Page 83 of Pucked Up

“I think I need to get out of here,” I said, grabbing Ford’s arm.

“Just wait until this little show ends,” he begged.

I nodded and sat back, my gaze straying to Hugo again. His face was a blank mask, but I could see the tension in his hand as he gripped his glass. He was shaking. Had he not known about this? It wouldn’t have surprised me if they’d kept him in the dark.

The music suddenly dimmed, and a voice sounded over the speaker, pitched perfectly so I could understand it. “The night of my accident was the worst experience of my life. I felt like I’d lost everything. When I came out of the fog, I realized that there had to be more than just some consolation prize. How many wildly talented people were being passed over because people still didn’t know how to respect disabled players? Why do we have the Paralympics but not disabled professional sports?”

Reid’s voice was gravelly and rough and lovely. And his eyes were bright. He was in a wheelchair, and it was clear he had very little movement in his upper body. He had a scar in the center of his throat from his former trach, and the way his chest was moving and the way he spoke, I could tell he was vented.

The PPHL didn’t have players with his level of injury anymore.

The screen flickered, and suddenly, there was an ESPN newscaster on the screen. “We’ve just been informed that the Connor Smythe winner Reid Martin has been in an accident. Sources say it was ahit-and-run in downtown Montreal. It’s unknown whether or not he’ll ever set foot on the ice again, but we here at ESPN are praying for him…”

There was a small commotion, and I realized it was Hugo. He’d gotten out of his seat, and he was gone through a side door. It slammed hard enough not only for me to hear it but for me to feel it right in the center of my chest.

“Shit,” I whispered.

Ford grabbed the top of my shoulder and squeezed. “Do you want to go after him?”

There was only one answer to that question, and it was no surprise when he didn’t stop me as I got up and hurried after Hugo as fast as I could.

It was rare when I cursed my body. It was my body, damn it. It moved the way it was born to move. I rarely gave a shit about going faster than I was capable because I didn’t know any different, but tonight, I hated being slow.

Tonight, I hated feeling everyone’s eyes on me as I stood up and made my way toward the side door Hugo had used to escape. The fact that no one had gone after him—that no one had seen the upset they’d caused—pissed me off beyond all reason, but I was also grateful because almost anyone else would have beat me to him.

The only real issue was by the time I got out into the corridor, he was nowhere to be found. I let the handle of my crutch go and patted my pockets, but I realized then I’d left my phone upstairs.

“Tas de marde!”

“There’s no need to swear so loudly.”

Hugo’s voice cut right through the din of the hallway and wrapped around my heart like gentle fingers. I turned as quickly as I could and found him tucked in the corner of a little divot in the wall that seemed to serve no purpose.

“Fuck anyone who cares,” I fired back.

His voice was rough and hoarse, and his expression was shattered, but he smiled anyway. “That’s my little fire.”

I took a couple of steps closer. “I’m not that little, you know.”

His face sobered. “I know. Boden?—”

I waited, but he didn’t say anything else, so I closed the distance between us, rested my right crutch against the wall, and offered him my hand. He hesitated, then took it, pressing my palm to the center of his chest. His heart felt like it was trying to break through his ribs.

“Is it a panic attack?”

“I think so. It’s been a long time since I’ve had one.” His eyes tipped down, but his face stayed up so I could see his lips. They were dry and bitten, like he’d been taking his nerves out on them all day. “Did they send you out here for me?”

I scoffed. “No. Do you think I would have come for you if they asked me to?”

His gaze lifted and met mine. “So why are you here? You made it very clear?—”

“That I was a dumbass?”

“I don’t like that word,” he said.

“A dipshit. A fool. A complete and total?—”

“Boden,” he interrupted.

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