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TOTALLY PUCKED

LAUREN BLAKELY
 Copyright © 2023 by Lauren Blakely

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the
author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and
reviews. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author
acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products
referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. This
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the
products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Without in any way limiting the
author’s exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to “train”
generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies to generate text is expressly
prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for
generative AI training and development of machine learning language models.
 CONTENTS

About
Totally Pucked

1. Bad Romance Vibes

2. Snowglobe Lube
3. The Devil is Me
4. Test Subject
5. The Scarf Did It
6. Krampus Is Hot
7. My Kind of Weird
8. I Stand Corrected

Be A Lovely
More Books by Lauren
Contact
 ABOUT

Ever hear the story about the gal who got dumped with this parting
shot? “And, maybe you need some lessons in the bedroom.”
Sure, I wanted to shout at my ex: “You suck in bed too.”
But I’m a lady. I didn’t say that.
I do, however, share the whole sorry story over drinks to my best
guy friend—the hockey star who’s been my bestie forever.
And he’s suddenly intensely curious about these bedroom
lessons. He’s so damn interested, he says, “I’d be willing to be your
test subject.”
If I say yes, it'll change our lifelong friendship in the next twenty-
four hours…
 TOTALLY PUCKED
A MY HOCKEY ROMANCE SHORT STORY

By Lauren Blakely
 1

BAD ROMANCE VIBES

Katie

When I lock up the lab on Friday night, I leave the ocean research
behind and walk into the San Francisco evening with self-care
research on my mind instead. I’m in the mood to look out for me.
Maybe even get myself a little something.
I’m six months post-breakup after all and doing much better.
Feels like a milestone.
As I walk along Fillmore Street, I pass some of my favorite stores
till I spot Bling and Baubles, a cute jewelry shop my sister told me
about.
Perfect.
I head inside and check out a display of trendy artsy jewelry—
boho necklaces, chunky bracelets, cool rings as the woman smiles
from the counter, then says, “A Christmas present for you, Katie?”
That’s Rachel, and I’ve gotten to know her since I’ve been back.
“Yes. I need something that says—no, that declares—I’m better
off alone, dammit.”
She gives me a sympathetic smile. “I was once there. I call this
the Treat Yourself line.” She ushers me over to some bold necklaces
with all sorts of pendants—a star, a snake, a skull, a winged dragon,
then to another shelf with a collection of chunky metal bracelets
alongside vegan leather ones too.
“These all say I can open my own pickle jars, thank you very
much,” I tell her, then spot a chunky bracelet shining under the
chandelier lighting in the store. “It’s very Wonder Woman.”
“Kind of makes you feel like you’re warding off all the bad
romance vibes.”
“Exactly,” I say, liking that approach. “I am happily single now.”
“I can tell,” Rachel says.
I’m so stinking thrilled that Henry is no longer in my life. I’m so
damn glad I got out of that going-nowhere-fast relationship. Now,
he’s pretty much in the rearview mirror.
Except for one little thing that’s been nagging at me.
His parting words.
But I try not to let his insult get to me.
Instead, I take the bracelet, snapping it on my wrist, then pay
and thank Rachel. “I’ll see you at The Spotted Zebra in a little bit?”
“I’ll be there. Carter and I go every year,” she says.
I smile. She and her guy have the best time dating all over town.
She’s the one who told me about the annual Christmas party there.
“See you soon,” I say, then head out, my gaze turning to the
bracelet.
A reminder of where I’ve been and where I am.
Once outside, I take a moment to enjoy this change in my life.
After I finished college, I moved to Seattle for my masters. A few
months ago, I moved back home—here—to be closer to family. My
sister lives and works in the city as the mascot for the Golden State
Foxes hockey team. My brother plays for the other hockey team—
the Sea Dogs. My mom and grandma are here too. And I have a
great job working as a scientist at a lab studying how to improve
ocean health and conservation.
My best friend from forever lives here too, and I’ll be seeing him
soon—Fisher Hendrix, who just got signed to the city’s Golden State
Foxes team.
We’ve been best friends since high school. And I’ll meet him in
thirty minutes at The Spotted Zebra for the bar’s annual hot cocoa
tasting party. I text him that I’m on my way.
He replies quickly with a Can’t wait, Giraffe.
I laugh at the nickname he gave me when we were younger and
I was taller than him for a few months.
That sure changed.
He shot all the way up and bulked out pretty nicely too. You have
to be strong and sturdy to be the winger for an NHL team.
But as I’m walking down the street in the foggy evening, silver
and gold lights twinkling on the shop windows, the only thing that
still feels off are those parting words from Henry.
I really need to let them go.
But they keep replaying. Like my head’s stuck on a loop of the
last thing my ex said to me.
Maybe I do just need to tell somebody. If I blurt it out, perhaps I
can finally let it go.
 2

SNOWGLOBE LUBE

Fisher

The second I walk into the quirky gift shop, Effing Stuff, I spot what
I want on a shelf by the counter. Boom. “That one,” I say to my
friend Hayes as I point to the snow globe I’m going to snag. Like I
can pass up this bad boy. Under the globe, there’s a squirrel
spinning on its tail in front of a tree.
Hayes shakes his head, snort laughing. “That’s what you’re
getting Katie for the spiked-hot-cocoa party? AKA the get-drunk-and-
make-out-under-the-mistletoe-and-blame-the-whiskey party?”
I park my hands on my hips and give him a look. “One, I’m not
even going to address that last remark. But two, yes,” I say
emphatically. “She’ll love it.”
“Because she’s a squirrel?”
I smack my teammate on the shoulder. “Keep up with me. She
likes snow globes, she likes animals, and she likes quirky things. And
I need a gift for her.”
“All right. Fair enough,” my friend says. I’ve known him for a
couple years, since he’s kind of a mentor type. I was recently called
up from the minors and have been playing in the pros for two
seasons. I’ve had a good run so far, and he’s been looking out for
me. But teammate time ends shortly when I meet up with Katie.
 I grab the snow globe and plunk it down on the counter, then say
hello to the woman working the register.
As she rings it up, Hayes studies me curiously. “Why now? Why
are you giving my wife’s sister a gift tonight?” He asks, since he’s
married to Katie’s sister Ivy.
“Because your wife’s sister is also my friend,” I point out. “And
can’t a guy just give a gal a present at the most wonderful time of
the year?”
Hayes rolls his eyes. “I suspect you have ulterior motives.”
“What kind?” I ask, meeting his gaze head-on.
He smiles like he was just granted access to every team’s video
review room in the league. “Oh, gee, like maybe you’re hoping this
snow globe will help you tell her that you’ve been secretly in love
with her your whole life?”
I scoff. “No. Dude. Seriously, I just want to thank her in advance
for helping me out tomorrow. I’m going to ask her to go to this
whole lighting festival thing that the team’s publicist asked me to do
on behalf of Little Friends,” I explain. “I’m asking her as my friend.”
But the truth is she’s a sexy, feisty, smart friend who I can’t stop
thinking about.
“So it’s a fluff gift for your publicity request,” Hayes says as I
finish the transaction. After I thank the clerk, we head out of the
store into the chilly night.
I stop to consider his assessment. “I think of it more like a pre-
gift for my friend date request,” I correct him.
“Whatever you say,” he says and once Hayes takes off, I head to
The Spotted Zebra to meet her, but the whole way I keep noodling
on what Hayes said.
That I’m angling for a make-out sesh under the mistletoe.
That can’t be right. Can it?
But when I reach The Spotted Zebra and see Katie walking down
the street, I mouth wow.
 3

THE DEVIL IS ME

Fisher

There’s only one explanation for the way I am staring at Katie like I
can’t look away.
Hayes is the devil. He is the motherfucking devil on my shoulder,
whispering in my ear, “Has your best friend always been that sexy?”
But damn…
Katie’s smile, her pretty pink lips, her big brown eyes, her fair
skin and rosy cheeks, that chestnut hair, all silky and long.
Yup. The devil is out tonight, and he is getting bigger and bigger.
There’s an angel on my other shoulder whispering, “She’s your
friend. She’s your best friend. Friends don’t think about what friends
look like naked.”
But that angel is shrinking down to a speck as Katie reaches me,
then sweeps some hair from her cheeks before she looks up into the
murky starless sky. “I was promised snow,” she says, then playfully
stomps her foot. “I want sledding, and snow angels, and snowmen.
Is that too much to ask?”
“I’ll see if I can order up some snow for you,” I say. Then, since
I’m holding a gift bag in one hand, I wrap my free arm around her in
a friendly bear hug like I’ve always done and…
That was a rookie mistake.
 The devil climbed up my back, wrestled the angel to the ground,
and took the fuck over. Because I catch the scent of her hair. She
smells like jasmine and midnight. Has she always smelled that good?
My train has left Friendship Station and it’s picking up speed as it
rattles into Dirty Depot.
I let go of her. Better not linger on how pretty her eyes are, or
how lush her lips are.
Katie doesn’t seem bothered by the quick disengagement.
Instead, she arches a brow and returns to my comment, asking,
“But what if what I really want is spiked hot cocoa?”
Yes! I jump on her question like it’s a puck that just dropped,
stat. “Then you are in luck. Let’s get some hot cocoa and whipped
cream and marshmallows, all for a good cause,” I say, trying
desperately to focus on innocent things, normal things, friendly
things.
Like this tasting, where all the money goes to animal rescues,
just like the lighting festival.
I open the door to The Spotted Zebra, holding it for her like a
perfect gentleman. “After you, Giraffe,” I say, hoping the childhood
nickname helps my cause.
“Thank you, Troublemaker,” she says, using mine. Well, I was a
troublemaker. Apparently, I still am. At least my libido needs to be
locked up with the key thrown away when it comes to my best
friend.
We head into the familiar bar, saying hello to my cousin Carter,
and his wife Rachel, who comes to this party every year.
Then grab our own table. Just like friends.
Right. Sure. Just like friends.

