Текст книги "Pucked Up "

Автор книги: Helena Hunting

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 22 страниц)

CHAPTER TWELVE

BIG BETS AND VAGUE MEMORIES

After the call with Violet, I find an all-you-can-eat buffet and gorge. Then I drive to Toronto to pick up Randy. While I’m waiting for his flight, I mess around on social media. Bushman has been tagging Sunny in pictures. She and Lily are sitting at the table in the backseat, arms around each other with big grins. There’s another one of Sunny with her face right next to Bushman’s scruffy beard, holding up a bag of those damn kale chips. I hate him and his stupid name.

I add comments to the posts on her wall, so Bushman knows I’m watching his ass. I want to message Sunny about the whole four-year thing, but I don’t want to rock an already rocky boat. None of the pictures being posted so far are a problem, but it’s just the drive there. Who knows what other shit is going to happen as the week progresses.

Randy’s all smiles and “fuck yeah, camping!” when I pick him up. I try not to let my crap mood ruin his. He reclines his seat and adjusts his baseball cap. He’s like a walking billboard for Chicago.

“So? How was the weekend with Sunny? I figured it couldn’t have gone too bad since I only heard from you once.”

I struggle to maintain a neutral expression. “It was good.”

“Just good? Come on, Miller, give up the details. You’ve been radio silent all weekend. Did you finally get some action or what?”

In the past we’ve traded bunny stories. When Sunny and I first started seeing each other, I may have given Randy and some of the other guys the impression I’d sealed the deal. It wasn’t like I out and out lied about it, more that I omitted the details. Vi ripped a strip off of me for that. I saw her point. While it was unheard of for me to not get action, it made sense that I wouldn’t want to paint Sunny with the bunny brush. Especially since she’s Waters’ sister, and he’d probably castrate me with his hockey stick if he found out.

He’s chopped me in the shins a couple of times in the past month when we’ve played rec after workouts. He also got me good in the kidneys. That one hurt. I was sore for a couple of days. If he knows I’m sexing with Sunny, that stick is going to be aimed directly at my balls.

The GPS pipes up and tells me to get on the 401 East. I follow the signs, avoiding an answer.

“Miller?”

“’Sup?”

“You gonna answer or what?”

“We had a good time. Let’s leave it at that.”

“Oh, shit. You didn’t bang her? How fucking blue are your balls right now?” He pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?” The traffic here is nuts. People cut across lanes without even looking. There are signs everywhere and assholes going ninety in the slow lane, then cutting in, forcing everyone behind them to slam on their brakes.

He’s thumb typing, and he hasn’t shut the sound off, so I hear every annoying click. “Texting Lance.”

“What the hell for?”

He stops typing to talk. “Because I owe him a case of beer.”

“For what?”

“I lost the bet.” He’s got that cocky grin going again.

“Bet?”

“Yeah. I bet him a case of beer you’d be able to get Sunny to ride your dick, and he bet me you’d pussy out.”

I slap his phone out of his hand, knocking it to the floor. In the process I swerve and cut into the lane next to me. A chick in a sporty BMW honks and flails her hands.

“Dude! What’s your damage?” He goes to pick up his phone, but I crossbar him with a forearm to the neck.

“Text Lance and I’ll leave you on the side of the highway.”

“I won’t. Jesus, man, what’s going on with you? What happened? Did you and Sunny get into a fight? I figured you’d smooth things over like you usually do with the bunnies.”

“Sunny’s not a bunny.” The rhyme irritates me.

“I know that.”

I run a hand through my hair and give him the side eye. “You wanna make bets on the bunnies, you go right ahead. But don’t bring Sunny into your bullshit. She’s not some slutbag I’m trying to pull a fuck-and-chuck on.”

Randy settles back in his seat when I withdraw my arm. “I know that, man, but you know how Lance is; everything’s a game for him.”

“You’d think it was obvious at this point that I’m serious about Sunny.”

“Right? Who keeps seeing the same chick for three months if it isn’t about more than fucking.” Randy looks out the window and rubs at his beard. “I know I sure as hell wouldn’t.”

I don’t say anything while Randy fiddles around with the radio and finds a station he likes. He’s big into country music.

Here’s the thing: I know I shouldn’t say anything, but like Randy said, I’ve been waiting for months to get to this point. I can’t give details to Violet, because that shit’s awkward and weird. I mean, mostly she’s like a girl version of Randy, minus all the whoring and the equipment below the belt, but stepsister or not, we’re quasi-related, and we’re close. I can’t go there. However, Randy’s one of my closest buddies, and old habits die hard. I should be able to trust him not to run his mouth.

