Page 2 of Ain’t Pucking Sorry (2-Hour Quickies #8)

Massimo

The puck screams past my ear like a frozen bullet, and I know we're fucked.

Not because of the shot—Kowalski in net could stop that in his sleep—but because there's forty-seven seconds left in the season, we're down by one, and the Vegas Vipers are playing like their lives depend on keeping us out of the playoffs.

We need this win to have any chance, but even that might not be enough. The Seattle Kraken are up by one point in the standings, and they're playing their final game right now too. We need them to lose and us to win, or our season's over.

The Vipers' captain, Nichols, slashes at my ankles as we battle along the boards. The refs miss it, or pretend to. Playoff-deciding games have their own rulebook.

"Your vacation starts in forty-five seconds, pasta boy," he hisses through his mouthguard.

I respond by driving my shoulder into his chest, separating him from the puck. The hit rattles my teeth, but it's worth it for the grunt of pain he lets out.

I slam their defenseman into the boards—completely legal, mostly—and steal the puck. The crowd roars. Fifteen thousand people on their feet, screaming for a miracle that probably isn't coming.

Their other defenseman, McKinnon—six-foot-four and mean as a starved bear—lines me up for what would've been a career-ending hit. I duck at the last second. He catches half of me, enough to send me spinning, but not enough to take me out. My ribs scream in protest, but the puck stays on my stick.

"Fetuccine! Left side!" Ashton's voice cuts through the chaos.

I don't think, just react. The puck flies off my stick to where Ashton's already moving. We've played together for three years—long enough that I know he'll be exactly where I need him.

Their goalie telegraphs high. Ashton goes low.

The red light blazes. Tie game.

The arena explodes, beer flying, voices raw. A woman pounds on the glass, her face flushed with the kind of passion I usually only see in bedrooms.

"THAT'S MY ITALIAN STALLION!" she screams. I turn to see her holding a sign that says "Fetuccine Makes Me AL DENTE."

I blow her a kiss because that's quality wordplay and should be rewarded.

McKinnon skates by, slashing my calf as he passes. "Lucky shot, pretty boy."

I smile through my mouthguard. "Jealous of my fan club?"

He looks ready to drop gloves right there, but the ref skates between us.

"Twenty seconds!" Coach screams from the bench. "Don't do anything stupid!"

"He's looking at you," Harrison mutters as we line up for the face-off.

"I'm never stupid. I'm creatively spontaneous."

"That's what you called it when you tried to fight three guys at once in Boston."

"I was defending your honor."

"They said I had a weak backhand."

"Exactly. Unforgivable."

The puck drops. Ashton wins the draw, sends it back to our D-men. Fifteen seconds. They dump it in deep, and suddenly I'm racing Nichols for a loose puck in the corner.

He's a step ahead, but I dive, my stick outstretched, and hook the puck away. My momentum sends me crashing into the boards, shoulder-first. Pain flares, bright and hot. Nichols' skate clips my thigh as he tries to stop, opening a gash in my uniform.

I scramble to my feet, adrenaline masking the pain. Ten seconds. Nine. Eight.

No time for pretty. I throw the puck at the net from an impossible angle, more prayer than shot.

Their goalie reaches back, glove extended—

The puck bounces off his glove, hits the crossbar, and drops behind him.

For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Then the ref's pointing at the net, the red light's going, and Ashton's tackling me into the ice.

"YOU BEAUTIFUL ITALIAN BASTARD!"

"Can't—breathe—"

The team piles on. Twenty grown men in a celebratory heap while the crowd goes insane. Somewhere under Harrison's elbow and Kowalski's knee, I'm grinning like an idiot.

We're up 2-1 with just seconds left. Vegas pulls their goalie in desperation, throwing six attackers at us.

A shot ricochets off Jacobson's shin pads.

Another hits Harrison square in the chest—he'll have a bruise like modern art tomorrow.

Kowalski makes a glove save that defies physics, his whole body horizontal to the ice.

The final seconds tick down. The buzzer sounds. We've won. The arena shakes with noise.

But as we're celebrating, the scoreboard flashes the out-of-town scores. Even with our win, we needed help from Seattle's game—we needed them to lose to Calgary. The score flashes: Seattle 3, Calgary 2.

