Page 149 of Playing the Pucking Game
I’m a mess, physically and emotionally, and I have no idea what to do.
Seth picked me up.
I don’t have my car. I don’t have anything other than my cell phone and that key card.
Pulling the offending item from my purse, I lob it as far away from me as possible.
A self-deprecating laugh erupts when it lands only a few feet away, taunting me.
I wake my cell up and stare down at the notifications.
Messages from friends sharing photos from tonight. One from Mom wishing me a good night. Another from Rett reminding me to be safe and to kick Seth if he deserves it. And there is one from Linc.
Linc: Enjoy prom, little P. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
I pull up the Uber app to call a ride home. But before I can confirm the ride, I hesitate.
If I go home, Mom is going to ask questions.
She knows that I’m planning on staying out all night, although she doesn’t know the details. If I turn up, she’s going to know something is wrong.
I’m going to have to explain somehow, but not tonight.
I can’t relive that. Not yet.
“Shit,” I hiss, letting my head fall back as a fresh wave of tears hits me.
I could call Rett, but something tells me that he’ll take one look at me and demand to know where he is. He won’t rest until he rips Seth limb from limb. And while I might agree that he deserves it, Rett doesn’t need an assault charge hanging over his head. He’s going to the NHL. I’d put my life on it, and the last thing he needs is a record. His reputation for aggressive play is already making waves in the NCAA.
Closing Uber, I return to my messages. Or, one specific message.
Before I can overthink it, I’m typing.
Little P: Hey, I need a huge favor.
Thoughts of him being with Rett and letting him read that message has me typing a follow up.
Little P: One that needs to be a secret.
The messages show as read almost as soon as they’ve been delivered, and my heart jumps into my throat.
Please don’t say no.
Linc: Of course. Anything. What do you need?
Little P: Can you come and pick me up? Alone.
Linc: Where are you?
Little P: At the hotel.
Linc: On my way.
Little P: I can’t go home, though. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m not going home.
Linc: Are you okay?
“Shit,” I hiss.