“You can’t say anything to Lance.”

He stops messing around with the radio. “I won’t. Scout’s honor.” He holds up two fingers and gives me a cheeky-ass grin.

“I’m serious.”

“Sorry. I can’t help it. But yeah, I won’t say anything—not to Lance or anyone else.”

“So Sunny was pissed when I got there, but we talked it out, and I smoothed it over.”

“So you did get some action?”

I smile. It’s enough of an answer.

“I fucking knew it! You owe me a case of beer, asshole. How was it? She teaches yoga right? I bet she’s better than a porn star in bed. Just bend her in half and give ‘er—” He makes thrusting motions.

I want to punch him in the side of the head. I suck my teeth.

“Sorry. Sorry, man. That was probably out of line.” He pats me on the shoulder. “I know you’ve been blue-balling it over this girl, so I’m glad you finally got some.”

I can tell he wants details. Before Sunny, I would’ve given them in 3D Technicolor. All the bunnies like to share details—some of them seriously exaggerated—in online bunny groups, so it only seemed fair. It’s weird. Up until now it didn’t feel like I was doing anything wrong by sharing, but Sunny isn’t going to post anything about our weekend sex-a-thon, so I feel like I should keep most of it to myself.

“What about you? How was your weekend?” I ask, shifting the focus.

“You know how it goes when Lance is on a bender. He keeps inviting more people. There were a shitton of girls there this weekend. When I left this morning he was looking rough.”

That’s not an answer. Not the kind I expect from Randy. He’s usually all over providing excessive details. Right now he seems irritated more than anything.

“Natasha was pretty annoyed?” I probe.

“Right? She was a drill sergeant. Lance puked his guts out later. It was epic.”

I hit the brakes when the guy in front of us slams on his. Ahead of me is a sea of red lights and a lot of pickup trucks with huge tires. It’s like we’re on the way to a monster truck rally. It’s Sunday afternoon. We’re in Canada, with an endless supply of land, and we’re sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. I don’t get it.

“You think there’s anything going on there?” I ask.

“Between Tash and Lance? He flirts with her, but then he flirts with everything that has tits. That would be stupid on Tash’s part. Lance is fun to be around, but he’s dirty. Why? Tash say something to you?” Randy goes back to messing around with the radio stations.

“No. Just a feeling I get.”

Randy’s a fidgety motherpucker. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I’d think he was strung out on something most of the time. He’s not. I don’t think he even smoked weed in high school. He taps his fingers on his knees and hums along to the song.

He stops drumming. “You know, maybe you’re right.”

“About Tash and Lance?”

“He was in a shitty mood after she left, bitching about how she didn’t even say she was going and how she short-changed us on the workout. I figured he was in one of his moods, ’cause he was hungover as shit, and it wasn’t like he was actually doing anything other than being a pain in the ass. But that was when the party started to get out of hand. He was slamming back the shots. Then he took a porcelain throne break. He came out an hour or two later, called half his bunny list, and went back to getting wasted. I cut back on the drinking because I was worried he’d get into a fight, and flying hungover sucks.”

Lance has a short fuse on the ice and an even shorter fuse when he’s wasted and someone says something he doesn’t like. I have my moments, but Lance is way worse. It’s probably all the ginger in him.

“Anyway, he passed out around eight, and I figured that’d be the end of him, but he got back up at midnight and kept going. He was still asleep when I left today. I should call and see how he’s doing later.”

Sometimes I worry about Lance and whether he’s going to be able to manage himself. He’s two years into his career and still a hotheaded rookie. He’s stupid with his money—blowing it on parties and his collection of cars. I’d probably be doing the same thing if it wasn’t for Violet. She essentially gives me an allowance so I don’t waste what’s supposed to be my savings on frivolous crap—not that I don’t buy dumb, useless things. I just buy them less often. Plus, living in a condo makes it impossible to have fifty people at my place. Having Lance as a friend allows me to experience the parties without having to manage the cleanup or the actual expense.

“Whatever happened to those girls you guys brought home?”

“Which ones?”

“The ones from the bar the night before I left.”

His expression is still blank.

“The chick in the dickface pictures. The ones that got me into a shitload of trouble with Sunny.”

“Oh. Yeah. Lance felt bad about that.”

