Puck Buddies (15 page)

“Yeah. My grandma is a great cook, and
she loved to let me help her in the kitchen. She said it was so I could survive
college, but I don’t think she understood what college was like for me. I never
cooked once.”

“That’s weird.” I glance between the
lasagna and him. “Why would she cook?”

“My dad’s family isn’t rich. They’re
farmers in Kentucky.
Like real cattle farmers.
As in,
they shovel shit and grow their own food.”

“Ohhhhhhh.” I shudder. “When Carson said
your dad’s family had farms I imagined it was more like plantation farming
where they have a mansion and lots of workers who sort of stay on their side of
the fence and sometimes on Sundays they do those weird civil war revivals and
shit.”

“Not quite.” He scowls and it’s a bit
disturbing with all the swelling and bruising. “Revival is more of a church
thing. I think you mean reenactments.”

“Right. Those.”

“We do have them—reenactments that
is.” He pauses. “It’s weird seeing it. I guess because my great-great-grandpa
was one of the men who died in Kentucky during the war, forced to fight for the
Union. He believed in equality for all men, but he wasn’t a soldier.”

“That’s terrible. At least he wasn’t a
racist like everyone else in the South.”

“They weren’t all racist in the South. My
mom’s family in the North pretended they were Union, but they might as well
have been from Alabama or Mississippi. They’re still not opposed to slaves, and
they don’t care what color. Anyone beneath them should be licking their boots.”

I want to tell him mine are better but
they’re not. “Yeah.”

“Anyway, my grandpa tried to get out of
fighting in the war, but it was made clear that if he wasn’t with them he was
against them. Kentucky took a beating being a border state. When he was killed,
my great-great-grandma kept the farm going and the kids safe. A couple of years
after it
was
all over, she remarried to a man who had
lost his wife. They had a bunch of kids between them so they ended up with
fifteen kids. Now the family is huge. Fifteen kids all having, on average, about
five kids each is a lot of grandkids. Going down there is like being in a
different world, and I’m related to half the town, and it’s not a quaint
village. It’s not a bad size.” He smiles.

“You go there?” I vaguely recall him
telling me once he was from Kentucky.

“I try to go for a couple of weeks in the
summers and help on the farm. Keeps me grounded.”

“That’s crazy.”

“It’s not so bad.”

“I can’t even imagine working on a farm.”

“It’s fun. We shoot shit and drive cool
equipment and have spoiled-milk fights.” He laughs like he’s reliving a moment.
“I can’t wait to go again this summer, once playoffs are over.” He lifts his
bruised hands and turns them over. “Remember when you said my hands were
rough?”

“No.”

“It was the night I carried you guys
home.” He laughs.

“Oh God, I hoped we might never discuss
that again.” My face flushes.

“Well, you did, you said they’re rough.
That’s why.
Working the farm and playing hockey.
It
makes my dad crazy. He hates hockey almost as much as he hates that farm. And
seeing my calluses drives him nuts.”

“Your dad hates hockey?” I play dumb but
a conversation between him and Carson vaguely rings in my head.

“Yeah, he’s all about finance and
business and making money on the markets and rubbing elbows with the right
people. He thinks he did
me and my brother a solid
by
marrying my mom’s family and getting their name to mix with his fortune. He
doesn’t see that I could have been a Kentucky farm boy just as easily. I
probably still would have played hockey though.”

“Wait, so you did actually live in
Kentucky?” His life is fascinating in the most average way.

“Can we finish this conversation over
food? I’m starved.”

“Sure.”

“I have to ask you a serious question
first.” He lifts his brows and steps in close, trying to intimidate me with his
size. “Tell me the truth, I won’t judge you at all.” He sounds serious.

“What?” I giggle nervously.

“Did you really make the lasagna
?—
because it smells amazing.”

“Yeah! Oh my God!” My face heats up again
as I peek down at the pan. “I can’t lie, I used Rao’s sauce for the tomato part,
but I put the whole thing together. Nadia supervised. The chef refused to be in
the kitchen with me. She was mad I was even in there at all.” My gaze darts to
the dish he brought in, still with the lid on it. “Why? Did you cheat?”

“No.” He sounds offended. “Of course not.
I made it, beaten and battered and bloody and all. It’s called ‘sex in a pan.’
It’s amazing.” He doesn’t sound like he’s messing around.

“Sex in a pan? Is there sex involved?” I
almost wrinkle my nose staring at his face, but I manage to keep that in check.

“No. Just trust me.”

“Okay.” I peer back to the pan of
lasagna, not sure if it’s been fifteen minutes or not.

“You have to cut it and put it on the
plates.”

“Thanks.” I tilt my head to the side,
hoping he’s joking but annoyed he might think I’m that dumb. “I know that much.
I was wondering which knife I would need to cut it with because it’s so
cheesy.” The smell is impressive, which is likely attributed to Rao’s sauce and
not me at all, but I don’t care.
It’s
pretty much
perfection.