An hour later this spiked hot cocoa buzz that’s working through me
is making it hard for the sweet side of my brain to get any playing
time. The spicy side of my head can’t stop thinking about how sexy
Katie looks in that red sweater.
 That snug red sweater.
Why do fucking red sweaters even exist?
Focus, Fisher, focus.
“So, how’s everything going with the lab and the turtles and the
ocean and all that good stuff?” I ask.
As she sets down her mug of Lick My Lips, she tells me about the
work she’s doing on conservation, and how well it’s going, finishing
with a rap on the table. “Knock on wood, but we’re making some
tiny, but very real progress with our efforts.”
With a proud grin, I lift my mug of cinnamon hot chocolate
spiked with tequila. “I’ll drink to you being an awesome marine
biologist,” I say.
She clinks her ceramic mug against mine. “And to you beating
the Sea Dogs last night. That was quite a goal.”
I preen. “Which one?”
She laughs. “You’re such a show-off.”
“Just being honest. I scored two goals,” I say. Damn, that was a
good game.
“Okay, the one in the second period. The one in the first period
seemed more accidental.”
“An accidental goal? You kill me, woman.”
She stretches an arm across the table to slug my shoulder.
“Somebody has to keep you in your place. Or your ego would be
enormous.”
“And that’s your job? Ego checker?”
She lifts her chin. “Yes. That is the job of the best friend.”
Thank you!
Message received. Just what I needed.
Friend, friend, friend.
That brings me to my focus for tonight—asking my friend to go
with me to the lighting festival. Katie lifts her cup, and as soon as
she finishes that drink, it’ll be the perfect moment to make my friend
date request. The squirrel snow globe is ready to wingman me down
Friendship Lane.
When Katie sets the mug down, she mouths, whoa. “I think that
one went straight to my head. Before you know it, I’ll be telling you
all my secrets,” she says.
Secrets…
Like what you like to do in bed? Or maybe what you want me to
do to you?
I grab the bag from the floor, jam a hand in it, then shove the
snow globe across the table. “I got a little something for you,” I say.
Her brown eyes twinkle. “Fisher, this is so me,” she says,
clutching it to her chest. That lucky snow globe is cuddling up
against that red sweater, and I am jealous of a trinket. Send help,
someone, please. Then she shoots me a very devilish look. “And I
have a feeling you need me to help you with something.”
Was I that obvious? “You could tell?”
She shoots me an I know you so well look. “In high school, you
gave me a box of Russell Stover chocolates to help you figure out
how to ask out Leanne to the Valentine’s Day dance.”
Huh. I did do that. “Fine, but that was just one time.”
She scoff-laughs. “How about when you gave me the board
game I’d been wanting, and then asked for my advice on great
dates to take the woman from yoga to?”
“But you wanted that board game, and besides, that jackass you
were seeing was too cheap to buy it for you,” I add as the sound
system shifts to “White Christmas.”
Katie laughs, and after we grab the next round of spiked cocoa,
she keeps going. “And how about a couple years ago? When you
gave me that shirt that said I like Coffee, Dogs, and Maybe Three
People. And you wanted my advice on how to ask out the gal who
runs the karaoke bar we went to when I was in town for the
holidays.”
Hmm. I’m detecting a pattern here. Still, I protest with, “But
you’re good with that stuff. Romance and women and all that.” I
want to add and you were seeing that jackass Peter who I couldn’t
stand. And you know what? Thanks to this tequila, there’s no need
to keep that important observation to myself. “And you were seeing
somebody,” I point out.
She shoots me a look like my comment didn’t compute. “What
does that have to do with it?”
 That’s an excellent question, and I’m working through the answer
right now. “Nothing,” I improvise to cover up the holy shit, mayday
racing through my head. “I was just remembering details.”
She must buy my excuse since she nods and says, “So, who is
she and how can I help this time?”
You. She’s you.
Time stops and I look back at the last several years through new
eyes. Did I want to ask her out at the karaoke bar? Was I wishing
she were single when I met the woman from yoga? Was there a part
of me that was hoping she’d leave Henry sooner than she did?
The answer is as clear as the final score of a hockey game.
But I also need to stick to the game plan. Katie doesn’t think of
me like that. I’m sure this is just the holiday drinks talking. I clear
my throat. “I have to do this volunteer thing tomorrow. I know it’s
totally last minute, but I was so focused on the game this week, and
then I looked at my calendar. There’s a holiday festival lighting event
for the team and Little Friends. Is there any chance you would go
with me?”
She smiles wide and bright. “I’m in. That sounds like so much
fun,” she says. No conditions. No questions. Just a yes.
That’s Katie for you. She goes with me to things. She
understands me. We laugh, we talk, we share. We trust each other.
We always have.
I definitely wanted to ask her out at the karaoke bar. This devil
has been perched on my shoulder for a long, long time.
“Thanks, Katie. I’m looking forward to it,” I say, earnestly. Maybe
tomorrow I can sort through this mess of feelings walloping me.
“Anytime,” she says, then takes a deep breath, like it’s fuel. “And
now there’s something I have been dying to tell you. There’s
something I need to get off my chest.”
“That’s a little ominous,” I say, worried. “Did I do something
wrong?”
She laughs. “No. But apparently I did. Do you know what Henry
said when he broke up with me?”
I seethe a little at the mention of her most recent ex. That guy
was such a jackass. “What the hell did that clown say?”
 She draws a sharp breath, her brown eyes fiery, then bites out,
“He said I needed some bedroom lessons.”
What? Wow. Holy shit. Color me curious as a cat. “Why the hell
would he say that?”
“Because of something I asked him to do. Apparently”—she stops
to sketch air quotes—“I’m ‘weird in bed.’”
 4