Not so bad that he apologized, but that isn’t Lance’s style. He doesn’t do apologies. He lives like the world revolves around him. It’s another reason I’m not so sure he’ll make it too many more seasons. He isn’t much of a team player. That doesn’t work well when you play professional hockey.

“So what happened to them?”

Randy shrugs. “Who knows?”

“One of them knew Lance, eh.”

“Eh?” Randy smirks. “Sunny’s starting to rub off on you.”

My response is automatic. “She’s done a lot more than rub off on me.”

Randy laughs. “You better not say that in front of Waters or he’ll use your balls for shoot-out practice. What do you mean one of them knew Lance? Pretty much everyone’s had a piece of that guy.”

“The girl who cleaned the dick off my forehead said she went to school with him back in the day.”

“Seriously? She was hot. Did he even bone her?”

“Nope. He bagged Flash Beaver. I don’t think he recognized her. She said she was younger. Like middle school or something. There was some party her older sister dragged her to, and they ended up in a closet together.”

“No shit! Are you going to tell him about it?”

“I don’t see the point. It’s not like he’s gonna give a shit. Besides, she seemed liked a nice girl. I felt bad for her that he fucked her friend.”

Randy makes a disapproving sound. “That’s kinda low. What was her name?”

“Poppy.”

“Poppy what?”

“I don’t know. Poppy from the garden. I’d say ask Lance, but he won’t remember. Anyway, she was a nice girl, definitely not a bunny. Apparently Lance was her first kiss.”

“Wow. That sucks for her.” Randy reclines in his seat again and stares out the window, tapping his fingers on his lips to the beat. “You know, I don’t even remember my first kiss. There’s been so many girls. I can’t keep track anymore.”

He’s not bragging. In fact, he seems sad about it.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

GROUND RULES

Once we get past Toronto, the traffic thins. By the time we reach Muskoka and turn off the main highway, there are hardly any cars on the road. We pull into the camp around dinner time, so all the kids are likely busy shoveling food into their faces. Randy and I stopped at a burger joint on the way up and scarfed down half a dozen burgers each, so we’re not starving. Having volunteered at these things before, I’m highly aware of the quality and quantity of food they serve.

It’s not that it’s bad. It’s camp food, prepared en masse for kids who don’t have much in the way of appreciation for flavor. Legit, full-on hockey camps are different. Those kids are playing four to six hours a day. It’s serious training for NHL players in the making. It’s also hella expensive, so the food is better and plentiful. You can’t serve the basics to a bunch of pre-teens or early teens who’ve been playing like they’re trying out for the pros all day.

This isn’t that kind of camp. It’s for kids with more going on than making Triple A and getting scouted. While a select few may have serious potential, most of them are here because they love it. The camp is heavily subsidized, partially by me, partially by other foundations that work with underprivileged families or kids with special needs. One of the kids this year might not even make it to his teens. That’s why I picked the camp. No one appreciates—and deserves—life’s joys like someone who’s aware of his own expiration date.

I follow the directions of one of the junior counselors, who gets all bug eyed and excited when we tell him who we are and what we’re here for. We park in the staff lot and cut the engine. Two girls in shorts and camp shirts that read STAFF across the back come out of the mess hall. Randy watches them bounce across the grass toward the cabins, a huge grin on his face.

Like most sites, this one includes two separate sports camps, one for girls and one for boys. The boys’ camp is on the south side of the lake and the girls’ on the north side. The mess hall is central, so they eat together. There are coed events during the day, but at night, when it comes to sleeping, the genders are separated, with the counselor cabins at each camp reinforcing the boundaries. On the Friday before camp ends, there’ll be a dance, which will be a pre-teen hormone fest, all of them dry-humping on each other, trying to disappear into the forest.

I press the lock button before Randy can get out of the car and keep my thumb on it. “We need to set some ground rules for the week.”

“Huh?” He’s not paying attention. He’s too busy reefing on the door, staring at their asses.

“Ground rules. You need to listen.” I snap a finger in his face. That gets his attention. “The junior counselors are sixteen and seventeen. The senior counselors are eighteen and up.” I know this because Amber read me the program information when I said I wanted to volunteer here instead of at one of the serious hockey camps this summer. “There’s a no-fraternizing policy in effect.”

Randy snorts. “Does anyone actually take that seriously?”

“You need to take it seriously.”

“Do you remember hockey camp, Miller? I sure do. It was a no-holds-barred fuck fest.”

“This isn’t that kind of hockey camp, and we’re not attending, we’re volunteering. Don’t make me regret inviting you.”

