Page 37 of My Puckin' Luck
He leans in for a few soft kisses, but I don’t let him get away that easily. I grab him by the back of the neck and sear him with tongue and heat; the message being that I can’t lose him to whatever is going on.
“Mm. Can’t wait to see you tonight,” he says, and I let him go, pleased that—for now—we’re okay.
I pace the floor and check the time again, and my phone again for messages. It’s past midnight, and Saint’s still not home from the game.
From the sports report online, the Puckers posted a stunning loss against the re-visiting Vancouver Ice. I fast forward through the replay of the game.
What happened in the middle of the third period has me on edge. Saint picks a fight with good old Sanderson. I know the animosity between these two. The entire game, they can be seen passing each other, words shouted between them, most of the time instigated by Saint.
That’s so unlike him to start a fight. He’s usually the one to finish it.
After Sanderson trips him, Saint gets up and tosses down gloves. I expect him to pummel Sanderson into the boards—instead, Saint throws one punch, then lets the guy hit him over and over until he falls, bloody to the ice.
My hands shake and I can’t breathe as I freeze frame on Saint’s body. He’s like the shell of himself, not even there. Like he wanted the punishment.
I can’t take this waiting. He’s not returning my calls or texts. I call Jimmy McCool’s, but Jimmy confirms he’s not there. He saw the game too and is worried. He promises to call if he hears from him.
I don’t know any other players on the team these days to call, other than the coach. I dial him. Duke answers his phone with a groggy voice. “Hello?”
“Duke, it’s Anastasia. I’m trying to find Saint. He hasn’t come home yet. I saw the game and I’m worried. Is he in the hospital? Do you know where he is?”
“Hang on.” I hear shuffling on his end of the line and an echo of a door shutting, until he comes back on. “Other than some open cuts and a bruised eye, the idiot was fine. I think he and some of the guys went out drinking after.”
Oh, great. If he’s with some puck bunny… “Do you know where?”
Just then, I hear a car in the driveway, bright lights shining in the windows. “Never mind. I think he just got home. Thank you. Sorry to call.”
“When it comes to my players, you can reach out anytime.”
I click off and run to the door, expecting him to be stumbling in. Instead, Leo and Ridge carry him.
“Oh, my God. Bring him to the bedroom. Follow me. Is he passed out? How much has he had to drink?”
“Sorry, Anastasia. I didn’t realize how much he had until it was too late. We were just at some dive bar shooting darts. He was drinking all night, not talking to anyone,” Leo explained as they followed.
“No puck bunnies?” I hated asking, hated not trusting, but in his condition, anything could have happened, easily slipping back into his old playboy ways.
“No, ma’am. Male or female, anyone who attempted to talk to him got the brush off,” Ridge assured me. “We tried to get him to leave earlier, but he wouldn’t. Sorry.”
They placed Saint on the bed, and I thanked them. I locked the front door as they sauntered out, then ran back to the bedroom, shutting off all the lights for the night along the way.
I got his shoes and socks off and rolled him over to his side in case he threw up. Crawling under the covers next to him, I watched him sleep it off. So much for our talk, but perhaps this is how he wanted it. To avoid the conversation altogether, so he wouldn’t have to face the damn past.
I tossed and turned all night long, sleep evading me. For the red carpet tonight, I’ll have huge bags under my eyes. Selfish of me to think of myself, when clearly Saint is having issues, but how can I worry about him right now? He’s a grown man who needs to wise up and deal with things.
I try to wake him, but he only stirs and turns away from me. So I get up at five a.m. What’s the point of trying to sleep when I have a full day ahead?
Before I leave the house, I set a note by his phone on the bedstand. I can only hope to talk with him later today before the premiere.
Saint:
I missed you last night. You said we’d talk, but instead you got drunk with the guys. How do you think that makes me feel?
I’m worried about you. About us.
Please call me as soon as you wake up.
Yours,
