Bitter
He shouldn't enjoy hitting people this much. Yeah, so that is kind of the point of his position on the football team, and there is a reason he was placed there. But he doesn't usually relish the mere thought of bashing up his teammates. Not usually.
Today is his first day back after the Glee-or-Football ultimatum. He still isn't sure exactly why he'd chosen Glee. Better chances for a scholarship, better chance to get into Rachel's pants... not to mention he just plain hated being told what to do. Though it had still surprised him to find his legs walking down the corridor to the music room at 3:31 that afternoon (Puck is never early to anything – his badassness doesn't adhere to other people's timetables).
As he strips off his sweaty, grass-stained uniform, he uses the chatter of the other players as white noise, telling his mind to calm the fuck down. What does it matter if he smiled when he knocked out that pansy Jake? Not like he hasn't done so before. Only... he was still smiling when the guy finally came around again. Which was a while. The corner of his mouth is still kind of sore. He can't remember the last time he smiled for so many consecutive minutes.
But at least worrying about the enjoyment distracts him from that other thought. The reason why he enjoyed it so much. It shouldn't bother him that Rachel dumped him. Because, really, they both knew it was never going to work. They both have feelings for other people, and the (fucking amazing) chemistry between them would only get them so far. Though they didn't actually go all the way there. And that's what pisses him off. He's a badass stud, and he can't hold onto a crazy chick like Rachel? Yeah, he's a jerk, but what does that have to do with sex?
Speaking of jerks... he looks around the locker room. He's spent so long in his own head that everyone else is pretty much gone. Bag over his shoulder, Matt lifts a hand in a 'manly' wave, then he's out the door and Puck is alone. He finishes stripping down, not bothering with a towel as he walks toward the showers. Who's going to see him? Not that he'd care if they did – the rest of his body is as awesome as his guns.
He finds himself humming Sweet Caroline as he soaps himself, and scowls, clamping his mouth shut. Never again. Everything he did for Rachel – stuff he'd never even considered doing for any other girl – and she dumps him anyway? Just because she is in love with Finn. How does the idiot get all the fucking girls?
The damn song is still playing in his head, so he sings Prisoner of Society out loud. The Living End how to write a great rock song. None of that soppy love shit.
Fucking girls, messing with his head. They make him work so hard to get anywhere – and most of them don't put out anyway. Though he can't deny the sights are pretty damn amazing. Those tiny skirts and skin-tight tops? Almost make up for the fact few girls let him get to second base. Almost.
His hand curls around his erection, stroking absently as he thinks about the Cheerios practice he witnessed earlier. No matter how many times he sees them, he'll never get tired of watching them flipping and twirling – those red spanky pants are a real turn on.
Rachel's appearance in his mind causes him to falter for a moment, but then he shrugs and continues. The girl is smoking hot, who really cares if she dumped him? In his mind he can do anything and everything with her; to her. He imagines her in the shower with him, her fingers drawing nonsense patterns in the soap on his chest while her warm mouth works him over.
Except... she suddenly stops moving and bares her teeth, then bites down none-too-gently. He can feel the anger rising in his chest, and he's not so horny any more. How dare she dump him? He's a fucking stud, he can have any girl – hell, any woman – he chooses. And he had chosen her. Though he has no clue why. There is something about her that attracts him. And infuriates him, interests him, frustrates him, scares him. He's never met a girl who makes him feel so many different things at once.
Rinsing off the last of the soap suds, he glares at his groin. No girl ever made him soft either. Out of habit he reaches for the towel slung over the end of the cubicle, only to discover cold tile. Damn, he forgot about the practical use of the towel. Yeah, he's proud of his body... but it's kind of cold in here without the hot water going, and the beads of water trickling down his skin are cooling rapidly.
His footsteps echo through the empty bathroom as he moves toward the doorway. Music sounds from the locker room, and he rolls his eyes when he recognises Love Game. Santana has changed her fucking ringtone again (and she downloaded more girly shit!). He really has to stop letting her fiddle with his phone.
The song stops eventually, and he continues out of the bathroom, shaking his head. He's had enough of bloody high school girls.
On the verge of shivering, Puck moves to his locker quickly. Rubbing his skin dry vigorously helps warm him up, and he's rummaging through his locker for his clothes when he hears a noise. One that didn't come from him.
Leaving the towel around his shoulders, he turns to greet the football player, a "hey man" ready on his lips. Only the person in the doorway isn't a football player. Or a male at all.
Her clipboard lays forgotten at her feet, her mouth wide open. He quickly pulls the towel down around his waist, though the barrier doesn't stop Sue from staring. Puck recognises the look in her eyes. It's the same one so many cougars have given him before/while/after he cleans their pool. Lust. Hunger. Want.
Puck has never had sex with a teacher. Well, except that student teacher he had for English freshman year. But she doesn't count, she was only 19. And she was hot as all hell. Sue's not particularly attractive. And she's a bit older than his usual cougar – he assumes, anyway, but plastic surgery can be deceptive.
They stare at one another, though their gazes do not meet; she's too busy devouring his abs with her eyes to bother looking at his face, and he's avoiding her eyes. He wonders just how crazy he is to be considering this.
Then she scowls and makes a sound like a growl, muttering something under her breath. It sounds a lot like "can't be tied down, my ass". His hand is delving into his jeans, extracting the condom, before he can process the movement.
It's hard and fast, angry and bitter. They don't look at one another the entire time, nor do their lips meet. She draws blood with her short nails on his back. He leaves finger-shaped bruises on her arms and hips. The reminders of this tryst will be there for days, even weeks.
Puck is already half gone from earlier, but he makes sure she's satisfied before he lets go himself. Neither says the name of the person in front of them; the person beneath closed eyelids is completely different to the one under their fingertips.
When it's over they dress in silence, back to back. She turns to him on her way out, but closes her mouth before any words come out. He remains on the bench in front of his locker, staring into nothing. The door bangs closed behind her, and the sound awakens him from his stupor.
He turns to his stuff his football gear in his bag, and feels a sharp twinge. Fuck, those scratches are deep. Love Game blares from his phone once again, and he inhales sharply. Shit, how is he going to explain the marks to Santana?