Page 17 of Pucked Up (Punk as Puck #2)

CHAPTER

EIGHT

HUGO

Lately, things had been…strange. And unexpected. I had figured the universe was done screwing with me after my husband lost the ability to move most of his body after a freak accident and then took him from me with a hefty case of pneumonia.

I thought maybe that was enough.

Apparently not. Apparently, the universe thought it would be fun to throw Boden Morin directly in front of my path.

Fucking him in the hotel room after picking him up at the bar had been chance.

Fucking him in my office at the rink once I realized it was the only way to get him to calm down was probably the best worst mistake of my life.

I had to wear a cup at the next couple of practices because every time he looked at me with that fury in his eyes—the fury he knew I could quell—I got hard. The slight bulge it gave me was better than the raging erection Boden was responsible for .

His eyes caught on it a few minutes later, and he fucking smirked. He played like a god after that. He and the ice were like one. I’d seen that before in Reid. He wasn’t the most talented player in the league, but his passion was second to none. He’d understood hockey like no one else ever had.

Until Boden.

Something about this short, infuriating, stubborn man was healing me, and that was terrifying enough as it was.

Luckily, he wasn’t willing to commit actual career suicide, so his attitude toward me calmed down.

It took a few weeks—he still had little tantrums, and he still mouthed off, but things were better.

So much better he didn’t show up at my office again, and I did my best not to show that disappointment.

But I could feel it starting to build again about three weeks after our first encounter.

I was already in a mood after receiving a call from a man I never thought I’d speak to again.

Edwin Francis was the current PPHL commissioner.

He’d been appointed a few months before Reid got sick, and they’d never gotten along.

Reid wanted the league to be what the NHL wasn’t—more diverse, more accepting, more willing to roll with change. Edwin had come from the MLB, and while he wasn’t the most bigoted man we’d ever dealt with, he wasn’t the least either.

The last time we spoke was at Reid’s funeral, so seeing his name on my voicemail shook me. And somehow, of course, Boden seemed to pick up on my vulnerability because that’s when he knew to strike.

“Are you going to just stand there like a jackass, or are you going to do your job?”

I blinked and realized Boden was speaking to me. Turning on my skates, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Why are you running your mouth instead of running plays?” My voice came out low, demanding, and I immediately saw the way it affected him.

And it pissed him off.

“Fuck off. If your plays were worth using, I might be more interested. But I suppose that’s what we get from some jackass who’s never even sat inside a sled.”

I never did tell him how I was connected to the league. I assumed he had researched me, but it was clear he hadn’t. He had no idea how many games I served as pusher. How many pucks I took to my face and my body. How much muscle I’d built making sure Reid never had to leave the ice.

And how fucking much I missed it some days. Losing Reid meant losing the league in a way, and neither of those things was easy to mourn.

Swallowing thickly, I turned away.

“Figured you couldn’t take it. Pathetic, sorry ass?—”

“My office,” I told him. “After practice. Don’t bother taking a shower because when I’m done with you, you’ll need two.”

All the guys laughed, and Boden slammed into two of them as I headed back for the bench. Ford was waiting for me there. He was nursing a shoulder injury, so he was off the ice for a few games, and he looked a little unsure.

“You’re not taking the C, right?” he asked as I sat.

I sighed. “Not for that.”

“He’s…getting better?”

I raised a brow at him.

“I mean, at least he didn’t throw his bucket at you, right?” He grinned, toothy and wide.

He really was a very pretty man, and if that had been my type, he would have been trouble too. But he wasn’t. Still, I did like him. “If Boden ever does leave, I hope you’re prepared for the responsibility.”

“If I can handle Carol-Ann and her slutty ways, I can handle these guys,” he said, stroking the side of his prosthetic.

“About her name?—”

“ Poltergeist ,” he said.

“Right,” I reminded him. “You said that before.”

“So you get it.”

I was starting to think he was fucking with everyone who asked.

“Promise me you won’t spank him too hard tonight. He has to go grocery shopping, and I’m not in the mood to listen to him whine.”

I choked on my tongue. “I…it’s…we haven’t?—”

Ford stared at me with wide eyes. “I didn’t mean that literally, oh my God . Bruh, do you like him?”

I stared back, forcing my mouth into a straight line.

