Page 17 of Absolutely Pucked (Punk as Puck #3)

I had no business exerting myself when I hadn’t had a full meal in weeks and my blood sugar was through the floor. I managed to get out, dry off, and put the sweats back on, but it took everything in me not to crawl back into the bed and close my eyes.

I followed the smell of breakfast cooking instead—something savory and salty, and something sweet. My feet tapped on the hardwood floors as I headed into the kitchen and found Ford plating pancakes and sausage links.

“I hope you’re not a no-pork guy,” he said, picking up both plates and walking them to the small breakfast table. He was wearing his leg now, his limp pronounced but his gait steady as he crossed the room and looked me up and down.

I felt a little too seen and crossed my arms over my middle. “I’m an anything guy, really. I don’t want to tell you what I’ve been living on for the last several weeks.”

Something crossed his face. Pity? Something worse than that? “Do me a favor and grab me the jar of cinnamon in the pantry.” He gestured to a door to the left of the fridge.

I appreciated that we were moving on from the way I was living.

Walking over, I opened the door and froze.

The pantry was stuffed to the brim with canned and dried foods.

“Are you a prepper?” I blurted, then hated myself because it wasn’t fair to judge him.

I found the cinnamon quickly in a rack of spices, then turned away from his hoard.

When I looked at him again, his face was pink in the cheeks. “I have a thing.”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” I started, but he waved me off.

“When I was sixteen, my parents kicked me out. It was a…a whole thing. I couch-hopped when I could and slept in parks when I couldn’t.

I was put in a group home for a little while after my school notified CPS that I was homeless.

My parents went to court to have their rights terminated, but the judge refused, and the greatest moment of my life was watching them shamed for what they did. ”

“Jesus,” I couldn’t help but whisper.

He shrugged. “I went hungry a lot back then. Like…a lot. And after they were forced to take me back in, I went hungry a lot there too. I developed a pretty bad habit of stocking up on food. I’m trying to be better, but it’s hard.”

I had to wonder what kind of lasting trauma habits this whole thing with Delia would cause me. In any case, I understood him. Except for the fact that I was a grown adult and could manage my shit, where he’d been a damn child who had no business being thrown out.

“I’m sorry they sucked.”

He scoffed and waved a hand at me as he walked across the room and took a seat. When I didn’t move, he made an annoyed noise and patted the seat beside him. “Come on, princess. You need a written invitation?”

My entire body went white-hot at a nickname I hadn’t earned but probably deserved. Almost tripping over my feet, I hurried over and flopped down, only to have a plate shoved at me, then a bowl filled with fruit.

“Bodie would be so proud of me for this,” Ford said. “He’s always so deep in my ass about fiber he could probably play with my prostate.”

“Christ,” I choked.

Ford raised a brow at me. “Sorry. Too delicate for bad language?”

With a scowl, I picked up my fork and dug a piece of pancake out right from the center, just the way I liked. I hated crusts of any kind. I was well aware of Ford’s gaze on me. It was almost physical. “You know goddamn well I’m not afraid of dirty talk.”

He smiled around his bite of sausage, chewing and swallowing like he was doing it specifically to annoy me. “Well?”

I blinked at him, halfway through my fourth bite. “Well what?”

“Heap praise upon me. I made those fuckers from scratch.”

That…was unexpected. “Who’s the princess now?”

He coughed in shock. “Wow. Okay, kitty has some claws. I like it.”

This felt way too normal, and yet I was desperate not to shatter the mood. “I think you knew that about me already.” I took another bite, then nodded. “These are amazing. Is that what you want to do?”

He frowned. “Make pancakes?”

“Be a chef.”

“Oh. God, I—” He stopped and frowned. “Actually, that’s not something I ever thought about.

Then again, I’ve never really thought about what I wanted to do with my life at all.

” Bowing his head over his plate, he shrugged.

“I wasn’t really good at school. It was hard to concentrate after my parents threw me out.

I ended up not being able to graduate, so I just took my GED and left home the second I was legal. ”

That was not what I was expecting him to say. Not that I knew him well enough to form any real expectations, but it was odd to hear him say it. Which was probably just the privilege I had spending most of my life with Ivy League grads.

Fuck, I felt like such a snob.

“I don’t think you need a Cordon Bleu education to be a chef.” I stabbed my fork through a piece of very tender pineapple and fought back a groan at how good it tasted. I didn’t know when I’d have to give this up again, but I hoped I got to stay for a little while.

Ford hummed softly and shrugged. “I mean, it’s whatever. I don’t have a shitty life. It does kind of suck being so far behind my friends though. Bodie’s about to get drafted onto a pro sled team, and Tucker just got promoted to head coach for the Legends.”

“The Legends?”

He waved his fork at me. “Professional blind hockey. Think NHL levels, but a little less pay because the system is still ableist as fuck. But it’s a fucking amazing job.”

“ Oh .” My throat got a little tight, and I realized the feeling was pride. “So he never had to give up on hockey at all, did he?”

Ford grinned like it was his own accomplishment. “Nah, man. And I’m fucking thrilled for him. He got a huge raise and shit. He and his hubby?—”

My veins went cold. “Husband?”

Ford didn’t quite look apologetic, but there was a tiny spark of regret in his eyes. “It’s a long story. Um…and it’s not really mine to tell, so?—”

“No, no. It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but I had no right to demand more. “That’s just…I’m happy for him. I’m surprised he decided to quit playing though.”

Ford sighed and glanced away. “I’m not. I think the fire died when he had his accident. He just wasn’t ready to give it up back then. Have, uh—have you watched a sled hockey game before?”

My chest ached at the fact that he had to ask. “Yeah. I watched him on TV during the Olympics. And there was some other game before that against Canada? He could have gone pro, you know.”

Ford laughed softly. “Yeah, I know. And technically, he has with this new job. He’s really close friends with a bunch of the guys on the Legends, and they’re happy to have a blind coach.”

It felt weird to call my brother blind, even though he was. It was just a mark of how much time we’d spent apart. It brought back rough, painful memories of holding his hand in the hospital, a thick patch on one eye, a blue-scarred iris staring blankly at me on the other side.

And I remembered the first day he’d gotten light perception back.

And then the first night he’d been able to make out the contours of my face.

I let him cry, and then I went home and scream-sobbed into my pillow because such a small thing meant so much, and that wasn’t fair.

He’d fucked up a lot, and he was the one who’d made the dipshit decision to get high and get behind the wheel, but he hadn’t deserved all the pain that came with those consequences.

“…think it’ll make things better,” Ford was saying. I’d lost half the conversation, and I tried to focus on the present. “Anyway, yeah. So he and Bodie are doing their thing, which is great. But I don’t know if I’m actually content to do this for the rest of my life or if I want to switch it up.”

“Will you stop playing since it’s just some community league?”

He looked mortally offended. “ Fuck you, dude. That’s my team.”

“I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t sure if the team was supposed to be a pit stop between that and the pros or not.”

Ford took a breath, then sat back. “For some of them, it’s everything. For some of the guys, it’s a path to regaining what they lost.”

“What is it for you?”

He pushed away from the table and stood up, looking down at me. “It’s my family. Probably not something you’d understand.”

And then he turned and walked off. I’d fucked up somehow—once again getting it wrong.

I was never going to be good at this, and the only saving grace was that at least Ford could now understand I was telling the truth when I told him that night that if he knew me—the real me—he would have never looked at me twice.