Page 50 of Pucked Up

I had the urge to split my skin and peel it off my body as though somehow that would make me feel better.

Instead, like a dipshit, I texted Hugo back when he sent me a message.

Now, I was sitting in front of his apartment like I had any right to be there, hoping he would tear me apart and put me back together in a shape that made sense. I swallowed heavily and stared down at my crotch.

Nearly every time I’d even breathed the same air as Hugo, my dick threatened to break free of mypants. Now, it sat limp and useless against my thigh. I wasn’t wearing boxers, just sweats, so it was even more obvious.

I should go. I should turn around and go home. Or go to Jonah’s. Or Micah’s. Or Ford’s.

Hell, I could probably call Mike or Cooper or fucking Tiago and find a place to crash. Of course, I’d have to explain why, and then things would get awkward because I was a terrible liar, but for a few moments, I might have peace.

I didn’t do any of that. I left my phone in my pocket, thumping against my thigh as I slowly made my way to Hugo’s front door. At least he’d gotten a ground-floor apartment. Or…condo. Whatever the fuck it was. I leaned on my left crutch and used my right hand to knock.

For a moment, there was nothing but silence. Of course, there was a good chance I just couldn’t hear the footsteps on the floor, which turned out to be true because it scared the absolute piss out of me when the door swung open and Hugo stood there.

He was like some kind of avenging god. He looked almost…angry to see me. His eyes were narrowed, his lips set in a straight line, his hands curled into fists at his sides. What had I done this time?

“Who hurt you?”

I frowned at him.

“I know it wasn’t from a game or practice. You haven’t been on the ice in two days.”

I kept staring because what the fuck was he talking about?

His hand lifted after a beat and caressed my cheek. Right. I had bruises all over my body so damn often from either hockey or tripping over my own legs I’d stopped keeping track. “This absolute dickhead.”

He looked even more furious. “I want a name.”

Something about his tone said he would literally fight the sun if I said I was too warm, and that made me feel a type of way I was refusing to acknowledge because I wasn’t here for that. “First name door. Second name knob.”

He blinked. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know that. I’m not joking. He has cruel parents. Mr. and Mrs. Shitty Apartment.”

“Boden!”

“Christ, alright. Remove stick from ass, please.” I elbowed him to the side and eased my feet over the threshold, closing the door with my backside before speaking again. “I fall a lot.”

“You…fall a lot.”

“Yeah, I know. Classic excuse, right? Except I have cerebral fucking palsy, and you have literally seen the way my legs spasm. It’s like they’re doing a tap dance without my consent. You try staying upright like that, even on crutches.”

He sagged immediately. “I’m sorry.”

“For me falling?”

“For forgetting.”

That…was not the answer I expected. He actuallyhadforgotten. That was…weird. Half of me was pissed off because when people forgot, they also did dipshit things like invite me to places with a million staircases or to events with background noise so intense I couldn’t hear anything at all.

I had no idea what it meant. Or if it meant anything at all.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

“Doesn’t matter.”

He sighed. “Yes, it does. I don’t want to forget anything about you.”