Page 101 of Puck Lust

“And now what?” Masterson asks before taking a long gulp of his beer. “What happens next?”

“Now, nothing,” I say, my shoulders slumping. “He doesn’t want anything to do with me because I was too much of a chicken shit to admit my feelings to him and to my family. I brought him home with me and he overhead me dismissing our friendship to my dad.” My clenched fists fall to the table. “I am a fucking idiot. I wasn’t strong enough to tell my family the truth about who I am and how I really feel about Jack. I don’t blame him for wanting to steer clear of me. After all the painhe’d been through, he trusted that I wouldn’t hurt him and I did.”

“Did you tell him all of this?” Tate asks. “I mean, if he cares about you, then I’d think you guys still have a chance to make things right.”

“I followed him out of the conference and told him I loved him.” I pick up my glass and take a sip of my beer. “He told me it wasn’t enough for us to put the pieces back together. Maybe he’s right. How could he trust me again?”

“Well, in your defense, you were trying to figure things out,” Masterson offers. “Right? I mean, this is a new thing for you.”

“Doesn’t matter. I hurt him and he doesn’t forgive. At all. And I knew that, too. Now I have to live with my mistakes.”

“I don’t know,” Tate says. “I feel like there’s always a way to break through. If he cares about you, he should give you another chance. Maybe he just needs time to get past all this other shit. It’s a fuckinglot.”

“I feel like I just piled on to everything else he’s dealing with,” I mutter, running my finger around the top of the glass. “I want to be with him but I have to respect what he wants.”

“I don’t think it’s over.” Masterson smiles at me. “I think if you want something, you have to make every effort to get it. If he pushes away, you push back harder.”

“This isn’t a hockey game,” I say.

“Isn’t everything? Hockey is life, VK.”

My lips curl upward into a small smile and I look up at the big screen television hanging over the bar where a bright red breaking news alert catches my attention.

I grip the edge of the table, my attention glued to the images on the screen.

“What the fu?—?”

But the rest of the words die on my tongue.

It’s Jack’s Audi smashed against a tree. Ambulances, police cars, and flashing lights surround the wreck.

“No,” I mumble, staring at the words in the looping ribbon at the bottom of the screen. “No, no, no, fuckingno.”

Tate and Masterson twist in their chairs, all of us now locked onto the scene playing on the screen.

NHL star Jack Larson was in a car wreck in the northeast section of Oakland this afternoon after escaping an altercation where he’d been shot. No word on his condition, but he was transported to Mercy Memorial Hospital for treatment.

I shoot up from the bench, damn near choking when my heart leaps into my throat.

Jack is hurt. Shot. Maybe…

No. I won’t even think it. I have to go to him.

Tate and Masterson spring up from their chairs. “Let’s go.”

I look at them, my gut wrenching hard. “Okay,” I croak out.

We pile into my truck and I stomp on the gas, peeling away from the curb. We sit in silence as I maneuver my way through the city streets, blood rushing between my ears.

I pull into the Emergency Department and stop the truck near the entrance, not bothering to take time to find a parking spot.

Let them tow me. Who gives a fuck?

I don’t waste a second and push through the revolving glass doors. I run into the Emergency Room and stop at the reception desk, choking on every shallow breath. “Jack Larson,” I pant. “Is he okay?”

The nurses exchange a look. One of them stands up. “Sir,we’re not permitted to give out patient information unless you’re family.”

“He’s…my…brother,” I rasp. “He’s got nobody else. Please, you have to tell me if he’s going to be all right.”

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