TEST SUBJECT

Katie

I blame the bracelet. But in a good way. Maybe it gave me the

superpowers to get that last bit of breakup bad vibes off my
shoulders. Already I feel lighter. Like I’ve shed a burden. But you
know what? I’m not entirely relaxed. I’m still kind of irked.
Fisher stares at me, slack-jawed. “He said that?”
He’s as confounded as I am.
I nod savagely. “He did,” I confirm.
I broke up with Henry because he was using me. He wanted to
move in with me to—wait for it—save on rent in Seattle. He actually
pitched that as his reason. He said he’d have more free time to
pursue his dreams of skateboard design if he didn’t have to pay the
landlord. I said, “Wow. I’m not interested in being your sugar
mama.”
But I don’t repeat that tonight since Fisher knows the full story.
He heard it all when I drowned my sorrows shortly after the
relationship ended, and again when I moved back. Yes, Henry was
using me, and that hurt. I’d needed a shoulder to cry on.
I have no more tears for Henry. But I’m left with the confidence
blow from those last words. I clear my throat, trying to stay strong
as I repeat his parting shot. “When he left, he said, ‘Good riddance,
Katie. By the way, you’re weird in bed.’”
I lift my hot cocoa, take another sip, maybe to hide my face. I lift
my hot cocoa, take another sip, maybe to hide my face. What will
Fisher think of the you need lessons comment Henry delivered. But
Fisher’s a friend, and we share our wins and losses with each other.
We share our good days as well as our bad days. I blow out a long
stream of air, then get a little more off my chest. “I don’t miss him
one bit. I don’t miss a single thing about him. But I’m vexed by this.
I don’t know what is wrong with me. That’s what has been nagging
at me. It’s not the breakup. I am so over that. Except I don’t know if
there’s actually something wrong with me.”
Fisher drags a hand through his golden brown hair, nodding
slowly. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you,” he says, and
there’s no sarcasm in his tone, just warmth and support.
Fisher can’t truly know, but I appreciate the sentiment. “I mean,
look, it’s not like I ate a sandwich during sex,” I point out, trying to
make light of Henry’s insult.
He blinks, his green eyes glimmering a little more darkly before
he seems to shake it off then says, “And look, if you did, would it
really be that weird? Good sex should work up your appetite.”
A new kind of calm falls over me. I knew Fisher would make me
feel better. Maybe that’s all I needed. Just to laugh off that cruel
offhand comment that’s gnawed away at my confidence.
I’m loving his take on all this. I sit up straighter. “And I didn’t sing
show tunes in bed.”
His smile is a little naughty. “Again, not a problem. Good sex
should make you sing and shout.”
I crack up. I do feel lighter and better. I’m about to say Thank
you for listening when the bartender in the Santa hat calls out from
behind the bar, “Who’s ready for a mistletoe moment for charity?”
Like the lighting festival, this event raises money for charity too.
I jerk my gaze toward the bar where there’s a red bucket on the
counter. Carter and Rachel are there, smiling mischievously. On the
side of the bucket, words in white say: Singles for Kisses.
 Fisher and I both crane our necks to the ceiling. Oh. Wow.
There’s a sprig of mistletoe above us.
My breath catches.
The other patrons grab bills then chant: “Kiss her, kiss her, kiss
her.” Pretty sure Fisher’s cousin is chanting the loudest.
My heart speeds up. My skin tingles.
What the hell is happening to me?
Do I want to kiss Fisher? My long-time friend with sexy scruff and
bright green eyes? The one with the strong body, and the killer
arms?
And, just as important, does he want to kiss me?
He gives a casual shrug but there’s a smile on his lips that
doesn’t look friendly. It’s a sexy smile. He looks like a man on a date.
“It is for charity,” he whispers, and his rich, sexy voice sends a rush
of heat down my back.
I don’t entirely know what to make of these new sensations, but
now’s not the time for thought. It’s a time for action, and I give in to
the moment. “Then be charitable,” I say, and wow, that came out
flirty and sensual and inviting.
He leans across the table, then dusts his lips to mine. It’s a hint
of a kiss, barely there, just a tease. And yet, I want more.
I want a kiss that lingers into the night. And then, this one does.
For a few hot seconds, it’s real and delicious.
I want so much more of it. Of him. But then a bell rings, breaking
me from this kiss trance.
As we separate slowly, the crowd cheers again, then stuffs bills
into the bucket. “The cats and dogs thank you,” the bartender
shouts.
I steal a glance at my friend. Fisher looks dazed.
I feel dazed.
Then he scrubs his hand across his jaw, and quietly but clearly
says, “I could be your test subject.”
My brow knits. No way did he say that. “What?”
But he doesn’t relent as he holds my gaze. “If you want to know
if you’re actually weird in bed. Or if you need lessons. I’d be a very
good teacher.”
 I freeze. Is he for real? “You’re hilarious,” I say with a bubbly,
you’re so funny smile.
For a sliver of a second, he looks starkly serious, then he erases
his expression and his face is full of friendly cheer again. “Good one,
right?”
But when I go home that night, I can’t stop thinking about how
much I want a lesson with Fisher.
And that’s a dangerous thought for our friendship.
 5

THE SCARF DID IT

Fisher

As I turn the corner on Octavia Street, heading to Katie’s building

the next night, the sparkling lights of the neighborhood holiday
decorations twinkle in the trees and along the awnings.
They’re festive and fun.
And they are not, not, not romantic.
I hammer that reminder into my brain as I near her building. So
what if we’ll be surrounded by thousands of little glowing lights
tonight. After dark. In a garden.
No big deal.
Just because we’re going to a Christmas lighting festival doesn’t
mean I’m stepping into one of those holiday flicks I always scroll
past on my Webflix queue.
Fine, fine. I watch them sometimes.
But holiday flicks are like a bowl of popcorn. You can’t stop once
you start. Even though most could use a little more sex.
I bound up the steps to Katie’s building, ring the buzzer, and wait
for my friend.
“Coming!” Katie calls through the speaker.
I don’t even think about alternative meanings for that word.
All right. I do.
 Just like I thought about it when I was in the shower thirty
minutes ago, getting ready for tonight. I had to get my horniness
out of my system, since the Webflix queue in my head definitely
does not run family fare. The theater upstairs shows only filthy
holiday flicks—fucking in front of fireplaces, and screwing under the
stockings.
Someone should acquire my brand of holiday films that give new
meaning to rocking around the Christmas tree.
A few seconds later, Katie’s shoes click down the hall of her
building, heading toward the door. She opens it, and she’s looking…
impossibly better than she did last night.
A pink scarf with snowflake illustrations on it is wrapped around
her neck. Those soft brown strands of hair curl around her
shoulders. Lip gloss shines on her lips. I want to kiss it off. Then, I
want to learn exactly what she likes in bed and give it to her all
night long.
But I don’t want to ruin our friendship. It means too much to me.
“Hey, you,” she says, and her pretty voice grabs at my heart,
squeezes it.
The full weight of my feelings hits me all at once. I like Katie and
I want her.
Great, just great.
“Nice scarf,” I say, a little strangled. But I needed to say
something. Can’t just stare.
She lifts a hand to touch it, almost as if to remind herself that it’s
there. “Thanks. My sister gave it to me,” she says as we head down
the steps.
Family. Sisters. Small talk. I’ll do that tonight to slow down the
naughty holiday reel playing before my eyes. “You enjoying being
back in town and seeing Ivy?”
“Yup. And mom and grandma and Ryker,” she rattles off.
It’s like a snowball’s hit me in the groin.
Last night’s kiss was simply a one-time-only mistletoe incident
and we’re back in the friend zone.
But that’s fine. It’s totally fine. I’ve spent years being friends with
this woman, and I’m not going to ruin it because the troublemaker
in me is suddenly thinking about her in new ways.
You’ve always been thinking of her that way. You just fucking
realized it last night, you dumbass.
We head to Yerba Buena Gardens for the festival.
“Now, tell me the deal for tonight,” she says. She’ll say yes, she’ll
help out, but she always loves a little debrief. She likes to do her
best. I admire that about her. I’m the same damn way. “Are we
supposed to be pretending to be on a date? Are we on a date, or are
we friend dating?”
Don’t tempt me, universe.
Already my mind is filled with new thoughts like…
Let’s have dinner tomorrow.
Can you come to the game in two more nights?
How about I skate over to you after we win? I could give you
another kiss or ten.
Would it truly ruin the friendship if I said those things? I don’t
know, so I focus on the practical answers to her questions about this
evening. “Tonight we’ll just shoot a couple of fun videos in front of
the Christmas tree lights, and we’ll be good to go.”
She lifts a finger, an intensely serious look in her eyes. “But you
won’t deprive me of the sledding hill?”
I pull a face. “Do I look that cruel?”
She gives me a long once-over. “You don’t look that cruel.”
“Then you can sled your cute little ass off,” I say and oops.
That slipped out.
She shoots me a playful smile. “I will.”
As we near the gardens, something gnaws at me though. She’s
back in town. She’s been single for a bit. “Are you dating again?” I
ask in a tight voice.
If she’s dating again, I’m totally pucked.
She shakes her head. “I’m not opposed to it. I just have been
kind of focused on establishing my career here and getting over
what Henry said.”
That pisses me off, what he said to her, but it makes me want to
hug her at the same time since that guy did a number on her. “I
really wish you wouldn’t let him get to you. I guarantee he’s wrong,”
I say, confidently, hoping to reassure her.
“Honestly, what you said last night really helped. I think I’ve
finally let go of it.” She stops at the light, then sets a hand on my
arm and squeezes. “So thank you. It just kind of freed me. And I
really appreciate that.”
“Anytime,” I say, glad that she’s not letting his cutting remark
weigh on her. Glad, too, I could be the one to reassure her.
I’d do well to remember my role in her life. It’s not to ask her out
to dinner tomorrow. It’s not to take her home tonight. It’s to be her
friend.
We arrive at the gardens, with its ice-skating rink, its bowling
alley, and its restaurants all lit up with twinkling, sparkling lights.
Bright golds, shiny silvers, and inviting reds are strung all over the
playground, along the trees, and over the fountains.
She gasps. “Oh, this is gorgeous. I love it. Thank you for bringing
me,” she says, then throws her arms around me in a warm embrace
that knocks me right out of the friend zone.
And back into the I’m falling for my friend one.
With her like this, in my arms, everything just feels right.
Inevitable. Like we were always headed here.
Maybe I don’t need to stuff my feelings back into a box. Maybe I
don’t need to worry about ruining the friendship.
Even if she doesn’t feel the same way I do, we’ll still be friends.
Somehow.
I know that in a soul-deep way.
That means I need to find just the right way to tell the woman in
the snowflake scarf exactly how I feel about her.
And that my offer last night was no joke.
 6

