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.