Page 82 of Pucked Up

“Drink?”

I jumped half a foot at the sound of the one voice I’d wanted to hear all night. And the one I’d hopedwould leave me be. Turning slowly, I saw Hugo just inches away from me, holding out something clear and fizzy in a small plastic cup.

“I shouldn’t.”

“It’s tonic water with lime,” he said, reaching past me to set it on the table.

“Thank you. Ah. I—” I stopped, then shook my head. Everything I wanted to say sounded hollow. Shallow. Pointless. I cleared my throat. “Micah wanted me to tell you that he decided to stay in the room. The crowds are a bit too much for him.”

“Of course. I understand,” Hugo said. He stepped to the side like he wanted to take the chair beside me, then changed his mind. “I was going to encourage him to stay back. I know he doesn’t like things like this.”

“You got to know him well.” Shit. That sounded like an accusation.

Hugo took a breath. “I thought you understood when I told you he and I?—”

“No. No. I…I meant that for real. I don’t think a lot of people take time with him.”

Hugo softened. “Yes. I like him. He’s different than most of the men I’ve become friends with over the years, and I think I needed that.”

I felt like a complete asshole. I could have been that for him. I could have welcomed him. God only knew how lonely and isolated he’d been feeling since coming to Turenne. And the way I’d treated him—like he was some disposable nothing—most definitely hadn’t made it better.

“Well,” he said at my continued silence, “I should leave you to your dinner. I see Ford’s on his way back.”

He was up and moving before I could get my tongue to work, so when I called out, “Hugo!” he was too far away to hear me.

“What’s that face?” Ford asked as he set my plate down.

“Nothing.” Just me royally fucking up once again.

CHAPTER

TWENTY

BODEN

The benefit was…abenefit. The chicken was dry, the salad overdressed, the side dishes tasting faintly of tin from being in an oversized restaurant can. There were speakers, and the MVP gave a speech—some twenty-five-year-old who sounded a lot like Tucker and who clearly hadn’t prepared for the night.

A couple of the PPHL veterans—if we could call them that after only a decade—got up to tell their stories about how the PPHL had changed their lives.

Yada yada, bullshit bullshit.

Not that their stories didn’t matter—it was just that I’d heard it a thousand times. It had been parroted to me over and over when I was younger, as though my dad was afraid I’d find something else to be passionate about besides hockey. And I suppose I could have gone that way. College had been nice. It had been quiet. I played on a local team and studiedpsychology and thought maybe everything didn’t have to be about a fucking legacy.

But I was sucked back in, and now I was sitting at a table hating myself because hockey had once again ruined something good. This time, it was the man sitting across the room, waiting for his turn to speak.

“Tonight, we…an honored…,”guest, I assumed a balding old man said. He’d been introduced as Edwin, but that was about as much as I could make out since the PA system was kind of shit and didn’t mix well with my hearing aids. “Before we…wanted to…show.”

“A what show?” I asked, leaning toward Ford.

The lights dimmed, a screen behind the stage lit up, and suddenly, the man on all the banners around the room appeared. Reid Martin. Hugo’s husband. I’d known he was there the entire time, but I’d been doing my absolute best not to look too hard. But I couldn’t ignore it now. The music was too loud for me to make out what the video was saying, but I didn’t care.

It was easier this way.

Footage of Reid in his first PPHL game started to play, and my heart skipped a beat when I saw the camera zoom in on Hugo’s face. He looked like he hadn’t wanted to be there. He was nothing like the man I knew. That was not the man who had me in his office. Or in his bed.

Or on his lap, holding me all night long.

Fuck.

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