“A big one.”

“Okay.” I turn, grabbing a knife from the
cutting block, and hover it over the lasagna, a bit worried about doing it.

“Let me help you.” He walks over, sliding
his body up behind me, placing his puffy hand over mine, and controlling where
I cut.

He leans over me, slicing in tiny jerks,
pressing his warmth into my back and arms.

I slide my hand out from under his,
letting him keep the knife, and spin, staring up at him. Wincing at the
closeness of the injuries and possibly even forcing myself, I lift my hands to
his puffy face, tracing the wounds. “They look really painful.” I want to kiss
him but this is a bit much.

Under it all he grins, leaning into me
more. “They’re getting less painful by the second.”

“Really?” I cock an eyebrow and consider just
doing it as I’m starting to see him again behind the mask of mayhem. “Are you
sure you’re okay?” Deciding I do want a kiss but not if it hurts him more.

“I’m fine.”

Taking his word for it, I lift myself
onto my tiptoes and brush my mouth against his, kissing cautiously until he
drops the knife and wraps himself around me, lifting me in the air. I take it
as permission to kiss more, pulling his face down.

He steps to the side, setting me on the
counter next to the warm lasagna pan as his lips crash down on mine. He winces
after a second, pulling back. “Not fine. Not even a little.” He steps away from
me, lifting a trembling hand to his nose. “Oh shit. That hurt.” He grunts.

“Oh my God, did I bump it?”

“There was bumping.” He nods, squinting
as water fills his pained eyes.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I can’t help
but laugh. We’re ridiculous.

“You sound like it.” Even his words sound
painful.

“No, I am. I just can’t believe I nudged
your broken nose. You’re a hot mess.”

“I hit my nose on you, not the other way
around.” Matt groans, “Fuck, that hurt.” He shivers like he’s cold, but I think
it’s the pain.

“Why do you do this to yourself?” I
mutter.

“Love of the game?” he asks and laughs,
blinking and nodding. “Okay, let’s eat.”

“Maybe this is God’s way of making us
talk.”

“Maybe.” He grabs the lasagna and carries
it to the
table which
Nadia has set for me.

When he gets to his seat he wipes his
eyes with his napkin. “I didn’t even cry when it happened, but man, that
smarted.”

“Smarted?” I laugh harder, pouring him some
of the wine Nadia corked earlier for us.

“Yes. Sometimes I revert back to a
hillbilly. There’s no actual fixing what being in the South breaks.” He serves
me some piping hot pasta. I take the cue and dish him up some salad. It’s Cecilia’s
Caesar with Parmesan wisps. I love them.

He breaks off some garlic bread and puts
it on my plate before he gets his own.

Chapter Fifteen

Confessional Christmas

Matt

“Why were you in the South?” Sami asks
like she doesn’t get it. Probably because she knows who my mom and dad are
;
they’re no different than her parents. They wouldn’t be
caught dead in the South. “Were your parents there?”

“I was there with Dad’s family, but my
parents didn’t come. My mom would die in the South. The heat alone would be a
personal insult to her.”

“You went alone?”

“Yeah, Mom and Dad wanted me to
homeschool so we could travel a lot when I was a kid. Then they wanted us to go
to boarding school, which I wasn’t into. My brother was all over it, but I
wanted to play hockey. My grandpa took me to a game when I was six, and I
wanted to play from then on. So they let me stay with them for my schooling
until I was thirteen. Then I billeted out in the Northern schools or stayed at
houses my parents bought and staffed.”

“No way.”

“Yeah. Benson and Charles came with me
everywhere I went from thirteen on, and they took care of me when I was in the
city before that.” I shrug, pretending it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t really
anymore, but I do wish my younger years had been spent with different parents. At
least I always had Gran. I lift my water glass, not wanting to feel sorry for
myself. “Happy Christmas Eve, Sami Ford.” I attempt the grin but my face hurts.
“I can’t think of a single place I’d rather be than here.” It’s the God’s
honest truth.

“I’m glad you’re here.” She flushes with
color. “Thanks for taking me out of my comfort zone.”

“I’m enjoying you being out of the
comfort zone. I think I’ll try to keep you on your toes so you’re just always
there.” I pray to the gods of all the holy things she didn’t notice that lame
comment I made about why I never have girlfriends. She makes me uncomfortable
and I sound like a moron, constantly.

“Funny.” She sips her wine as I put my
glass down and cut into the lasagna. I lift the first bite, a little scared. She’s
wrestling with a grin, making the whole experience scarier. There’s a slight chance
this is all a ploy, a game, and she agreed to dinner just so she can poison me.

