Page 118 of Arrogant Puck

I stare into her eyes across the room, shrugging because I don’t trust my voice right now.

“Is that why you’re so aggressive on the ice? Why you walk around like you hate the fucking world?”

I glance at the ground, the truth bitter in my mouth. “Yeah. Because I’m sober.”

“So, you’re not secretly taking them?”

“Baby, no.” I take a step toward her, desperate to close the distance between us, to make her understand. “I need you to trust me.”

“Where are the rest?” she asks, and I halt mid-step, running a hand through my hair.

The question hangs in the air like a loaded gun. I could lie, could minimize, could tell her that’s all there is. But she’s asking for honesty, and if I want her trust, I have to give it to her.

I exhale. “The drawer. Bathroom under the sink. Couch cushions. Car. That bedroom.” Each location feels like a confession, a piece of evidence against me.

“Jesus Christ, Slater,” she gasps, her hand flying to her forehead. “Do you have a hard time saying no to your drug dealer?”

I take a second to look at her face, really look at her. I think she finally believes that I’m not high, that I haven’t been using other than that one-off. But asking that question raises a valid point that makes my stomach twist.

I shrug, the truth scraping my throat raw. “I don’t tell him no.”

“Start telling him no!” she shouts, walking to the nightstand.

She digs through the drawer and finds a single pill in a small baggie, holding it up before moving on to search the rest of the house. I follow behind her, pulling stashes out of random places I’d forgotten about and adding them to her growing collection.

“Ten bags?” she asks when we’re done, staring at the pile of pills on the kitchen counter. “This is insane. I need to get rid of these. I’m going to take them and get rid of them for you.”

“I’ll come with you,” I say automatically.

“You,” she points at me, “are not coming with me.”

Shit. The finality in her voice makes my chest tight with panic. I stare at her, not wanting her to leave the house, not wanting to be alone with the silence and my thoughts.

She turns on her heel and walks to her bedroom. When she emerges, she’s fully dressed and ready to leave, the pills clutched in a plastic bag like toxic waste.

“Just flush them down the toilet,” I suggest.

She shakes her head. “I’m taking them out of here, Slater.” She walks over and kisses me on the lips, soft and quick, and it feels like a lifeline. “I’ll be back.”

I watch from the front window as she drives away, leaving me alone in a house that suddenly feels too big and too quiet. Without her energy filling the space, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I wander aimlessly for a few minutes before finding myself in her bedroom—the one she’s only slept in once since moving in. The room still smells like her vanilla body wash and somethingfloral from her shampoo. I sit on the bed that’s perfectly made, running my hands over the comforter she barely used.

My eyes land on her dresser, and a dark thought creeps into my mind. Did she hide some of my pills? Is she keeping some just in case?

I pull open the top drawer, feeling like a complete asshole but unable to stop myself. Nothing but neatly underwear and bras. The second drawer holds t-shirts and tank tops. No pills anywhere.

Her laptop sits on top of the dresser, closed but not locked. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my finger hovers over the trackpad anyway, and before I can talk myself out of it, the screen lights up.

Her messages are open, and I can see a conversation thread with someone named Magnolia. This must be the best friend she mentioned. I scroll through their recent texts, feeling guilty but unable to look away.

Magnolia: How’s the hot hockey player?

Sage: Still hot. Still complicated.

Magnolia: Good complicated or bad complicated?

Sage: Both? The sex is incredible. Like, I didn’t know my body could do those things.

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