KRAMPUS IS HOT

Katie

“You can skate your ass off, but you cannot make videos,” I say as I
stare slack-jawed at the horror show on Fisher’s phone.
We’re standing in front of the big evergreen tree in the middle of
the gardens, lights draped along its branches, checking out the video
he just took.
My verdict? “I look like I’m shooting red death rays from my
eyes,” I say as I hit stop on the hellscape on his screen.
“What? No way. I fucking rock at shooting videos.” He peers at it
again on his phone. “You look like…Oh, hell. You’re right, Katie. You
are a Christmas demon.”
I try to wrestle the phone from him, but he tugs it away from
me, holding it high above his head. Even with giraffe legs, I can’t
reach him. “Troublemaker! You are forbidden from using cameras
ever again.”
His eyes spark with mischief. “Maybe I should hold on to this. It
might come in handy,” he says, musing like a villain.
“Delete that,” I beg.
He seems to mull that over. “I don’t know. Maybe the team and
Little Friends like Christmas demons?”
 I growl at him. “No one likes Christmas demons. You’re not
shooting a Krampus series.”
Lowering the phone, he tosses his head back and laughs.
“Krampus? You’re into Krampus?”
“I’m not into Krampus. But I do have a Krampus snow globe.
He’s saying: I’m having a bad hair day, so fuck off.”
“That’s very you.”
“Well, it’s my favorite snow globe.”
Fisher’s jaw drops like he’s mortally offended. “Wait. What about
the one I got you?”
I point at his phone. “When you delete that video, your squirrel
snow globe will rise up in the ranks.”
“Fine, I just want to have the number-one ranked snow globe,”
he says, then makes a show of erasing my demon video from his
phone.
My shoulders relax, but I’m not sure Fisher’s off the hook. “Thank
you. But you are cruel,” I say.
“I’m so terrible,” he says.
“And that’s why I’ll Spielberg this video.” I grab his phone from
his big hand.
“What the lady wants,” he says. We walk around the tree as I
scout for the right location to show off the twinkle and glow of the
lights. As we circle, I hold the phone in front of us to get a good
angle, but I can’t see Fisher in the frame. “You might need to come
a little closer,” I say, stopping in place for him to make the
adjustment.
He moves next to me, his shoulder bumping mine.
My breath catches.
And wow. He smells good. Soapy and fresh with a hint of pine
that’s coming from him, not the tree. I’m tempted to bury my face in
his neck, rub my cheek against that scruff, inhale him.
“Does this angle work? Or do you want me to get a little closer?”
he asks, but I can’t answer just yet.
Since I’m enjoying his proximity far too much. It’s messing with
my head. It’s screwing with my heart. I vowed to focus on our
friendship tonight. I was sure his comment last night was simply a
joke. I swore I wouldn’t linger on the kiss.
So I doubled down on friendship.
But now, I’m feeling longing. Want. Heat.
I swallow past a knot of emotions in my throat and do my best to
concentrate on the shot and whether it’s the right one. Trouble is, he
needs to be just a bit closer. “An inch or so,” I say, sounding
breathier than I should. He slides closer. I shudder slightly.
What is happening? Why am I thinking naughty thoughts about
Fisher?
But they’re not just naughty. I’ve been thinking romantic
thoughts too. I’ve been wanting more. Of his lips, of his time, of
him.
It’s dangerous, especially since our friendship means the world to
me. And yet, I’m picturing Fisher’s test subject offer, and I’m
picturing the next morning too. Maybe another one. And a few
more.
That’s terrifying and exciting all at once.
But first, we have a video to do.
I clear my throat. “This is good,” I say crisply, then hit record,
and dive into a fun question for our video. “Quick question for the
Golden State Foxes winger. Why are Christmas lights so awesome?”
He rolls with it, answering immediately. “They just make
everything feel sort of possible,” he says.
His answer sends tingles over my skin. I feel all new possibilities
with him. “Yes. They’re full of promise,” I add.
“Like the night has some good secrets for you,” he continues,
and holy shit. Is Fisher a Christmas poet? I like the way this is going.
I want to tell him my latest secret. That I’m thinking of him in new
ways.
“And you want to share those secrets with,” I continue, feeling a
little bold tonight as I say to the camera, “a lover or a friend.”
For a dangerous second, it feels like we’re both thinking the
same thing.
A lover and a friend—could that be you?
 But we’re shooting a video for his team, not confessing our
feelings on camera. Fisher looks at the screen and flashes his
trademark grin, tilting his head as he signs off with, “That’s what she
said.”
I hit end, though I’m a little disappointed neither one of us said
another word.
But that’s a foolish wish. It’s not like we were going to cop to
feelings on camera.
Only now that the camera’s off, I could rewind to last night and
ask earnestly if he was joking? Am I willing to do that? Risk our
years of friendship over the truth of a kiss? I turn to him, meeting
his gaze briefly. His eyes are intense.
I’m not sure what to do with the intensity. Or if now is the time?
I look away, staring at the thousands of lights flashing red,
green, pink, and gold in the San Francisco night instead.
But is asking a question such a risk? Every time he’s touched me
in the last twenty-four hours has felt different than every touch that
came before. These touches hint at possibilities.
My stomach swoops with nerves, but still, I need to do this. I
have to know.
Ready for whatever comes my way, I turn to him, but Fisher’s
grinning at something in the distance. I follow his gaze.
He’s staring at the sledding hill. “I promised you sledding, Giraffe.
Let’s do it.”
And he heads off.
I try not to be disappointed.
Really, how can I be as I fly down a small man-made hill,
shouting in exhilaration with my best friend.
The man I’ve felt friendly with for years.
But now, I feel more. I’m pretty sure he does too, and before the
night ends, I’m going to take a chance.
 7

MY KIND OF WEIRD

Fisher

I walk Katie home, the clock ticking in my mind the whole way, the
night unwinding to its inevitable end when I say goodnight and she
heads into her building alone.
The door will close, she’ll go into her place, and we’ll return to
friendship. To hanging out. To long, deep talks about life and dating
and other men and women. And when we reach the steps, we could
do that tonight. We could stay the wonderful, safe course. But I take
risks every time I strap on my skates and step onto the ice, stick in
hand, determination in every cell. Katie is worth this risk.
We’re ten feet from her building, white lights glittering around
her doorframe.
Beckoning me toward possibility. Toward a new future.
When we’re at her place, she smiles my way and says, “I had
such a great time tonight.”
“I had the best time,” I say, but that’s only the start. I say her
name, importantly. “Katie, I need to—”
“—Yes.”
I stop. Furrow my brow. “What?”
“Yes,” she says, grinning a little nervously, but there’s some heat
to that grin. A little sexiness.
 I step closer, feeling the possibilities, embracing the anticipation.
“Yes what?”
“I’d like a lesson please,” she says in a nervous rush, but her
eyes look thrilled.
I nearly groan from happiness. “Are you serious?”
“It’s all I can think about.”
I exhale, long and relieved and turned on. But happy too. “Same
fucking here. But you need to know something.”
“What is it?”
“I wasn’t joking last night. And I’m not joking when I say this,” I
begin, holding her gaze, making sure she knows I mean everything.
“I want to kiss you again tonight. And tomorrow. And for a long,
long time.”
Her eyes widen, but they’re sparkling too. “Yeah?” She sounds
wildly hopeful.
“I sure do,” I say, then shrug, a little helplessly since I feel that
way with her. “I don’t want to just give you one lesson.”
She sighs happily. “Good. I don’t want only one either,” she says,
her smile lighting me up and turning me on even more. She tips her
forehead toward the door. “Inside. Now.”
In no time, we’re in her apartment, hastily locking the door. “You
have been turning me on all night,” I say, and it feels great to admit
the full truth that I’ve, evidently, kept secret for years. Then I press
my body against hers so she can feel how much I mean it. When I
seal my mouth to hers, I give her a slow, passionate kiss that makes
me shudder. That heats up very, very soon.
We kiss with our whole bodies. With hands in hair, hips locked,
lips exploring.
I rope an arm around her, my hand slinking up the back of her
sweater, feeling her soft, silky skin.
I moan, needing so much more of her.
At last I break the kiss and say, “All right. I need to know how
fucking fantastically weird you are.”
She dips her face then raises it, her brow knitted in worry. But
then she shrugs, fuck it style. “I like it when you talk dirty to me.”
“Holy shit. That is my kind of weird. And my kind of normal.”
 8