“Yeah, okay. That’s fair. The spanking was metaphorical, but the question was literal. The more you yell at him, the worse mood he’s going to be in. Think of us little guys.” He pressed prayer hands under his chin and blinked doe eyes at me.

“Put the puppy look away. Boden will get what he deserves. Nothing more.” And certainly nothing less.

Glancing across the ice, I could see his head still wasn’t in the game.

I would take care of that later, but I wanted to make my phone call first. “I’m putting you in charge.

” Taking my whistle off, I draped it over Ford’s head.

It caught on his bun and smacked him in the face. “You know what to do, right?”

“Can I make them skate suicides until they barf?” he asked with eyes alight.

“No.”

“Can I make them clean the ice with their tongues?”

I sighed. “No.”

“How about sharpening skates with other skates, and the first one who gets the biggest spark wins?”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I shook my head. “Ford, have mercy. Please.”

“This job sounds like trash. How much does it pay?”

“Heaps of gratitude. Tell Boden to get everyone prepped for the game next week and then to meet me in my office.” I turned and hobbled toward the side door, still not steady on blades when I was off the ice.

Just as the door was closing, I heard a sharp whistle blow, then Ford’s voice rising above it. “Alright, motherfuckers. I’m your god now!”

For a moment, I wasn’t sure Edwin was going to pick up my call.

In reality, that’s what I was praying for.

I didn’t mind an endless game of phone tag if I didn’t actually have to speak with the guy.

But whatever it was, I had a feeling it had something to do with the league’s anniversary.

Ten years since the first puck of the PPHL hit the ice was coming up.

Which meant fifteen years since Reid’s accident. And seven since I watched his coffin lower into the ground to the quirky yet dulcet sounds of the Postal Service because the bastard had been given just enough cognizance to plan his own funeral.

And I was just enough of a schmuck to honor that, even though he would have laughed his ass off because “I’m dead, Hugo. Do you think if I’m going to haunt anything, it’ll be my funeral?”

If he was haunting anything, it was the outdoor rink in Calgary that we used to go on dates to for the brief time we lived there. They taught beginner’s adult skating, and nothing made him laugh harder than macho dudes falling on their asses over and over.

“I didn’t think you were going to get back to me,” Edwin said by way of answer .

I fought back a sigh. “Yes, well. I figured I might as well give you a ring while I have some time. What can I do for you?”

“Is that all you have to say to me? How long has it been since we’ve spoken?”

“Seven years,” I told him. Almost to the day.

“Right. Well, wasn’t there that charity dinner a few months ago that?—”

“No.”

He cleared his throat. “Right. I suppose you don’t get out much after…well. After.”

That was entirely untrue. I got out plenty. I’d just avoided anything to do with the PPHL. And now, I was stepping my foot back in because of a smart-mouthed, fiery imp who had me half-hard anytime I even so much as thought his name.

“What can I do for you?” I repeated.

“Not one for small talk, eh. I’m glad you haven’t changed, Hugh.”

I twitched. I hated when people called me Hugh. But it wasn’t worth correcting him. It never worked anyway.

“So, as I’m sure you know, the ten-year anniversary of the league is coming up, and I was hoping?—”

“Don’t make me tell you no,” I told him, almost begging. My chest was hurting.

“You don’t think he would want you to be there?”

A low blow. And in all honesty, no. Reid hated benefit dinners. He did everything in his power to avoid them. “It doesn’t matter what he would have wanted. He’s dead. And I’m damn sure that’s what he’d tell me.”

“Seven years surely softened the pain a little,” Edwin wheedled.

I felt like reaching through the phone and punching him in the face. “Try losing the most important person in your life, call me in seven years, and tell me what you think.”

He was quiet for a long beat. “Listen, we intend to honor Reid, and it would look strange if you weren’t there. People might start asking questions about the state of your marriage before he passed. Weren’t there already rumors?—”

“Enough,” I said, my voice sharp. There had been rumors, but there were always rumors.

People thought he was having affairs with the women who hung around the rink before his accident.

There were rumors he had attempted suicide and failed, and that’s why he’d become quadriplegic.

There were rumors that I neglected him, and that’s why he died.

I couldn’t escape them.

But Edwin was right. The last thing I wanted was some jackass sports reporter at my door, trying to get some scoop.

“Send me the information,” I told him.

He chuckled. “That’s my boy.”

“I’m four years younger than you, Edwin. You don’t need to patronize me.”