A group of four girls comes out of the mess hall; one has a staff shirt on, and the other three are dressed in regular summer clothes. “How do I know if they’re senior or junior counselors?”

“You ask.”

“Awesome. Let’s go.” He reefs on the door again.

“We’re not done laying ground rules yet. If you’re going to hook up with a senior counselor, you need to limit it to one.”

“One?” He looks like his head is going to explode.

“Yeah. One. All these girls know each other. They’ve probably been coming here since they were little kids. They’re going to talk, and if you bang your way through them, I’m never going to be invited back. And I don’t need the drama.”

“So just one.” He cracks his knuckles and rolls his shoulders like he’s getting ready to take on an opponent. “Okay. I can do that, I guess.”

“Choose wisely, Balls.”

I release the lock, and he gets out of the car, stretching before he leans against his door and watches another gaggle of teenagers burst out of the mess hall. This time one of the counselors pushes a kid in a wheelchair. Randy’s up the stairs and offering assistance before I can unbuckle my seatbelt.

My phone dings several times in a row with new messages.

<3 the pic!

Made it 2 the camp. How ru?

Forgot my charger :( hav 2 go 2 town 2 get 1

Fuck. This isn’t good. I don’t bother with messaging. I hit her contact and call right away. She picks up on the second ring. The connection is full of static.

“Hey, sweets.”

“Miller! I don’t have much battery left.”

“That’s okay. I wanted to make sure you made it up there all right.”

“You’re sweet. The drive was great! Kale and Benji are making a fire, and me and Lily are in charge of dinner.”

It’s like a double date out in the middle of nowhere. The only good thing is the lack of shower options. I’m hoping Sunny also forgot deodorant and soap so she gets ripe fast. Knowing Kale, that would probably be an aphrodisiac. I bet he showers once a month.

“We won’t get to town for a couple of days. I’ll try to message from Lily’s phone, but her reception is almost as bad as mine.”

“That sucks. I was hoping for daily updates.”

“I know. I’m sorry, Miller. I’ll message as soon as I get a new charger. I still have to let my parents know I’m here, so I should go before my phone dies.” The crackling on the line makes it almost impossible to hear her.

“Okay. Be careful up there. When I see you next I think we should talk—”

Her shriek forces me to pull the phone away from my ear. “Kale! Stop it! I’m on the phone with Miller! Put me down—”

The call drops; beep-beep-beeping is the last thing I get.

I stare at the blank screen, a hot feeling creeping up the back of my neck. If I was on the ice right now, I’d probably get myself a penalty. I feel like I might be getting fucked around, and I don’t like it.

This is going to be a long, shitty week of wondering.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BIG BALLS

Randy manages to keep his dick in his pants for the first two days, which is a miracle. There are way more counselors than I’m used to, probably because the kids require more supervision and assistance. At least I have Randy as my shield against the female senior counselors, which are in abundant supply thanks to the neighboring girls’ camp. They aren’t bunnies, but they’re equally as interested in getting up close and personal.

I thought the Sunny wallpaper on my phone would function as a deterrent, but I discover that girls like guys who have pictures of their girlfriend on their phones. At first I think they’re hitting on me, but then I realize they want to be my friend. Girls are funny about the whole being friends with a guy business. They’re flirty, and overly touchy, but there’s no expectation that I’m going to find an empty cabin and show them what I can do with my lightning rod. It’s like having a whole bunch of sisters like Vi who engage in the overshare.

Randy has the exact opposite issue. Once it becomes clear he doesn’t have a girlfriend, he’s fair game. It’s like watching turkey vultures fight over a carcass on the highway. They’ll peck each other’s eyes out to get to him.

By the morning of day three, I still haven’t heard from Sunny. Between coaching sessions and games with the kids, I check her social media accounts, but there’s nothing new apart from a picture posted on the first day—not by her or Lily, but by Patchy Bushman. The four of them have their arms wrapped around each other, standing in front of the camping trailer-van, being all happy together. I get it better now more than ever why she reacted the way she did to those bunny pics. Bushman has his arm around Sunny. I want to rip it off and beat him with it, but I also know that things aren’t always the way they look. Unfortunately, I’m also aware that sometimes they’re exactly how they look.

The longer I don’t hear from her, the more pissy I get. I know they’re all friends, but this doesn’t seem much different than the shit she gets upset at me over.