The realization ripples through our team. Jubilation drains away, replaced by the hollow ache of almosts.

"So that's it?" Harrison says, helmet in hand as we watch our celebrations fade. "One fucking point short of playoffs?"

"One fucking point," I confirm.

I look up at the crowd—at the women holding signs with my name, at kids wearing my jersey, at fifteen thousand people who believed we could do it—and feel the weight of their disappointment mixing with my own.

Season over. No playoffs. No glory. Just the emptiness of almost, but not quite.

Cazzo. Shit .

It’s the kind of loss that doesn’t just stick to your stats—it gets under your skin, follows you into the shower, into your bed, into the quiet moments when the crowd’s gone and you’re left wondering if maybe you’ve already peaked.

The locker room afterwards is like a funeral where everyone's pretending they're not dead.

"Hell of a shot, Fetuccine," Coach says, which for him is practically a love sonnet. "See you at training camp."

He disappears into his office to probably drink bourbon and contemplate his life choices.

"So," Harrison starts peeling off his gear, "plans for the summer? Let me guess—Italy, beaches, women who call you Giuseppe even though that's not your name?"

"It's always Marcello," I correct. "Or Antonio. Once, inexplicably, Kevin."

"Kevin?"

"She was very drunk."

"Speaking of drunk," Lopez drops onto the bench beside me, "you coming out with us? O'Malley's."

"The whole team?"

"Whoever doesn't have to cry into their pillow tonight."

"Pass," I say, pulling off my skates. "I've got that thing tomorrow."

"What thing?" Harrison asks.

"The PR nightmare thing," Ashton supplies helpfully.

The room goes quiet. Everyone knows about my spectacular disaster of an ex-girlfriend who told TMZ she was pregnant with my baby. Spoiler alert: she wasn't pregnant and we'd broken up three months before her fictional conception date. But try explaining that to the internet.

"She's still talking to reporters," I say. "My agent says I should 'lay low' for a while."

"Fuck that," Harrison says. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"Except date a psychopath," Lopez calls out.

"We've all been there," Kowalski adds. "Remember Harrison's ex who keyed his car?"

"She carved 'SMALL DICK ENERGY' into the hood!"

"Jokes on her," Harrison says. "That car's a classic now. Adds character."

"To your dick or the car?"

"Both underwhelming," Parker yells.

The tension breaks. Everyone's laughing, throwing tape balls at Harrison, who's defending his dick's honor with increasingly elaborate hand gestures.

"Actually," Ashton says quietly, while the others are distracted, "Clara had an idea."

"Your wife has the best ideas. She turned you from a caveman into almost-people."

"Funny. But seriously—you could come stay in Fairwick for the summer."

"Fairwick?"

"Clara's hometown. Small place here in Ohio. Population of like five hundred. Very quiet. Very boring. Very not-full-of-reporters."

"You want me to hide in a rural backwater?"

"I want you to not get ambushed by photographers every time you buy groceries. Plus, we have a house there. Clara's mom's old place. We always go there for a few days during the off-season."

"I don't know—"

"There's a lake. You can fish."

"I don't fish."

"You can learn. Very meditative. Very manly. Very good for posting a photo of you holding a big fish on dating sites. Subliminal for big size."

I'm about to argue when my phone buzzes. Google alert on my name. I know I shouldn't look, but I'm a masochist apparently.

Massimo "Fetuccine" Tucci's Ex-Girlfriend: "He Begged Me To Take Him Back"

The article includes a photo of me from last week, buying coffee, looking tired. The caption suggests I'm "devastated" and "spiraling." I was actually just hungover from Harrison's birthday party.

"You know what?" I say, shoving the phone away. "Fairwick sounds perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. When can I go?"

"Tomorrow? Clara's already there setting up the house. I'll fly out tonight, but you could drive. Clear your head."

"Drive to the middle of nowhere. Clear my head. Pretend my ex doesn't exist."

"And avoid any more creative sign proposals," Harrison adds, having apparently been eavesdropping. "That 'Al Dente' woman is waiting by your car."

"How do you know?"

"She posted it on Instagram. She's got backup. There's a whole pasta theme happening."

I groan. "What kind of pasta?"

