Shut up,” I murmur, eyes locked on the case. It’s floating right in front of me. I can almost reach out and snatch it from the air, that illusive flavor that best describes Mars. But I can also feel Caleb thinking. “I said shut up,” I repeat.

“I didn’t say anything,” he huffs.

“You’re distracting me.”

“Distracting you from what?”

“From using my super power,” I reply.

“Oh, fuck me in half,” Caleb mutters, dragging a hand through his hair and leaning up against the glass door of the Talenti gelatos. “Seriously with this? It’s not a super power, Jake. It’s not anything.”

I shoot daggers at him with my eyes. “You’re just jealous.”

He scoffs. “Why would I be jealous?”

“Because it means I can read people better than you,” I reply.

“You think I need to know Mars’ favorite ice cream flavor to know him?”

“It helps,” I say with a shrug.

Cay snorts. “Go on then, Superman. Walk me through it. What ice cream flavor is he?”

I narrow my eyes back at the wall of glass. “I’ve already ruled out cookies, caramel, anything with fruit, and anything special edition. Mars is the old reliable type. He wants something he can count on. He likes routine. I bet he treats eating dessert like he treats a cheat meal. It’s a mild indulgence for him.”

“So, nothing flashy?” Caleb says. I know the asshole is curious. He’s glancing at the case. I see his wheels turning too. “Maybe he’s a plain vanilla guy.”

I snort. “There’s nothing vanilla about him. No, he’s suave and sophisticated and European. He’s got that awesome full back tattoo, meaning he’s got an artsy side. Even if he can’t do art, he can appreciate it. And he listens to that crazy death metal music all the time. No, he’s not a vanilla. Or a plain chocolate.”

Now Caleb is looking earnestly at the case, his annoyance forgotten. “Coffee?”

“No. He drinks coffee, he doesn’t eat it. I’m thinking something with nuts,” I explain. Actually, it’s helping to talk it out. “But he’s definitely not a Butter Pecan guy. That’s too American.”

“How do you know he’s a Häagen-Dazs flavor?” Caleb teases.

He laughs, but it’s a serious question. I shake my head with a sigh. “I don’t. That’s the problem.” But now I’m invested. I want to get this right. I want to show Mars how well I can read him. And fine, I wanna show Caleb too. “He might just be the toughest nut I’ve tried to crack,” I admit.

“Oh, so you’re tryin’ to crack his nuts? Something you’re not telling me, Superman?” There’s a laugh in his tone, but his eyes are serious. Caleb is territorial. Whatever we are—me and him; me and Rachel; me, him, and Rachel—it’s enough to have him on edge.

“No,” I reply, gently. “I’m not interested in Mars as anything other than a friend…and the occasional fuck buddy. You gotta admit, he’s impressive. I bet he’s riding Rachel ragged with that monster co—”

“Shut up,” Caleb growls, pushing off the cooler to shove my arm.

“What’s the matter? You jealous? This whole sharing thing not working for you? I’ll happily accept your defeat. Just means more Rachel for me—”

“I’m not jealous,” he mutters, lowering his voice as an old lady comes around the corner pushing a full shopping cart. “I’m just free-ballin’ it in these shorts,” he adds, discreetly adjusting himself.

I snort, my nose catching a whiff of his crisp cologne as he steps in closer, letting the lady pass behind us. I stifle a groan. I hate how much I react to even just the smell of his cologne. My skin feels like it’s tingling and I wanna bury my face at his neck and breathe him in.

And I don’t know if it was intentional, but as he shifts, his crotch brushes against the outside of my hand.

Holy fuck.

He’s getting hard right here in the ice cream aisle. Thinking about Rachel with Mars is turning him on. Fuck, now I’m getting turned on thinking about him being turned on.

“Will you just pick one?” he mutters.

I blink, refocusing on the wall of ice creams. “I’ve narrowed it down to two,” I say. “He’s either a Pistachio, or a Vanilla Swiss Almond.”

“I thought we said no vanilla?” he replies crossing his arms over his chest. “Come on, it’s freezing. Pick already.”

I slow turn toward him with a frown. “We live on an ice rink and you’re cold? Really?”