I STAND CORRECTED

Fisher

She’s wearing a pink lace bra with a bow between her tits, and
panties with candy canes on them.
As if I needed more encouragement to eat her up.
“You are too fucking sexy,” I tell her as I unhook that bra, freeing
her tits. “And now I gotta taste these beauties,” I say, dropping my
mouth to tug on one nipple, then the other.
“Ohhh,” she says softly as I kiss my way down her soft belly,
swirling my tongue around her belly button, then I tug at the top of
her panties with my teeth.
“Yes,” she whispers, but it sounds almost restrained.
Hmm.
I’ll have to keep working on that, on getting her to let go. “Been
thinking about kissing you everywhere. Tasting you,” I say, as I kiss
along the lace, moving down, down, down.
She whimpers, wriggling against me. But she’s quiet.
That won’t do at all. “You smell fucking incredible,” I murmur,
then I raise my face and peel her panties off.
She shudders and covers her mouth with her hand.
And yup. I think I’ve cracked the code on her weird. Before I go
down on my best friend, I climb up, bracing myself on my palms,
meeting her face. “Are you loud in bed, baby? Because I fucking love
noise.”
She laughs, then nibbles on the corner of her lips. “I think I want
to be.”
Damn, she likes dirty talk, and she likes shouting? I am living my
best life in my kind of filthy holiday flick. I kiss her once more, then
say, “Be as loud as you want. Make some noise. Shout, groan, and
please, fucking please, call my name when you come harder than
you have before.”
She answers in a long, shuddery moan. “God. Yes. Now.”
I take orders very well, so I slide between her legs, wrap my
hands around her sweet ass, and I kiss her pussy.
“Fuck yes,” I murmur, flicking my tongue through her wetness.
“Merry Christmas to me.”
Then, I shut up so I can lick and kiss my girl. She writhes and
moans, growing louder with every flick of my tongue then louder still
as I suck on her clit.
“Yes, like that,” she urges.
I bury my face between her legs. Soon, she’s groaning, louder
and louder with every lick. The volume rises higher and higher as I
devour her. Her fingers rope through my hair and she shouts. “Yes,
god yes, please now.”
And I am harder than a marble statue.
She is a dirty, delicious gift in bed as she comes louder than I
ever imagined she’d be.
And it’s everything I want.
When her cries turn into soft whimpers, I stop, drag a hand
across my face, then flop next to her, utterly pleased to have
brought her such bliss, but we’ve only started. “You’re so fucking
weird, I need you to ride my cock right now, baby.”
She turns to me with bright eyes and a filthy grin. “Yes, please.”
In seconds, she locates a condom in her nightstand, then rolls it
down my hard-on. Her hand on my dick is everything I never knew I
wanted in bed.
Because she’s everything I want in and out of bed. She’s the one.
And it’s all become crystal clear in the last twenty-four hours.
 Soon, she’s riding me, her hands pressed to my chest, her face
blissed out, her tits bouncing free. She rises up and down with wild
abandon, unleashing the sexiest sounds, the neediest moans.
“You want to come again, baby?” I rasp out.
“So badly,” she says, and she’s not whispering anymore. She’s
loud and demanding. And I am here for all of it.
“I’ll get you there,” I say, then grip her hips, slow her pace. “But
get on your hands and knees. Need to fuck you like that.”
She gasps.
Yup. Had a feeling Katie would want to be taken apart good and
hard. She slides off me then scrambles to all fours, lifting that
beautiful ass high in the air.
“Damn, woman. Lift that sweet ass for me,” I praise as I kneel
behind her, notching the head of my cock against her slick opening.
“Like that?” she asks.
“Just. Like. That,” I say then I sink into her.
She bows her back and unleashes a long, luxurious ohhh.
And like that, I fill her and fuck her, sliding a hand between her
legs, stroking her, until she’s shaking and shuddering.
Then crying out beneath me. Cresting the hill once again. With a
loud, carnal grunt of coming, I follow her there.
We collapse together in a hot, sweaty mess. I pull her close.
When I recover the power of speech, I say, “You can shout in bed
anytime.”
She wriggles against me. “And you can talk dirty to me anytime
too.”
“I think we’ll get along just fine in bed. But I’m happy to keep up
the lessons, baby.”
I can feel her smile as she says, “So many more lessons.”

Maybe it’ll be weird now that we’ve cleaned up and come down from
our orgasm highs. We’re friends who just fucked, hard and loud. But
I’ll do everything I can to make sure this—she and I together—feels
like our new normal.
Once we get back in bed, I tug her against me. “Katie Samuels, I
think I’ve had it bad for you for a long time,” I admit, and…wow.
My chest feels lighter.
My heart feels fizzy.
My mind is happy.
“You have?” she asks, like that’s hard to believe, but like she
wants to believe it too.
I nod against her, then kiss the back of her neck, her shoulder,
her hair. She shivers as I travel along her skin. “I think I’ve been into
you for years, and it took that kiss under the mistletoe to make me
realize you’re the one I’ve been wanting to ask out for a long time.”
I should be scared to tell her this. I should be freaking out over
what this means. But I’m not. I’m just not.
It’s too right having her in my arms like this, curled up with me.
She lets out a long, contented sigh.
I think.
I hope.
Then she turns around, facing me. “It’s weird, isn’t it?”
I tense. Wait. What? “What’s weird?”
She smiles. “Falling for your friend.”
I laugh and all the tightness vanishes. I kiss her again. “It sure
is,” I say, then I yawn. “By the way, I’m spending the night.”
She laughs. “I figured.”
“Good. But put that Krampus snow globe away. Don’t want to
look at him when I wake up.”
“Hmm,” she says, sounding pensive. “If you give me a toe-
curling, sheet-grabbing orgasm when we wake up, I’ll hide that snow
globe.”
“Deal,” I say, then I kiss my best friend goodnight. Pretty sure
she’s more than my friend though.
She’s all mine.
A few nights later, I’m in the zone. On the rink, chasing a puck down
the ice, the opponent’s net in my crosshairs.
Nothing can stop me, and when I’m there, I slap that puck hard
right between the goalie’s legs.
I thrust my arms in the air.
And when the game ends and we win, I skate over to the tunnel,
and she walks over from the stands. And I kiss the girl who’s
wearing my jersey—my best friend—in front of everyone.

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Trina

What should I do about this…ache? This out-of-nowhere desire to

slide one hand through Chase’s hair, and run the other along Ryker’s
bristly jaw? This wish to be sandwiched between them?
Maybe I have read too many books. There’s no way a night like
I’m fantasizing about could happen in real life.
But then I rewind to the moment when I turned the corner and
heard Chase say he knew Ryker was into me, and then when Chase
admitted the same to Ryker.
Yes, I’ve heard enough to do this.
 Maybe nights like that do happen if you take a chance. Maybe
nights like that happen to impulsive people. To women who adopt
three-legged dogs, apply for jobs at bookstores when their only prior
experience is running an online book club, and who steal ex’s VIP
tickets.
I never thought I’d want two guys to throw me on a bed. But
now I can’t get these wild ideas out of my mind.
Do it.
My throat is dry with nerves so I motion that I want to sit down.
Chase pops up, and I slide into the booth next to Ryker once more. I
take a quick sip of my water. Chase returns in seconds, and once I’m
there between them, the air is charged. The energy is crackling.
You’re the impulsive one. “So about my idea,” I say, my heart
beating so fast.
Chase swallows visibly.
Ryker breathes out hard. “What’s your idea?” he rasps, sex in his
voice.
You held up a sign at the game. Hold up your own damn sign. Fly
your flag, girl.
Deep breath. “I do think you should be my orgasm
matchmakers,” I blurt out, somehow getting that out without dying
of embarrassment.
“Elaborate,” Ryker says, surprising me by speaking first. There’s
fire in his eyes though. Perhaps that’s stoking him.
Me too.
I look to the golden-haired guy, then the bearded one,
emboldened by my twin desires for them. “What if…the two of you
showed me what it’s like to have an everything bagel instead of a
plain one?”
Then, so there isn’t any confusion, I set my right hand on Ryker’s
big thigh, then my left hand on Chase’s.
Ryker inhales a sharp breath. Chase lets out a low moan.
Then I add, “Both of you.”
There’s silence for several long seconds. A heady, buzzy silence.
Chase covers my hand with his. That has to be a good sign. But he
doesn’t squeeze my fingers, or thread them together. Instead, he
turns his face to me, his eyes serious. “The thing is…Samuels and I
made a deal that we won’t let a woman come between us,” he says.
Oh shit. Oh no.
What was I thinking, putting myself out there like this? Real
bright, Trina. Go to a sports game for the first time and proposition
two athletes. They probably get kinky sex offers like this all the time.
“And we’re sticking to it,” Ryker says, sealing my fate as a
complete and utter idiot. Has anyone ever misread a situation worse
than I did?
I lower my gaze, clutch my phone, grab my purse, and get ready
to make a quick escape.
“No big deal,” I say, forcing out a laugh as I’m staring at my
hands, and I get the strange sensation they’re mouthing something
to each other over my head. Guy code, or whatever. Still, I need to
go. “I was just having fun. Sorry I said it. It’s nothing. Didn’t even
mean it.”
Ryker cuts in. “Whoa.”
“Whoa what?”
He doesn’t look at me though. He looks at Chase, and a sliver of
a smile forms. “The way I see it, this is one of those logic problems
with a very easy answer, Weston.”
Chase trades a smile of his own. “What do you know? I was
thinking the same thing, Samuels.”
What are they talking about? I look to one, then the other, trying
to read them.
Chase’s grin widens as he mirrors me now, sliding a hand down
my thigh, making my skin hotter. I hold my breath, daring to let dirty
hope rise again. “Sharing wouldn’t break that pact, would it,
Samuels?”
Their friendship is so important that they prioritize it with a pact.
That’s admirable, and sexy too.
“But sharing’s okay?” I ask, on the edge of my seat.
“The way I see it, sharing is caring,” Ryker says, and I go up in
flames.
“I mean, you’d definitely be coming between us,” Chase says, his
voice loaded with heat.
 “You good with that, Trina?” Ryker asks, brushing his fingers
down my arm, to my wrist, over the top of my palm.
“I’ve never done anything like this before, but I’m very, very
good with it,” I say breathily.
What are they doing to me? I feel like I’m vibrating. I’m a tuning
fork between them. I wait for them to make the next move…

