Page 76 of Pucked Up

“I’m sure you’ll be able to wing it. Just remember, he wants this. All he needs is a little incentive.”

“I have the budget,” Vincent said, almost like he was trying to convince himself. “I should go. I need to make a call.”

“Good luck,” I said as he stood up.

He paused, opened his mouth like he was going to say something else, then closed it again.

“What?” I pressed.

He sighed, and by the look on his face, I knew what was coming. “I turned Reid down when a trade offer came across my desk. It was my first year, andthe other guys on offer had better stats. He wasn’t the strongest player, and I?—”

“Vinny.”

“I’msofucking sorry. Maybe if he’d left Montreal…”

“No. He was winding down by then. His injury wasn’t going to change. He’d been struggling to breathe on his own, and every fucking hit he took on the ice made it worse.” I closed my eyes for a long second. “I think he just wanted to feel like he was worth something.”

“He was,” Vincent said. “If I’d been in this job longer, I would have seen it.”

“I saw it. I made sure he knew,” I told him. “No one blames you. Not him and not me. You can breathe.”

He did, his shoulders sagging. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. But think of this as your chance not to fuck up again, okay? Because this time, it’ll mean something.”

He shot me a salute off the side of his forehead, then turned and hurried out, leaving me to my coffee and my very tender, very broken heart.

I managed to occupy most of my afternoon with walking, window-shopping, and doing my absolute best not to text Boden and ask him if the meeting hadgone well. But at some point, the afternoon started creeping toward evening, and I did need time to get ready.

Stepping into the lobby, I was surprised at how crowded it already was. There were people milling around with drinks, the chatter loud, the hockey players obvious, the WAGs all looking both annoyed with their partners and happy to be out for the evening.

There were collections of old men with greying hair drinking what was probably cheap scotch in expensive glasses, all trying to look very important.

It was everything I’d seen before and nothing I’d ever wanted to see again.

“Oh my God, Hugo.”

I turned toward a familiar voice, and Ford flung himself against my side, clinging to my arm. “My dickhead date fucking ditched me, and I don’t know anyone here. There are famous athletes in this room,” he hissed.

I sighed. “Mm. Why don’t you talk to them?”

“I can’t do that. Some of them know me for what I did.” I frowned, and he rolled his eyes so hard it had to have hurt. “Beijing? The scandal?”

“I’m pretty sure no one cares,” I said right as a guy in a very fancy-looking wheelchair rolled past and said, “Oh shit! Underwear guy!”

Ford groaned and buried his face against me. “I can’t be here.”

“I have to get dressed, so you need to?—”

“Take me with you,” he begged, dragging his hand down to mine.

“Where are Boden and Micah?”

“They never came back!” Ford all but wailed. “Bodie was gone when I woke up, and then he sent me a text and said he and Micah would meet me at dinner. Can you believe the audacity of that guy? He invites me here like he cares about me, then ditches me for someone younger and hotter and?—”

I tugged him carefully toward the elevator that, luckily, had no line. “He’s meeting with Vincent Rose.”

“Oh God, the GM? Where’s his fuckin’ team? Look, Hugo, I know that Boden wants this, but I can’t afford to lose my best friend to some shit-stain West Coast team that?—”

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