Page 1 of Puck My Life

Vae

PAST

The door slams open, waking me from the sleep that’s taken me forever to find. A moment of confusion turns into full-blown anticipation as I remember who is expected. I tremble and bounce up from bed, swinging my feet onto the cold wood floor. My very demure nightgown falls to my ankles. It’s too big, but it makes me feel older, like one of those princesses I see in the cartoons I get to watch after school.

I can hear the low tones of Maria, my foster mother, and someone else. I creep to the door, biting my lip to make sure I don’t make a single sound.

There are five beds in this room, but four of them are empty. I know because I learned to count last year. For weeks now, it’s just been me, alone with those empty beds.

Everyone always leaves, but not me. This is my forever home. I don’t go away; I am not forgotten.

But, tonight, that’s changing. I put my hand on the cold doorknob and turn it so slowly I think I might scream. The doors open with a small squeak of protest, breaking apart enough to let me slide through. I stand in the hallway watching the yellow pool of light and the legs of my foster mother until she shifts out of the way, revealing another pair of legs.

The world shrinks down to those limbs. Thin and small like mine. A child’s legs. I just manage to suppress a shriek.

I don’t care about the other lady or Maria.

All I can see is the little boy. He’s scowling at the floor, tension in every line of his body. He’s got messy black hair and a ratty red bag in his hands. I don’t care who he is; he’s perfect.

He looks up and meets my gaze. He’s scary, which is fun! And the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen. I let out a giggle.

Maria turns, but I run back into the bedroom, closing the door and getting under the covers.

I can’t stop smiling.

“I’m not alone anymore.”

PRESENT

Closing out the world by shutting and locking my front door does nothing to stop the exhaustion that dogs my steps. I lean against the cool wood, close my eyes, and pretend for just one moment that my fantasy has come true and this nightmare has finally ended. In my wildest dreams, my lover comes out from the kitchen and hugs me, asking me how my day went, kisses me with desire and tells me the dishes are washed, dinner’s ready, and the bath is waiting.

Risqué, I know.

Opening my eyes just reveals the opposite. There are clothes on the floor, a hockey stick leaning against a wall, a puck hanging from the lampshade in a pair of lace underwear that aren’t mine, and the potted plant is precariously balanced on the tattered cupboard I found at our neighbour’s garage sale. The holes that I patched make the house look like a patchwork quilt or a dump, and the scuffed and scratched hardwood floors make me want to weep for them. In short, my house looks as it always does when I come home, like a disaster.

It smells like alphas, sweat, and home.

Three distinct and undeniable scents that are my three stars that I revolve around helplessly. Coffee, vanilla, and salted caramel.

Why is it that the three of them smell like my favourite drink? Or is it my favourite drink because it smells like them?

I try not to let the scents soothe my frayed edges, but it does sink into my lungs and reach a part of me that is freaking me the fuck out.

A door opens halfway down the hallway, and a wall of tanned muscles walks out with a cloud of steam, towel drying his hair. I get a glimpse of his taut ass cheeks before I avert my gaze.

“Deacon!” I growl in pure frustration. “You know the switch right there under the lights is the one for the fan!”

Deacon turns my way and grins, the same wild and untamed grin that never ceases to send butterflies skittering around my insides whenever he flashes it at me. For a moment, I forget all my troubles, my exhaustion, my pained and aching feet. I want to give up and give in and just do whatever mischief he’s inviting me to do.

But someone has to be the adult in this dysfunctional family of ours.

Still, I’d have to be blind to miss the mass of muscles that comes from hours and hours of hockey training. His transformation during his teens from leggy nerd to hockey god ruling over the ice gave him the confidence to back up his new looks, taking the accessible boy I’d fallen in love with way out of my orbit.

But, to me, he’s always going to be my found family, Deacon. Our foster home forged an unbreakable bond that even adulthood can’t destroy. I still remember the day that they were brought here to this house, when we were all kids, searching for a love that wasn’t coming; cold indifference was the best we could hope for, and then we found each other.

I stomp towards him, wincing as my aching feet twinge painfully. The long day of waiting tables has been excruciating. Especially as today was one of our busiest days. My intention is lost when I catch a glimpse of the kitchen to my left.

Oh, my sweet hockey gods.