I combat the happy, smiley picture with multiple pics of me and Sunny from our weekend at her place. Even though I’m annoyed, I message her every day with little updates. The reception up here isn’t the greatest unless I’m in the mess hall or by the water where there aren’t as many trees obstructing the signal. This means I have to type most of my messages. I won’t use the voice-to-text thing in front of other people. Some of what I have to text is private.

I’d get Randy to check the spelling, but I don’t want him to razz me about it. I’d vet them through my PA like I sometimes do, but she’s still out in the middle of the wilderness, so it’s not an option.

By the end of the fifth day, I’m bagged. Kids are a lot of work. I must’ve been hard for my dad to manage as a kid, especially having hockey practice five days a week. But I think sometimes that was a good way to get me out of my dad’s hair so he could get shit done. And eventually my practices were a good place for him to scout.

While I never had a problem with going to practice, school work was always a fight. I feel like it’s the same way for some of these kids. I’ve already sent my dad an email with the names of a couple kids who have serious potential, but likely can’t afford the training they’ll need to make hockey a career. I don’t expect to hear from him until he’s back from his cruise, but I like to keep him informed.

I hit the staff showers, which allow some privacy, and wait until the water gets hot before I step under the spray. I ignore the spiders living in the corner of the stall and the slight, mildewy smell. Sometimes it’s nice not to have the conveniences and luxuries of home. It reminds me how lucky I am that playing professional hockey has worked out. However, I am relieved to find the water pressure is decent. I must have played six rounds of ball hockey today between sessions with the kids and playing with the junior counselors.

I consider rubbing one out in the shower. It’s been two days since I’ve been able to take care of my business. If I don’t help myself out soon, I’m going to have a raging case of blue balls. They’re already achy, and the only pictures I’ve been looking at are the ones of Sunny in her bikini.

Lathering up, I grab my handle and give it a quick tug. My balls tighten like little fists. This won’t take long at all. With my back to the spray, I start stroking. I keep my eyes closed so I can picture Sunny naked, under me, her legs wrapped around my waist. I don’t think I last much more than two minutes. I’d be embarrassed, but efficiency is more important than longevity in this case.

I cut the water and towel off, putting on a fresh pair of shorts and a T-shirt. I almost bowl over one of the female counselors on my way out. She’s in a two-piece bathing suit, but it’s not like the ones the bunnies wear. It actually covers all her important parts. Her ass isn’t even hanging out the back.

Randy’s standing beside her with his towel and a change of clothes. “You go first.” He nods to the open stall.

“You’re sure?” She’s all blush-y and lip bite-y.

“Yeah. Definitely. I’ll catch up with you later.”

“Okay. I’ll see you in the mess hall before the campfire?” She twirls her ponytail around her finger.

“Sure thing.” He winks, and she practically trips over her own feet getting into the shower.

As soon as she’s locked inside, I ask the most important question: “How old is she?”

“Nineteen.”

“You sure about that?” Most of these girls don’t wear makeup; it isn’t always easy to tell how old or young they are.

“She showed me her driver’s license.”

“You’re sure it’s not a fake?”

“It didn’t look fake.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Miller. I’ve got a handle on the situation.”

Another stall comes open, and he grabs it before I can question him further.

I’ve got time before the campfire, so I walk down to the lake where the reception is better and I can get some privacy. Sunny said she’d try to call tonight. The last I heard from her was two nights ago. She left a choppy message saying her reception was bad. She didn’t sound particularly happy. It shouldn’t have made me feel good, but it kinda did.

Tonight they’re supposed to be at a bar in town. Lily isn’t much of a drinker, so she’s the DD. Their ride is portable, so even if she does get drunk, they could park and sleep it off. Sunny’s a friendly, touchy drunk. Usually I’m cool with it, but I’m not there, and Patchy Bushman is.

The first night I met Sunny, she was blitzed after three drinks, two of which I bought for her. I ordered her a non-alcoholic mojito while she was in the bathroom to help sober her up. At the time I didn’t want to feel guilty if we got naked together later. We ended up at an all-night breakfast place instead. She ate an insane amount of food, which was hot, since most girls pick at a salad and pretend they’re not hungry. We talked for hours.

I cabbed it back to her friend’s place with her at four in the morning, but she didn’t invite me in. Instead we made out on the front porch. Then I asked for her number and gave her mine. On the way back to the hotel, I voice-texted her so I wouldn’t mess up any of the words and told her I had a great time and wanted to see her again. When I got back to my room I hit the showers and rubbed one out instead of going back to the bar to score a bunny.

