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"You made those cupcakes, Puck? I had no idea you could cook!"
"Well, you wouldn't know, would you? Maybe I cook dinner every night. Maybe I make four-course meals on a regular basis. Maybe I'm a fucking Martha Stewart."
"Yeah, right. You're a football player and an asshole, and that's about it."
"Yeah, well. There's a lot you don't know about me."
***
Puck taped his first speeding ticket to the inside of his locker door. So much for preventative measures. But he had a cool car and a reputation to uphold, so he made a practice of peeling out of the school parking lot and making sure his friends were watching.
He was speeding down the highway now, twenty miles outside of Lima, glancing nervously at the clock. He spotted his exit, slowed down just enough to take it, and stepped on the gas again as the light turned from yellow to red. The clock read 7:59 as he pulled into the parking lot of the theater. He picked up his ticket from the box office and settled into his seat as the lights dimmed. He had a tingle along his spine and a smile on his face as the overture began.
***
Puck crushed a can of PBR between his hands and tossed it across the basement. He let out a belch as it dropped into the trashcan, then popped open another and turned to Terrance. "Alright, get the fuck out of here, man."
"Why, you got a girl coming over or something?"
"Yeah, exactly."
"Whatever, dude."
Puck waited until he heard the door slam upstairs, then went over to the closet. Yeah, he had a girl to spend some time with. Her name was Jess and she was a slightly worn, honey-colored acoustic guitar. He strummed a few chords and messed around for a while, adding some lyrics as he thought of them. Damn, those lyrics were pretty good, actually. He'd have to remember to write them down.
***
Puck rolled a joint and lit it, inhaling deeply. He tipped his head back for a minute, breathed out a cloud of smoke, and picked up a pen, jotting down the lyrics he'd made up the other night, adding more as inspiration came to him. With each hit of the weed, lyrics flowed from his pen, and it felt like poetry, songs about love and heartache and one particularly deep piece about how the sky looked in the evening from his favorite spot on the bleachers. It was late when he set the pen down and stubbed out the joint. He rubbed his eyes and hoped the songs sounded as good at Open Mic Night as they did in his mind.
***
Puck dropped the magazines on the counter and pulled his wallet out, trying to act casual.
"Can I see some ID? We're not supposed to sell these to anyone under 18."
"It's, uh, for my dad."
"Yeah, right."
"Come on, man." Puck gave the clerk a knowing look. "Like you never looked at titties before you turned 18?"
With a smirk, the clerk took Puck's money.
~*~
The clerk grinned at Puck as he perused the magazine display. "Back for more?"
Puck bit his lip and didn't smile back. He selected a magazine and dropped it on the counter, avoiding eye contact.
"Parenting magazine?!" The clerk's eyes were wide with surprise as he laughed. "Guess those other magazines weren't enough for ya."
Puck scowled at him. "Just sell me the fucking magazine, dude."
"Alright, calm down." He handed Puck his change. "Good luck, Dad."
***
Puck leaned back against the headboard, the sheet slipping down to his waist. Mrs. Grayson wrapped an arm around his bare torso. "That was amazing, Puck."
Puck smirked and linked his hands behind his head. "Thanks, Mrs. Grayson."
"Puck, how many times do I have to tell you? Call me Alice."
Puck rolled his eyes.
"Oh Puck, I meant to tell you. I talked to my friend, the one I told you about, the trustee at Northwestern. Told him what you said about wanting to get into a good school. He said he can get you a meeting with the football coach. He thinks if you keep your grades up, he may be able to pull some strings to make sure your application gets considered next year."
A genuine smile crossed Puck's face. "No shit, that's awesome! Thanks, Alice."
***
Quinn snatched his phone out of his hand. "What are you doing, sexting with Santana again?"
"No, Quinn, I'm not. So give me the phone back."
"'Can you do it Saturday at 3:00?'" she read aloud. "This is from Santana. What the hell, Puck? You're planning booty calls while I'm standing right here?"
"It's not a booty call, okay?"
"Well, what is it then?"
"We're meeting at the library. She's gonna tutor me in Spanish."
"I'm sure."
"No, she is. I'm getting a D in that class."
"Since when have you cared about grades?"
"Look, I need to get my grades up if I'm gonna apply to college next year."
"You what?"
"Jeez Quinn, you don't have to act so surprised. I told you I was gonna plan for my future – for our future – and I am."
"Sooo… do you think Santana would be cool with tutoring me in Spanish, too?"
***
Puck was speeding again, but this time he had no destination in mind. Ten miles outside of Lima, he pulled into an empty parking lot and walked around to the trunk. He glanced around suspiciously for a second, before reaching in and pulling out a CD case from under an old gym bag. Back in the car, he slipped the CD into the player, skipped ahead to track 11, and turned up the volume. He rolled down the windows and sang along. So maybe he couldn't hit a high F, but that didn't matter when no one could hear him as he sang, "I think I'll try defying gravity, and you can't bring me down."
***
Finn scowled when he saw Puck standing at the door, but he stepped aside and gestured for him to come in. Puck heard laughter and talking coming from the living room, where a bunch of guys from the team were gathered to watch the big game.
"Hey man, mind if I use your oven?"
"Um, I guess not. What the hell do you need the oven for?"
"I just, uh, made a couple snacks for during the game, but I have to heat some stuff up."
"Wow. Sure. Okay."
Twenty minutes later, Puck walked into the living room with a grin on his face and a tray in his hands. He set the platter down on the coffee table, and announced, "Bacon wrapped jalapenos and bruschetta. Eat up."
"Damn, Puck. You really are a fucking Martha Stewart."
"I'm a lot of things."
The End