I gulp and close my eyes, taking the bite
in my lips. I chew woodenly for a moment. My throat refuses to swallow,
it’s
closed and not opening. The flavors burst in my mouth
and after a minute I force the masticated food down my esophagus. “Good.” I try
to smile.

“Really?” She takes her bite as though
she waited for me to eat. “Oh my God, thank you, Jesus. It is good.”

I relax and take another bite, actually
enjoying it.

The sauce is perfect, the cheese is salty
and crisp on top, and the noodles are cooked just right. I nod after a moment
and grin, certain I have spinach teeth. “It’s perfect. And excellent choice on
Rao’s sauce.” I drag the bread through the sauce that’s spilling onto the plate
and moan as I take the next bite. “So tell me about you. What don’t I know
about the infamous Sami Ford? What isn’t in the papers or being whispered at
all the ridiculous parties we attend?” I need to crack this can open.

She takes another bite, contemplating the
question. “I like scary movies.”

“I knew that.”

“I like cats.”

“Okay, we’re going to have to dig a
little deeper. Everyone knows you like to drink but not do drugs and you like
cats and you’re perfect. Show me the cracks. Get uncomfortable.” I say exactly
the thing I’ve wanted to since we met, “I need to see behind the curtain.”

“Behind the curtain?” Sami swallows hard,
maybe contemplating what is actually behind her curtain. “I don’t know where to
start. You know when you were a kid and you had a personality and every time
you showed it to your parents or friends you were punished, until you finally
sort of fit into the void they wanted?”

“I do.”

“That’s what I’m trying to overcome.
There’s a smartass bad girl in me who rebels against everything, but only the
things I know I’ll bounce back from. I don’t do drugs or take anything too far.
Not anymore. But that person is my armor. She’s the wall.” She gives me a look.
“Does that make sense?”

“Perfect.” I don’t want to say too much,
this is like striking oil.

“I never knew our way of living, with our
parents ignoring us and having servants take care of us and being alone all the
time surrounded by stuff instead of love, was wrong. I thought everyone lived
the way we do. It was my normal.” Her words punch me in the gut.

I don’t want to interrupt this so I sit
back, listening, maybe more intently than I ever have.

“Until I went to Nat’s house for a slumber
party when I was little and saw how normal people live. It’s little things like
her dad whistling while he made waffles. Or how he asked us questions like he
wanted to know what we liked and what we wanted to be when we grew up. He
wanted to know us and see us. He knew all her favorites. I had no idea life
was
like that for some people until that moment. And then I
kind of wanted it.”

 
She laughs and glances at her plate,
shaking her head and sounding bitter when she speaks, “I still wanted a Fendi
bag and a yacht but I wanted that too. So I stayed with her all the time. We
had movie nights and we snuck things, stole from her parents because there were
rules about things she was allowed. Like sugar after ten at night and movies
that were rated R. Her parents say no, still. And she listens.”

“It’s insane seeing it, isn’t it?
Normalcy. No one understands how relaxing normal is to us, just like how we
won’t ever understand how stressful it is for
them
.
They don’t have money all the time. Sometimes they have to go without something
because they’re short on cash. And lots of times they only buy the things they truly
need. They look at every price and calculate before buying. It’s like an alien
planet.”

“I know.” She gets excited. “Nat’s mom
talks to herself when she’s at the store, adding up prices and putting things
back. Sometimes she would drive us so far to buy food from markets I’d never
seen that I thought we were going on a trip. Then I’d see the market and be
disappointed. Money is such a big deal to them, but if you try to give it to
them they won’t take it. They’d rather suffer. Like our money isn’t any good.” Her
voice trails off there.

I almost laugh at that. “Oh God, no. Middle-income
people don’t take charity. My grandpa had to sell some land a couple of years
ago to pay something off and my dad ended up being the one to buy it in secret
because Gramps wouldn’t take the cash from him. And Dad didn’t want to see the
land separated.”

“Yeah, I’ve paid for things Nat and her
parents have no idea about. They think they got a deal but I paid most of it.”

“What’s your favorite part of being
around them?” I chuckle as I take a huge bite of bread coated in sauce.

“Conversation at parties. When they
honestly don’t know who I am and they’re just talking, it’s real. They talk
about crazy stuff, not trying to impress anyone or compare lives or fortunes.
They have real topics: death and birth and pain and joy. You can just sit and
listen and wonder how hard it must be to always worry about things. But at the
same time, how cool it is to have worries that aren’t shallow and selfish? I
actually stress about being seen in public doing anything beyond looking like a
statue because I hate the paparazzi. I worry about people following me and
about being kidnapped for ransom ever since I got rid of the bodyguards. But at
the same time, I doubt I did get rid of them; I think he just has them hidden
better, my dad I mean. He worries about me being taken because of how it’ll
look, not ‘cause I’ll get hurt. He’s always worried about how I look to
everyone, even though he’s not looking at me himself. He doesn’t see me. And he
doesn’t want to. They want the shell, the mold they gave me to fit into. They
hate it when I get all teenage girl on them.” She takes a small bite, obviously
as uncomfortable as hell.