"One has a sign about manicotti that's honestly impressive in its vulgarity."

"Cristo." I grab my towel. "I'm showering, then escaping out the service entrance like a coward."

"Smart coward," Ashton calls after me.

The shower is hot enough to melt the tension from my shoulders.

I let the water run over my face, washing away the sweat and disappointment of another season ending too soon.

Twenty-eight years old and what do I have to show for it?

Some good stats, a bad reputation courtesy of my ex, and women who think I'm only good for one thing.

Not that I'm complaining about that one thing. I'm very good at that one thing. It's just sometimes I wonder if anyone sees anything else.

"Yo, Fetuccine!" Kowalski shouts. "Your phone's blowing up!"

Perfect.

I towel off and check the damage. Fourteen texts from my agent, six from my publicist, and one from my mother that just says "Chi è questa puttana?" Which roughly translates to "Who is this whore?" but sounds much more elegant in Italian.

I call my agent first.

"Don't talk to anyone," he says instead of hello.

"Not even you?"

"I'm serious, Tucci. She's doing the full court press. E! News, TMZ, some podcast about toxic relationships. Just disappear for a while."

"Already planning on it."

"Good. Where?"

"Fairwick."

"Fairwick? What the fuck's in Fairwick?"

"Exactly."

He pauses. "That's actually brilliant. Nobody would look for you in Fairwick."

"That's the idea."

"Keep your head down. Don't do anything stupid. Don't sleep with anyone famous."

"What about someone not famous?"

"That's fine. Preferred, actually. Find a nice normal girl who doesn't know what Instagram is."

"Do those exist?"

"In Fairwick? Probably."

We hang up, and I get dressed in record time. Jeans, t-shirt, baseball cap pulled low. Very incognito. Very not-a-professional-athlete-having-a-crisis.

"You good?" Ashton asks when I emerge.

"Fantastic. My ex is apparently now claiming I have commitment issues and mommy problems."

"Do you?"

"Yes, but that's not the point."

He laughs. "Here." He tosses me a set of keys. "House keys. Address is in your phone. It's right on Main Street, can't miss it. Blue Victorian with a wraparound porch."

"Sounds very... quaint."

"It's nice. Quiet. Clara says the sheriff lives just a few blocks away—Reese something. She's cool. Bit uptight but cool."

"Sheriff? They have crime in Fairwick?"

"Probably just cats in trees and Karen disputes."

"Perfect." I shoulder my bag. "Thanks for this."

"Thank me by not sleeping with any locals and causing a scandal."

"When have I ever—"

"Montreal."

"That was different."

"Vegas."

"Also different."

"Pittsburgh."

"Okay, that one's on me."

He claps my shoulder. "Just... try to relax. Fish or something. Read a book. Don't get arrested."

"I've never been arrested."

"There's a first time for everything."

I escape through the service entrance, avoiding the pasta pun ladies who are apparently still waiting.

My Audi's parked in the players' section, and I've never been happier to see it.

Four hours to Fairwick. Four hours of music and highway and not thinking about my ex or the playoffs or the fact that I'm twenty-eight and my greatest achievement is a nickname based on pasta.

My phone rings as I'm pulling out. Mom.

"Ciao, bella," I answer.

"Don't you 'ciao bella' me. What is this garbage I'm reading?"

"Lies, Mamma. All lies."

"I know that. But why aren't you defending yourself?"

"Because that would give her more attention."

"You should let me talk to her."

"Absolutely not."

"Just five minutes."

"You'd kill her in three."

"That's why I only need five. Two to hide the body."

I laugh despite everything. "I'm going away for a while. Somewhere quiet."

"Good. You need a nice girl. Not these..." she makes a disgusted sound that doesn't translate.

"I'm not looking for anyone, Mamma."

"That's when you find them. When you're not looking."

"Very philosophical."

"I'm hanging up now. Don't do anything stupid."

"Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because we know you."

She hangs up, but I can hear the smile in her voice.

I pull onto the highway, leaving Dayton and its disappointments in the rearview. I’ll call PR on the drive and set up a Zoom for tomorrow.

Four hours to my new hideout, wherever that is. Four hours to figure out how to lay low in a small town where nothing ever happens.