“It’s the juxtaposition,” he replies in that authoritative, I-was-a-chemistry-major tone he gets sometimes. “The warm air behind us is mixing with the cold and it’s giving me the chills. Just pick a damn ice cream, so we can go.”

“Fine,” I huff, swinging open the freezer door. “Pistachio it is.” I snatch up a pint and toss it into the basket, letting the door whisper shut.

“So, why Pistachio?” Caleb says, leading the way towards the cash register.

“Because Mars is a health nut and pistachios are supposed to be, like, really healthy, right?”

“I guess,” Caleb says with a shrug.

“Plus Pistachio just seems to fit his whole vibe,” I add.

“His vibe?”

“Yeah, you know his whole moody, broody, silently thoughtful thing. Like he never says a word, right? But he’s always there, and he’s always paying attention. He sees everything. And he just seems to like know things, you know? That feels more like a Pistachio than a Vanilla Swiss Almond.”

“Whatever you say,” he says with a laugh.

I frown. “You still don’t believe this is a super power.”

“Of course I don’t.”

I shove the basket at him, crossing my arms. “Okay, then allow me to go on—”

“I really wish you wouldn’t—”

“Some flavors insist on themselves,” I say. “Like Birthday Cake. Seriously? What’s wrong with just eating cake? Why do I need an ice cream that tastes like cake? With Mars, what you see is exactly what you get. He’s not a liar, posing as one thing when he’s really another. And he doesn’t change on you either, like a fancy special edition flavor, here one month, gone the next. Mars is always in the crease, doing his job. Whether you see him or not, whether he’s the focus of attention or not, he’s standing in front of that goal. Same with Pistachio. It’s always there. People may overlook it, thinking it’s a funky flavor or even a boring flavor, but it’s not. It’s reassuring and delicious.”

Caleb frowns. “So Mars is Pistachio ice cream to you? Reassuring, always there, silent, and real…and delicious, apparently?”

I nod, liking his list. “Yep. Plus, you know, it seemed the most European,” I add. “I could imagine him on vacation in Italy with some hot Finnish girl, walking by the Trevi Fountain, sharing a scoop of pistachio gelato.”

Caleb snorts, handing the basket over to the cashier.. “He’s with a hot Finnish girl, huh?”

“Well, I mean, now all I can see is Mars with Rachel. He looks at her like she’s ice cream. Know what I mean?”

He makes some noncommittal response before ducking down and snatching up a pack of cinnamon gum. He adds it to the pile of ice creams.

“You think he loves her?” I ask, arms crossed as I watch the cashier swipe all our ice creams across the scanner. Mine goes first, then Caleb’s, then Rachel’s, then the new pint of Pistachio. It feels symbolic somehow. Four ice creams, four different flavors, but ultimately all the same.

Caleb stands right next to me. When he crosses his arms, our elbows brush. Just when I think he’s not going to reply, he does. “Yeah, I do,” he says, his tone solemn.

“You think he can ever learn to love us too?” I ask, not daring to look his way. “And not in the gay way—I mean, I know he doesn’t—not like that,” I reply, tugging my wallet from my pocket. “I wasn’t implying—”

“I know what you meant,” he replies.

I work my card through the machine, typing in my pin. “Well?” I repeat. “Do you?”

As I tuck my card back inside my wallet he sighs, shaking his head. “We’ll have to see. Let’s just hope you didn’t fuck this all up and get him Pistachio ice cream when he’s allergic to nuts. Hurricane’ll never forgive you if you poison him to death.”

“Wait—is he allergic to nuts?” I say, suddenly anxious that he might be right. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mars eat a nut.

Oh shit…

Caleb ignores me, thanking the cashier and snatching up our bags.

“Cay, is he allergic to nuts?” I say again, taking the receipt from the cashier.

But he’s already on the move, walking with a hitch in his step towards the sliding glass doors.

“Cay!” I shout.

He doesn’t turn around.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, tossing the receipt into the trash. I call a frazzled ‘thanks’ to the cashier and hurry after him. I either got this right on the money…or I’m about to send my girlfriend’s boyfriend into anaphylactic shock. Hey, at least she’s a doctor, right?

This is all gonna be fine.

“Cay, wait up!”