Page 35 of Pucked Up

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shook my head. “Ford, have mercy. Please.”

“This job sounds like trash. How much does it pay?”

“Heaps of gratitude. Tell Boden to get everyone prepped for the game next week and then to meet me in my office.” I turned and hobbled toward the side door, still not steady on blades when I was off the ice.

Just as the door was closing, I heard a sharpwhistle blow, then Ford’s voice rising above it. “Alright, motherfuckers. I’m your god now!”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure Edwin was going to pick up my call. In reality, that’s what I was praying for. I didn’t mind an endless game of phone tag if I didn’t actually have to speak with the guy. But whatever it was, I had a feeling it had something to do with the league’s anniversary. Ten years since the first puck of the PPHL hit the ice was coming up.

Which meant fifteen years since Reid’s accident. And seven since I watched his coffin lower into the ground to the quirky yet dulcet sounds of the Postal Service because the bastard had been given just enough cognizance to plan his own funeral.

And I was just enough of a schmuck to honor that, even though he would have laughed his ass off because “I’m dead, Hugo. Do you think if I’m going to haunt anything, it’ll be my funeral?”

If hewashaunting anything, it was the outdoor rink in Calgary that we used to go on dates to for the brief time we lived there. They taught beginner’s adult skating, and nothing made him laugh harder than macho dudes falling on their asses over and over.

“I didn’t think you were going to get back to me,” Edwin said by way of answer.

I fought back a sigh. “Yes, well. I figured I might as well give you a ring while I have some time. What can I do for you?”

“Is that all you have to say to me? How long has it been since we’ve spoken?”

“Seven years,” I told him. Almost to the day.

“Right. Well, wasn’t there that charity dinner a few months ago that?—”

“No.”

He cleared his throat. “Right. I suppose you don’t get out much after…well. After.”

That was entirely untrue. I got out plenty. I’d just avoided anything to do with the PPHL. And now, I was stepping my foot back in because of a smart-mouthed, fiery imp who had me half-hard anytime I even so much as thought his name.

“What can I do for you?” I repeated.

“Not one for small talk, eh. I’m glad you haven’t changed, Hugh.”

I twitched. I hated when people called me Hugh. But it wasn’t worth correcting him. It never worked anyway.

“So, as I’m sure you know, the ten-year anniversary of the league is coming up, and I was hoping?—”

“Don’t make me tell you no,” I told him, almost begging. My chest was hurting.

“You don’t think he would want you to be there?”

A low blow. And in all honesty, no. Reid hated benefit dinners. He did everything in his power to avoid them. “It doesn’t matter what he would havewanted. He’s dead. And I’m damn sure that’s what he’d tell me.”

“Seven years surely softened the pain a little,” Edwin wheedled.

I felt like reaching through the phone and punching him in the face. “Try losing the most important person in your life, call me in seven years, and tell me what you think.”

He was quiet for a long beat. “Listen, we intend to honor Reid, and it would look strange if you weren’t there. People might start asking questions about the state of your marriage before he passed. Weren’t there already rumors?—”

“Enough,” I said, my voice sharp. There had been rumors, but there were always rumors. People thought he was having affairs with the women who hung around the rink before his accident. There were rumors he had attempted suicide and failed, and that’s why he’d become quadriplegic. There were rumors that I neglected him, and that’s why he died.

I couldn’t escape them.

But Edwin was right. The last thing I wanted was some jackass sports reporter at my door, trying to get some scoop.

“Send me the information,” I told him.

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