Page 47 of Arrogant Puck

And maybe if I put my guard down, Slater will open up to me. Maybe I can help Riley and his career.

Chapter 16

The neon lights of Cheer’s Bar cast everything in shades of red and amber, but I can barely see straight through the haze of pain radiating from my hip. What the hell am I doing here? Sure, I have the money to drink myself into oblivion every night, but I know that when it comes to real ethics, to being a decent human being, I’ve got nothing.

I shouldn’t have threatened Riley. I know that. But the thought of him using Sage’s pretty face against me, manipulating her kindness to get close to me—it makes something violent unfurl in my chest.

My phone buzzes against the bar top.

Sage: Tonight?

One simple word from Sage, and my entire world tilts sideways. My hip is screaming, a constant reminder of everything that’sbroken in my body and my life. Maybe I should take her up on whatever she’s offering.

Another text follows immediately.

Sage: Let me help

Sage: Your hip

I stare at the screen, then shove the phone back in my pocket without responding.

The guys from the team are three stools down, making eyes at some college girls who probably think dating a hockey player is the height of sophistication. Henderson’s already working his charm, and I can see the girls giggling and leaning closer.

I’m not in the mood for an empty fuck. Not tonight.

I throw some bills on the bar and leave without saying goodbye.

When I pull into my driveway, she’s there. Sage. Sitting on my front steps like she belongs there, like this is normal. A piece of me wants to be furious—she’s trespassing, invading my space, inserting herself into my life without permission.

But I can’t find it in me to be pissed.

I climb out of my car, favoring my right leg, and look down at her. “Why are you waiting at my house like some lovesick girl?”

She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound is so genuine it catches me off guard. “You know... I see you, Slater. Your rage is from the pain, so I’m assuming your pain is bad right now.”

I let out a harsh laugh, mocking her amateur psychology. “You think you have me all figured out, huh?”

But her accuracy is spot on, and that’s what throws me off. She’s not accusing me of being high or having anger problems or being a violent psychopath. She thinks it’s the pain. That’s something I can live with, something that doesn’t make me feel like a complete monster.

I like her just a tiny bit now.

I unlock the front door and hold it open for her.

“Where were you tonight?” she asks, walking to the guest bedroom.

I consider not answering. Consider telling her to mind her own business like I normally would. But something about the way she’s looking at me—like I’m a person instead of a problem—makes me answer.

“Bar with some of the guys.”

“Oh. The bar? You do that?”

I lift a brow at her.

The question throws me. It’s not what I expected her to ask. Before I can formulate an answer, she places her hands on my hip, and everything else falls away. Her touch grounds me in a way that nothing else does.

She stretches my leg, working to reach the hip bone, and the pain cuts deep—deeper than usual, radiating into my groin like a knife. I grit my teeth and let her work.

“You’re tighter than normal,” she observes, releasing the stretch. “Can I ice you?”

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