Read more in Double Pucked!

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Another random document with
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child, when she was only seven. For six weeks she thus tided over,
with her earnings, a crisis in her family while her widowed father was
ill from overwork. Later, when she came to choose her own course, it
was the theater. She made good in her profession and in due time
became an artist. Towards this latter development her love
experiences as a woman helped. But it meant struggle and heartache
for Sheelah and defiance of all conventions. Heart solitude once
more overtakes her when her son Michael, the fruit of her first girlish
and illicit love, is sent to school in England under the guidance of his
English father. It is then that she finds so much solace in a book that
she writes to the author for more spiritual help. With the coming of
the war both Michael and his father volunteer and the latter rescues
his son at the cost of his eyesight. The usual thing follows but not
before Sheelah has turned to religion, Michael has been killed and
she has discovered in her former lover the author of the helpful book.

“A good deal of the novel is well written, particularly the first two
‘books,’ but it drags badly toward the close.”

+ − N Y Times 25:170 Ap 11 ’20 350w

“The beginning is cleverly human, but the close is strongly-

presented pathos of the type commonly classed as ‘sob stuff.’”

+ − Springf’d Republican p11a Je 13 ’20

190w

BOUCKE, OSWALD FRED. Limits of socialism.

*$1.50 (1½c) Macmillan 335

20–7869
 After having made it clear that he considers socialism as neither a
chimera nor a crime the author makes an attempt at a sympathetic
examination of its various tenets with a view to laying bare its weak
points and demonstrating the necessity for amendments of the
original creed. “Revision is a step in the onward march of civilization.
Science itself is nothing if not continual growth and redefinition of
terms, whose finest fruit is the advancement of humanism.” The
book falls into two parts. Part 1, The limits in theory, contains: The
problem; Karl Marx and the economists; The economic
interpretation of history; Justice. Part 2, The limits in practice,
contains: The limits in production; The limits in distribution; The
limits in consumption; The limits in government; A petition. There
are seven statistical tables and an index. The author is professor of
economics at Pennsylvania state college.

“In regard to the program of socialism, the author makes a worthy

contribution to a much neglected subject in that he points out the
difficulties which socialists will encounter in trying to realize their
ideals, and the limited success which they are likely to attain.” J. E.
Le Rossignol

+ Am Econ R 10:860 D ’20 780w

Booklist 17:50 N ’20

“When he leaves the field of economics he is less convincing. The

book will prove rather stiff exposition to the general reader, who will
be annoyed at the needlessly scientific vocabulary.”

+ − Nation 111:304 S 11 ’20 340w

“The book is stimulating to thought because it is itself thoughtful, a

model in manner and temper, a better antidote to socialism’s errors
than denunciation or denial of the evils it seeks to cure.” E: A.
Bradford

+ N Y Times p12 S 12 ’20 2000w

“There is much good stuff in the book, some shrewd ideas, and
some sound generalizing, which if turned into language
understanded of the people would be valuable.”

+ − Review 3:112 Ag 4 ’20 320w

R of Rs 62:672 D ’20 20w

BOULENGER, JACQUES. Seventeenth century.

*$3.50 (2c) Putnam 944.03

20–26872

This work forms one of the volumes of the National history of

France. It is preceded by “The century of the renaissance” by L.
Batiffol, published in 1916, and is followed by “The eighteenth
century,” by Casimir Stryienski, also issued in 1916. Contents: The
youth of Louis XIII; Richelieu; The preponderance of France (1630–
1643); The kingdom under Louis XIII; The beginnings of society and
of classic literature; The Fronde and Mazarin; The “Roi-soleil”; The
glorious years, 1661–1678; Decline; Religious matters; Sunset; The
kingdom under Louis XIV; The great age. References come at the end
of the chapters and there is an index.

“Distinctly a readable book.”

 + Booklist 17:64 N ’20

“This new presentation of the greatest period in the history of

France is brilliantly written.”

+ Boston Transcript p6 Jl 24 ’20 700w

+ Ind 104:217 N 13 ’20 50w

“Boulenger has undertaken a difficult task, and he has done it well.

Though treating the general history of a whole century in some
detail, he is neither superficial nor tiringly technical. One feature of
his book is especially commendable; the author’s desire to be non-
partisan. It may be well to bring out the fact that, for the real or
quasi-specialist, Boulenger treats his subject too much from the
outside, and thus fails to emphasize sufficiently at least one feature
of much importance for the proper understanding of the epoch he
treats.”

+ − Review 3:503 N 24 ’20 1900w

R of Rs 62:223 Ag ’20 30w

“His portraits of Richelieu, Mazarin, Colbert and the great King

himself are vivid and unforgettable. M. Boulenger is a learned
historian but, like so many French scholars, he wears his learning
lightly.”

+ Spec 125:344 S 11 ’20 150w

 “M. Boulenger’s subject is relatively simple, but it is a big one, and
it has the disadvantage of being hackneyed. The best praise that can
be given to his book is to say that it is on a level with M. Madelin’s
‘French revolution,’ and superior to any other volumes in this
attractive series.”

+ − The Times [London] Lit Sup p436 Jl 8

’20 700w

BOULNOIS, HENRY PERCY. Modern roads. il

*$5.75 (*16s) Longmans 625.7

(Eng ed 20–9208)

“The author was a member of the British Advisory engineering

committee appointed in 1910 as a result of the increasing dust
nuisance due to poorly constructed roads. Much information
regarding British conditions was obtained and standard
specifications produced. This book covers in a comprehensive way
the subjects of motor traffic, the various kinds of roads and details of
construction, waves and corrugations, slippery streets, with
appendices relating to traffic regulations.”—N Y P L New Tech Bks

N Y P L New Tech Bks p28 Ap ’20 70w

Spec 122:145 Ja 31 ’20 420w
 [2]
BOURNE, RANDOLPH SILLIMAN. History
of a literary radical; and other essays. *$2 (3c)
Huebsch 814

This collection of essays, reprinted from various magazines, is

edited with an introduction by Van Wyck Brooks. The latter is a
sketch of the author’s intellectual development which is corroborated
in the first essay, “History of a literary radical.” What Bourne stood
for, says Van Wyck Brooks, was a new fellowship of the youth of
America, a league of youth, for the purpose of creating, out of the
blind chaos of American society, a fine, free, articulate cultural order.
“He, if any one, in the days to come, would have conjured out of our
dry soil the green shoots of a beautiful and a characteristic literature:
he knew that soil so well, and why it was dry, and how it ought to be
irrigated!” (Introd.) The essays are: History of a literary radical; Our
cultural humility; Six portraits; This older generation; A mirror of
the Middle West; Ernest: or Parent for a day; On discussion; The
puritan’s will to power; The immanence of Dostoevsky; The art of
Theodore Dreiser; The uses of infallibility; Impressions of Europe;
Trans-national America; Fragment of a novel.