I’m uncomfortable too so I don’t say
anything, hoping she’ll continue to wow me with her depth.

“We’re spoiled and snobby and shallow and
vain. And that’s how we’re supposed to appear. No one wants us to be anything
else. We have to date right, marry right, live in the right areas, and have the
right jobs. We need to hang with the right people having fun, but not reckless
fun.
Borderline reckless fun.
We want people to talk
about us but not too much. My dad has shares in clubs and bars and clothing and
handbag lines, and he expects me to promote them. He makes a fortune off the
lip gloss
I use when everyone’s watching. He thinks I don’t
know but I do. He leaves lists and samples of products for me to Instagram and assumes
I’m clueless as to why. I know he has a financial interest in them. I don’t
even care, I just wish he’d talk about that instead of acting like he’s doing
someone else a favor.”

She puts down the fork and grabs her
wine, biting her lip for a second as if fighting the tears in her eyes. “That’s
as real as I get, Matt. I don’t have secrets. My life is all out
there
in the world, plus the mistakes I haven’t made.
Everyone knows all about what’s under the rocks; they don’t even need to lift
them.”

“Like rehab,” I say after I take a big
gulp of wine for bravery.

“Right. I’ve never stepped into a rehab
clinic except to see a friend once. I’ve never been. But the magazines all say
I’ve been so many times. Same as the abortion scandal two years ago that didn’t
happen.”

“I didn’t hear about that one.” I can’t
believe she never went to rehab. It makes me wonder what else is bullshit.

“They make up shit all the time and that
girl is the only one my dad cares about. Whatever she’s doing makes or breaks
it for me.”

“I know exactly what you mean. To be
totally honest, I thought you were in rehab.” I drop it, hoping she understands
some of my apprehension about her.

“Nope. Not even once.”

“Yeah, well like you said, they make up their
own stories. Watching your life in the news makes me nervous. For us both.” I
feel sick that I’ve judged this girl so harshly. She’s not any different than I
am. She’s alone for Christmas too. And this isn’t the first time.

We eat and laugh and talk and it’s real.
Just like I prayed it would be.

When we finish the meal and I contemplate
kissing her, she gives me a funny look from across the table.

“Stay.” She isn’t asking.

“Where?” I can’t imagine she means stay
the night here.

“Here, with me. We can sleep in separate rooms,
but stay and do Christmas morning with me.” She blinks a couple of times.

I have no defense for her pleading stare.
“Are you serious?” I don’t know if she’s thinking this through. My eyes flicker
on the wine bottle to see how much she’s had. “Christmas morning?” I ask when I
see it’s still almost full.

“I got you a present. So it won’t just be
crap under the tree for me and nothing for you.”

“Oh shit, I don’t have anything for you.”
Now I feel like a jerk.

“It’s fine.” She shakes her head. “Just
stay. I can send a car for your gifts.”

“I won’t have any.” I laugh. “My family
is in Italy. They’ll Facetime and say happy Christmas and tell me they sent me
some chocolate or something. Honestly. We don’t do the gift exchange anymore.
It stopped when I was about fourteen. It was too hard being away from everyone
for hockey and school and none of us hung out. So we canceled the gift
exchange. Now we send each other chocolates from wherever we are.”

“Smart,” she says as she fights a yawn.
The eating and talking and joking have worn us both out. I’m bagged from the
last couple of months of constant playing and in need of a couple of days off.
“Please, just stay. I hate being alone on Christmas.” She hits me with the eyes
again. I can’t fight her when she gives me that look.

“I hate being alone for it too. I’m
assuming you have a guest room?” It’s not that I don’t want to sleep with her. I
honestly just need sleep. Her lying next to me will send mixed signals to my
cock about what my body is capable of doing. And there is no exhaustion enough
to stop me from wanting to fuck her, broken face or not. Tandy already proved
my dick isn’t broken.

“Yeah. I’m scared of hurting your face
again.” She’s been giving me the same pitying look for hours.

“Me too.” I offer up a sheepish grin. “If
you don’t mind showing me the way to my room, I’m going to hit the hay now
before I pass out. I have to ice my face and take a shwack of drugs too.”

“Okay.” She turns and walks for the
stairs instead of the front door where we were.

I can’t believe she wants me to stay. I
can’t believe we just had a civil meal filled with warmth and conversation and
realness. She is exactly what I thought she was. The expression on her face in
London came back a hundred times tonight as we discussed our lives. We carry
the same wounds and fears. Abandonment mixed with a lack of compassion and love,
leaves scars, even on the rich and famous.