The sun dips lower on the horizon, but dusk is an hour away, so I should be safe from the mosquitoes. They’re terrible up here. Worse than I’ve ever seen in Chicago. I haven’t shaved since I arrived. I left my razor and trimmer at Sunny’s, and I didn’t think to buy anything when Randy and I stocked up on snacks at the grocery store. Even with my trim job at Sunny’s, I have clusters of bites all over the place. I’ve been bathing in bug spray every night before the campfire, but it’s not doing much good.

I head out to the docks and drop into one of the chairs, brushing away a few cobwebs and a spider or two. It’s quiet out here with everyone getting ready for the fire. I feel guilty for not helping out like I usually do, but I need a few minutes to myself. I’m hoping to get directions from Sunny for when camp is done.

Pulling up my messages, I find nothing new from her. Since I’m out here alone, I can use the voice-to-text function. I dictate a quick message, then hit my Instagram feed. Sunny isn’t big on updating, but Patch McBushman has tagged her in half a dozen pictures. His Instagram handle, @Kurly_Kale, is as douchey as he is. He’s taken a bunch of pictures of Sunny with Lily. One caught them in a candid moment with their arms around each other, laughing. Lily is actually pretty when she isn’t busy hating me.

I’m okay with those pictures. Sunny should have fun, even if she’s far away and her motives for going are questionable—and partially my fault. But the farther I scroll through the feed, the less happy I am. There are pictures of Sunny with Patchy Bushman. She’s in my favorite bikini, and his arm is around her waist. I hate that guy—and Lily for convincing her to go on this trip.

I’m about to comment on a couple of the pictures when a sharp sting has me out of the chair and on my feet. My phone clatters to the dock and bounces once. It spins on its side before falling away from the crack in the boards. My relief is short lived. A huge spider falls out of my shorts and lands on top of my running shoe. I shout and kick it off, then stomp on the fucker until he’s nothing but a splatter mark.

Making sure I’m still alone first, I unbutton my shorts to check my parts. The issue feels like it’s closer to my taint than my dick. It’s hard to see without dropping my shorts completely and mooning anyone who might accidentally find me. I stick my hand down there, feeling my balls where the sting is the worst. There’s a bump on my left nut. It hurts to touch.

“Um . . . is everything okay?” The voice is female and vaguely familiar.

I immediately retract my hand and button my shorts so I don’t look like I’m jacking off on the middle of the dock like a pervert. Once everything is tucked away, I turn around. It’s one of the senior counselors. The same one who’s been following me around for the past few days. She turned eighteen last week. She’s told me seven thousand times already. It’s a harmless crush—I think—but I’ve been trying not to end up alone with her. Like I am right now.

She looks around, confused. “I heard a girl scream.”

“A spider bit me.”

“Oh. Are you okay?”

I’d be embarrassed by the evidently feminine quality of my scream, but the bite stings, and it was a big fucking spider. “I’ll be fine. Nothing some Bactine won’t fix.”

There’s no way I’m putting Bactine on this. It already feels like I dipped my balls in acid.

“Do you want me to take a look?” She takes a few steps toward me, and I take a couple back.

“That’s okay. I can handle it.”

“I should check it out for you. I might be able to figure out what type of spider it was. Last week one of the kid’s hands swelled up to twice its size because she got bit by one of those dock spiders. Sometimes when they’re pregnant they lay their eggs under the skin.”

I shudder at the thought of a thousand baby spiders exploding from my balls. It’s like a damn horror movie.

She sidles closer. If I was anywhere but the dock it’d be easy to get around her. Water prevents me from doing that. I want desperately to grab my balls, but it’ll look inappropriate. I back up, hoping to escape her. I don’t take into account how close I am to the edge. I almost lose my footing and fall in, but recover myself before it happens.

She puts a hand on my shoulder, as if to steady me. “God. That was close. Are you sure you’re okay? I have first aid. Where’d it bite you?”

“Not in a spot I want you looking at.” It feels like something is happening in my pants, and it’s not good.

I move her out of the way by her shoulders. In my hurry to escape, I almost step on my phone. I scoop it up and shove it in my pocket, heading back to the cabins. She calls after me, but I wave over my shoulder and start jogging. It’s uncomfortable. I have to throw my leg out to the side so I don’t cause unnecessary ball friction.

My cabin is empty, thankfully, so I drop my shorts and inspect the damage. I have to wrap my balls around my dick to get a good look. The bite’s red and angry. My left nut is now significantly larger than the right one. Usually it hangs lower, but it’s way swollen.