“The essay which gives its title to the book is a piece of intellectual
biography which is worth the careful study of everyone who is
puzzled by the open revolt of the choicest intellects in our
undergraduate bodies against the ideals and discipline of our
universities. In ‘The Puritan’s will to power’ and in ‘Transnational
America’ Randolph Bourne’s feelings were perhaps too deeply
involved to permit him to attain the complete clarity and cogency
usual with him. But the gently whimsical ‘Ernest, or Parent for a day’
would be a sufficient compensation for any imperfections there
might be elsewhere in the book.” Alvin Johnson

+ Freeman 25:293 F 2 ’21 880w

 “It is impossible, in spite of all that makes it valuable, to read this
book without a final sense of disappointment. Randolph Bourne’s
interests were as wide as the world; his views were true and
tempered; his style is simple, and it is effective chiefly because the
words he uses are wise and exact rather than original; but his appeal,
after all, is very narrow. He is the pure intellectual addressing the
‘younger intelligentsia,’ and his exclusiveness gradually becomes
slightly tiresome even as the phrase quoted becomes irritating.”
Freda Kirchwey

+ − Nation 111:619 D 1 ’20 1050w

BOURNE, RANDOLPH SILLIMAN. Untimely

papers. *$1.50 (3½c) Huebsch 320.4

20–26319

For descriptive note see Annual for 1919.

“Written during America’s war preparations, these papers are well

named untimely, for they question with the rigor of a clear minded,
uncompromising pacifist and idealist, America’s attitude in
combating the spirit of the war lord with war. They are an interesting
portrayal of the courage in his belief of the author.”

+ Booklist 16:219 Ap ’20

“Dying just when he should have come into his own, Randolph
Bourne left behind him a set of brilliant essays on the political life of
yesterday. These have been gathered and edited by James
Oppenheim with a foreword perhaps a thought too laudatory. Yet
much can be said for Mr Bourne’s keen insight and flashing style. His
sentences are diamond cut, his reasoning clear even to the most
undiscerning.”

+ Boston Transcript p6 Ap 28 ’20 240w

Reviewed by E. C. Parsons

+ Dial 68:367 Mr ’20 1500w

“They are courageous papers in that they represent an unwincing

defence of an attitude which can never have been at all popular. They
are turned from protest into positive statement by a long and
unfinished essay on the state, in which Mr Bourne was clearly
searching to vindicate the ultimate rights of personality against the
demands of authority outside. The whole essay is a superb cry of
anger against a tyranny which he felt to be grinding. Yet I venture to
think that the essay is in fact largely devoid of realistic basis. It has a
specialized motivation which makes it valuable as the record of a
personal experience, but impracticable as a contribution to political
science.” H. J. Laski

+ − Freeman 1:237 My 19 ’20 1150w

“It is the book of a too sensitive spirit, dying brokenhearted in a

world that seemed hopelessly insane and misdirected. Whatever we
may think of the substance of these essays there can be no question
of the delicate beauty of their expression or the evidence they give of
the patrician dignity and courage which marked the author’s
personality.”

+ Ind 102:234 My 8 ’20 100w

 “No educated, honest, able-bodied man can read the war essays of
Randolph Bourne without some degree of admiration for their dead
author and some sort of shame for himself. What we say now without
being either brave or original he said then, not, perhaps, with the
maturity of a Bertrand Russell or a Romain Rolland, but at least with
fine courage and imagination. It may turn out that the cleanest
picture of ourselves when we were not ourselves is here in these two
hundred and thirty pages.”

+ Nation 110:522 Ap 17 ’20 380w

“The unfinished fragment on the state, which was to have been so

great a book, is still a keen and impressive analysis of social
psychology.... And after the self-styled peace what would Randolph
Bourne have added, what doubly bitter denunciation, to the
temperate ironies of these searching papers? Perhaps nothing but the
tolerant smile of one who foresaw.” Marion Tyler

+ Socialist R 8:251 Mr ’20 550w

“Academically, his arguments may have been right, but it is

obvious that they were uttered at a time when they must have proved
the reverse of helpful. They may now be read with the dispassionate
calm to which they are entitled, and they well repay careful
consideration.”

+ Springf’d Republican p13a F 22 ’20

220w

“He proved right in many of the pronouncements which can now

be weighed against actual happenings; and for this reason there is
hope that a kindly hearing may yet be given to the essays here
reprinted.”

+ Survey 44:291 My 22 ’20 150w

“These papers are overshadowed by the war; and as the war

figured in Bourne’s outlook as a tragic impertinence which had
rudely choked the young shoots of a new life in America with which
his dearest hopes were bound up, there is a steady undertow of
resentment which disturbs the balance of his thought. But all the
same, these papers were worth printing as a historical document to
show the generations to come how the war struck a profound and
honest mind that had enthroned the spirit of life and was already
seeing afar off the triumph of life over the forces of death.” R. R.

+ − World Tomorrow 3:157 My ’20 160w

“He could write—there is no question about that—and he could

think, but these two fine qualities do not excuse the fact that his first
principles are nearly always wrong.” M. F. Egan

− + Yale R n s 10:188 O ’20 380w

[2]
BOWEN, WILLIAM. Enchanted forest. il
*$2.50 Macmillan

20–20549

In this series of fairy tales a forest is turned into paper, its brooks
petrified and the voice of the birds stilled by the bad temper of a
king. How the forest was redeemed by Bilbo the woodcutter’s son,
who thereby won the princess; how the pair cured the old king’s
temper through an “Interrupter” and his “Encourager”; and how
little Prince Bojohn and his playmate Bodkin had many adventures
with elves and fairies, is all told in these tales with delightful humor.
The book is illustrated by Maud and Miska Petersham.

BOWER, B. M., pseud. (BERTHA MUZZY

SINCLAIR) (MRS BERTRAND WILLIAM
SINCLAIR). Quirt. il *$1.75 (2½c) Little

20–8857

Lorraine Hunter lives in Los Angeles and has absorbed her ideas of
the “West” from the movies. She has never known her father, a
rancher in Idaho, but she pictures him as a cattle king and sees
herself in the rôle of cattle king’s daughter. She finds the Quirt, Brit
Hunter’s ranch, a very different place from her imaginings. It is one
of the few small ranches allowed to survive in the shadow of the great
Sawtooth cattle company’s holdings. Other small owners have been
absorbed or have met “accidental” deaths, but Brit and his partner,
as two highly respected old-timers, have remained unmolested. On
the night of her arrival Lorraine loses her way and finds herself
mixed up with one of the “accidents” referred to. She talks, and talk
is dangerous to the Sawtooth. In the fight that follows Lone Morgan
lines up with the Quirt but it is Swan Vjolmar, the seemingly
innocent Swede, who plays the final card.

Booklist 16:350 Jl ’20

 “The tale begins interestingly enough, but what with deeds of
violence, and thunderstorms of a like violence, soon passes into the
realms of mediocrity.”

− + Boston Transcript p7 Je 23 ’20 300w

Cleveland p71 Ag ’20 60w

“The story moves briskly, with plenty of sensational incident, while

all its detail, as always in B. M. Bower’s novels, is colorful and
convincing.”

+ N Y Times 25:22 Je 27 ’20 370w

Outlook 125:507 Jl 14 ’20 40w
Springf’d Republican p11a Je 20 ’20
200w

“A story of western life that is both fresh and plausible.”

+ Wis Lib Bul 16:193 N ’20 160w

BOWMAN, ARCHIBALD ALLAN. Sonnets

from a prison camp. *$1.50 Lane 811

20–8620

The author, professor of philosophy at Princeton university, says of

these sonnets written in captivity that they “stood between my soul
and madness,” and hopes that what has meant so much to him under
one of the heaviest blows that can befall a soldier will have some
general human interest. They are grouped as follows: In the field;
The nadir; On the march; Rastatt; Hesepe; Thoughts of home;
Influences; Watchwords and maxims; England and Oxford; Home
thoughts once more; Interlude; England.

“When he begins to write of those reflective themes to which the

sonnet form is fitted, Mr Bowman reveals himself as an interesting
and talented writer. Mr Bowman’s chief defect is a certain stiltedness
and overnobility of language, which sometimes leads him to talk of
prosaic or trivial things with a pomp which does not become them.”

+ − Ath p429 Mr 26 ’20 180w

“Benvenuto Cellini also wrote sonnets in captivity: and they are as

perfunctory and uninspired as are Professor Bowman’s.” R. M.
Weaver

− Bookm 52:63 S ’20 70w

Reviewed by Marguerite Williams

N Y Times p24 Ag 22 ’20 100w

Sat R 129:110 Ja 31 ’20 200w

“Grave and eloquent sonnets, a little sententious and here and

there a little prosaic.”

