Page 73 of Pucked Up

The sleep I did get was broken and filled with dreams about Hugo. I was either making him cry, making him scream, or making him laugh in my face.

I woke sluggish and irritated, rolling away from Ford’s heavy leg that had wound around my calves, and I skipped my crutches, crawling to the bathroom instead. The hotel carpet was not kind on my knees, but it was better than dragging the tops of my feet over it.

After emptying my bladder, I took a moment to stare at myself in the mirror. I looked haggard and exhausted. The circles under my eyes would not be going away anytime soon, and my hair was a mess.

My fingers were a little looser, so I managed to flatten it down with water, but I didn’t think there was any amount of product that was going to save me today.

“This is your fucking fault,” I muttered at myself.

My father was going to have a goddamn field day with this. He was going to have one more reason toremind me about why I was such a fucking disappointment.

I swallowed back bitter bile and rinsed the sleep-sour taste out of my mouth with the tiny bottle of hotel Scope. It tasted like peppermint ass, but it was better than whatever was hovering at the back of my tongue.

When I moved back into the room, using the wall to keep me upright, I saw Ford lying on his back with his head hanging halfway off the bed, mouth wide open. There was a line of drool over his cheek, and though I couldn’t hear it, he was probably snoring.

Christ. I’d had a crush on him once, and maybe if I’d fallen in love with him, that would have been more endearing.

I coughed, and he twitched, his hand flying to his crotch to scratch his balls.

Shuffling to the desk where I’d left all my crap, I picked up my phone. Ford apparently had remembered to plug it in, which meant I owed him double for last night, and I yanked it off the cord before sitting in the chair and pulling up my emails.

There were dozens—mostly from the school since I’d sort of up and quit without any real notice. I’d agreed to transfer all my student files to the new counselor taking over from me, but the passive aggression from the dean’s office was…interesting.

I might have been fazed if I thought I’d have to go back to that job, but I’d rather choke down all my pride and live on my dad’s dime than continue in a soul-sucking office watching trust fund kidsscrew their academic careers without a care in the world.

I archived all of those, then froze. Last night, around midnight, three emails had come in, all of them with the PPHL address.

My heart crawled into my throat as I opened the first one.

Mr. Morin. My name is Bettina Weathers and I work in the PPHL recruitment office. I’ve been speaking with Hugo Martin, the coach of your community league team and after watching some tape, my team and I are interested in having a meeting with you. I know you’ll be in Montreal for the benefit dinner, and I have a representative there from the Boston Titans. Would you be willing to meet with the GM of the team? Please send me a message as soon as possible.

The other two were much the same—the Portland Seals and the Orlando Kings. Both had their GMs at the benefit, both wanted to meet. And it would be foolish not to take them up on their offer, but I only had one afternoon, and being able to stay in Boston—being able to stay close to my family? That meant everything.

I stared at the GM’s number at the bottom of the email. Vincent Rose. It was a name I’d recognized, only because I’d been peripherally aware of all the teams that were in the Eastern Conference, but I never expected to see them in my inbox.

The Titans were a good team. They’d been in the playoffs for five years in a row. They’d only taken the cup twice, but still, those were amazing stats.

For a moment, I could feel the cool metal of the cup against my palms. I could see myself hoisting it over my head on the ice. I could feel the joy in my chest. And fuck, I could see Hugo in the crowd grinning at me before tearing onto the ice to kiss me senseless.

Fuck. No.No. If I couldn’t do it before I knew about Reid, there was no way I could ask him to be part of this world now. His husband had started this whole thing. And then he’d died. How could I ask him to relive what had to be the most painful years of his life?

Taking a breath, I put Vincent’s number into my phone, then looked over at Ford. He’d rolled onto his stomach now with his stump tucked under him and his ass in the air. Lord, I could not with this man.

“I’m going to go get breakfast,” I told him after slipping my hearing aids in and listening for the little pings.

“Yellow.”

“Sure, bud.”

“With sprinkles.”

“Mhm.”

He snored louder, so I slipped into my orthotics and a pair of joggers before grabbing my crutches and heading for the door.

The buffet was crowded, but there were plenty of empty tables as I scoured the restaurant and debated if I wanted to try and balance food in my hand and make it to the table without it being a total disaster. The hostess looked quietly terrified as she eyed me, and it was obvious she hadn’t been prepped for what benefit was going to be at the hotel that week.

Not just disabled players, but disabledhockeyplayers. I wondered how many people had flirted with her and tried to get her number. I wonder how many she’d given it to.

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