+ − The Times [London] Lit Sup p755 D 11

’19 80w
 BOYER, WILBUR SARLES. Johnnie Kelly. il
*$2 (3c) Houghton

20–16092

Johnnie Kelly is a red-headed Irish boy of thirteen when he makes

his debut at Public school 199, Amsterdam ave., the Bronx. The
teachers regard him as a terror, but one instructor, Daniel Parks,
takes enough interest in him to try to show him how he can be a
leader. His various escapades fill the book, culminating in his being
elected vice-president of the Amsterdam Republic, and receiving the
wrist watch which is offered to the pupil who sells the most liberty
bonds. Incidentally, he plays no small part in the romance that
develops between Mr Parks and the pretty new teacher, Helen Bouck.

“Many schoolmasters are of a cut-and-dried sort, who cut circles in

deep ruts and see nothing in life beyond the daily routine of the
schoolroom. But Mr Boyer sees beyond this and has made a natural
study of the boy and his characteristics. Not this alone, but he
himself has a rare gift of humor, and the two are combined in
‘Johnnie Kelly.’”

+ Boston Transcript p5 N 6 ’20 190w

“The efforts of a ‘Bronix’ policeman’s son to attain popularity in a

Manhattan public school are amusing enough, and he and his young
associates are human and healthy.” M. H. B. Mussey

+ Nation 111:sup672 D 8 ’20 150w

 BOYNTON, PERCY HOLMES. History of
American literature. *$2.25 Ginn 810.9

20–3784

Omitting authors of minor importance the book has been written

“with a view to showing the drift of American thought as illustrated
by major writers or groups and as revealed by a careful study of one
or two cardinal works of each.... The growth of American self-
consciousness and the changing ideals of American patriotism have
been kept in mind throughout.... As an aid to the student, there are
appended to each chapter (except the last three) topics and problems
for study, and book lists which summarize the output of each man,
indicate available editions, and point to the critical material which
may be used as a supplement, but not as a substitute, for first-hand
study.” (Preface) Beginning with the 17th century, the contents
contain chapters on the earliest verse, the poetry of the revolution
and the early drama, all our American classics as: Irving, Cooper,
Bryant, Poe, Emerson, Thoreau, Hawthorne, Whittier, Longfellow,
Lowell, Mrs Stowe and Holmes, the later poetry and Walt Whitman,
the rise of fiction and contemporary drama. There are also two maps,
three chronological charts, an appendix characterizing the most
significant American periodicals and an index.

Boston Transcript p7 Ja 28 ’20 750w

“The style throughout is marked with a crispness and vivacity that

are missing in too many textbooks in the same field. The author’s
scientific knowledge and scholarship are winningly displayed on
every page of his book.”
 + School R 28:315 Ap ’20 220w

BRACKETT, CHARLES. Counsel of the

ungodly. *$2 (3c) Appleton

20–13703

When Peter van Hoeven, scion of an old and wealthy New York
family, lost his fortune at the age of sixty-two, he determined to earn
his living as a butler. Luck brought him into a newly rich family,
mother and daughter, of whom the mother is exuberantly vulgar and
the daughter sensitively aware of their short-comings. Jacob Smith,
alias Peter van Hoeven, becomes Mary’s guardian angel and she
relies on him and confides in him more and more. When it is
subsequently discovered that Mary is not Mrs Davison’s daughter, as
the long lost husband with the real daughter turns up, Peter resolves
to adopt Mary as his niece, trumping up a story of a lost brother
Richard whose daughter she is. That she really is his niece becomes
probable later. He now makes himself known to his family to whom
he introduces his niece. He also undertakes to cure her of an
undesirable love affair by first engineering her into and then out of
an engagement by ungodly counsel. As the right fellow is waiting just
around the corner it all ends well.

“Light and fairly amusing.”

+ Booklist 17:70 N ’20

“It is a delightful atmosphere into which you are led in this swiftly
moving story, where almost every one is pleasant to know.”
 + Lit D p92 O 23 ’20 1550w

“The author’s flexible style and skill in drollery, distinctly above

the average, makes one regret that he has not employed his literary
ability in a less inconsequential plot.”

+ − N Y Times p24 Ag 29 ’20 330w

BRADFORD, GAMALIEL. Prophet of joy.

*$1.50 Houghton 811

20–14773

This tale in verse relates the career of a millionaire’s son, a golden-

haired vision of a boy, imbued with a faith that it was his mission to
redeem the world with the gospel of joy. His first convert was a
spinster cousin, Theodora, who undertook to stand between him and
his stern father, to be ever his haven of refuge and to smooth the way
for him generally. His exploits are many and fantastic. He meets all
manner of people, the lowly and the artists, the pious and the rich,
and he meets them all alike with laughter, gaiety, and love. With this
love and joy in life he at last undertakes to assuage a striking mob
and meets his death. The woman agitator whose method, unlike his,
had been to stir up hatred and revenge as a means of salvation, but
who had long loved the boy, vows before his body that violence must
die and dedicates herself to “joy’s pure torch” and to love as the “Star
of immortal hope to mortal men.”

“Characters, incidents and beauty of telling combine to make an

interesting story and a poem of wide appeal.”
 + Booklist 17:60 N ’20

“What fun the author must have had composing all this! He has
not only worked with his subject, he has played with it. He keeps up
his own and the reader’s courage, sometimes by whistling. It is one of
the most original contributions to literature that I have seen, and I
know nothing in American literature which it resembles. And it is
written in the American, not the English language.” W: L. Phelps

+ Bookm 52:170 O ’20 1400w

“When the ‘prophet of joy’ is killed in an attempt to mediate

between a band of strikers and their employer, there is little sense of
pathos because the character has been largely a creature of fancy and
as such has engaged the reader’s attention rather than his affection.
But Mr Bradford is fluent and dexterous and the rhymes carry one
along through one hundred and ninety-three pages of easy and
agreeable reading.” L. M. R.

+ − Freeman 2: S 29 ’20 300w

“He takes pains to show what it is that he is not talking about—

Christian Science, Sunday school morality, silly altruism—but we are
never sure what it is that he is talking about, and never sure that his
is not the nambiest-pambiest of palliatives.”

− + Nation 112:86 Ja 19 ’21 230w

“Mr Bradford is a poet, and a good one. Much of the present poem
shows a deftness and a skill that place him high among writers of
light verse. But in all fairness he must leave his ivory tower and
acquaint himself with causes he dislikes before writing unfairly of
them. The book, barring this one capital fault, is a capital one, and as
such may be recommended.” C. W.

+ − N Y Call p10 S 12 ’20 700w

“It seems to the present reviewer, indeed, the most stimulating and
absorbing volume that has appeared in American poetry since ‘The
Congo’ and ‘Spoon River.’ It is not an imitation but a vital
incarnation of the Byronic satire, proving that modern life may be
dressed in an ancient mode at least as effectively as in the fashions of
the hour. The ‘Prophet’ should find an audience for many years to
come; should even, one is tempted to say, win a permanent place
among the classics of lighter American verse.” C: W. Stork

+ N Y Evening Post p5 O 23 ’20 1150w

“Nothing can be gayer, idler, saucier, easier, more winningly

devious and desultory than his treatment of the eight-line Italian
epic stanza. The story is agreeable, and the only point of failure is the
point in which in a poem of this kind failure is most forgivable and
least important—the nature and handling of the thesis.”

+ − Review 3:390 O 27 ’20 310w

BRADLEY, ARTHUR GRANVILLE. Book of

the Severn. il *$5 Dodd 914.2

(Eng ed 21–834)
 “The ancients had river gods; we too have them in our minds and
feel their qualities. For rivers are things of life and personality, of
soul and character.... Some of our river gods are men and some are
women.... Father Thames has proclaimed his sex for all time; but the
Severn has been a lady since literature began.” (Chapter 1) The
author shows his readers not only the scenic but also the historic
Severn and conducts him from its cradle in Plinlimmon to Gloucester
with sixteen color plates to mark the way. There is no index.

“The author tells the story in ample detail and with full
knowledge.”

+ Outlook 126:202 S 29 ’20 60w

“In brief, this is a most entertaining volume. The coloured plates

do not add much to its attractions.”

+ Spec 124:465 Ap 3 ’20 150w

+ Springf’d Republican p8 My 8 ’20 210w

“Mr Bradley has a mingled zest for scenery, for history, and for the
humours and graces of life, which makes him one of the best of all-
around companions on such a series of excursions, either afoot or in
an armchair.”

+ The Times [London] Lit Sup p209 Ap 1

’20 950w