Page 24 of Pucked Up (Punk as Puck #2)

The way he refused to say ex hurt. Maybe he was using me to fill a hole in his life, but I had no right to be angry about it. I wasn’t his. He wasn’t mine. This was just a thing. We were using each other…

Weren’t we?

“Mine doesn’t think I can do any of this on my own. He doesn’t want to believe I have the skills to get picked up by the league. He wants to do it for me so I’ll be grateful to him.”

Hugo was quiet for a long beat. “He’s not my favorite person.”

I couldn’t help a small, startled laugh. “He’s not mine either.”

Heaving a breath, he slung his arm around my waist and nestled close. I had no idea what to do about him except let him tug me closer and hold me tighter. As much as the feelings in my chest were telling me to run, I decided it couldn’t hurt to just let myself have this.

Only for a moment.

A moment became a night and then the morning.

I’d fully planned to sneak out as best as I could—which wasn’t my strongest skill, but I’d managed it in worse situations.

All I’d have to do was wait for Hugo to fall asleep, and then I could get down on my hands and knees and drag my crutches behind me as I crawled to the front door.

I was very, very good at crawling.

That was how I got around my house for years.

It was a solid plan. And then, like an ass, I fell asleep.

I hadn’t even realized it until I came to with the smell of something like bacon cooking—only not quite.

Turkey bacon? I blinked, my head a little stuffy, eyes bleary, entire body feeling like I’d been run over by a truck because it did not like falling asleep on a fucking couch.

In fact, every one of my muscles were fussy little bitches that didn’t enjoy anywhere except my Tempur-Pedic bed with my wedge pillows to keep me in position all night.

With the way my legs immediately began to spasm, I knew it was going to be a rough day.

And fuck, I’d fallen asleep in my orthotics.

It was why I didn’t do shit like this. The pain wasn’t worth it. And I hadn’t even gotten a good orgasm out of it. I reached for my hearing aids and pushed them into my ears, grateful they weren’t dead, though they were probably close.

The moment I could hear clearly, a voice rang out from across the room. “Morning.”

My gaze darted up to find Hugo hovering in the entryway between the living room and the kitchen. Christ, I hadn’t even gotten a home tour. I’d just collapsed on the couch and called it a night. He must have thought I was such an immature shithead.

Though he was hiding his regret well .

“Breakfast?”

“I need to leave.”

Something flashed across his face. Irritation? His eyes darted down to my spastic legs, which were held in place by my orthotics, but not well. “Can you drive like that?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. I use my hands.” I tried to flex my fingers, but they were stuck in claw mode. Fan-fucking-tastic.

He lifted a brow at me.

“Yeah, whatever. Have fun gawking at the freak on the couch who can’t even?—”

“Excuse me.” His tone was sharp and most definitely irritated now. “Don’t put words on my lips.”

“In your mouth,” I corrected sharply, and the look he gave me most definitely made my cock perk up. Now it wanted to have fun? I swore to God I wasn’t going to touch it for a whole week. See how it liked betraying me after that. “That’s how the saying goes.”

“Meaning is the same,” he said, waving his hand at me. “I have never thought of you as a freak, and you know it.”

I did, but I really needed a reason to hate him right then. “Did you drug my drink?”

Now he looked pissed. “That’s not funny even as a joke.”

“Does it look like I’m joking!” Oh my God, why was I like this? Why was I saying all this shit? It was like vicious word vomit dribbling all down my front. Stop it, Boden .

Hugo crossed the room, sat his gorgeous ass on the edge of the coffee table, then took me by the jaw.

My body didn’t still, but everything else seemed to.

“You had nothing to drink, and I’m not a monster.

I don’t know why you think it soothes you to make me upset because you and I both know it doesn’t work. ”

I swallowed heavily and bit back a cruel retort.

“I think maybe you need a few days to think about that,” he said, then let me go entirely.

I fought the urge to lunge at him, to throw myself into his arms and beg him to fuck me and edge me until I was so, so incredibly sorry. But I could tell by the look on his face he wasn’t going to give me that. He wasn’t going to give me anything.

“Do you need assistance to your car?”

“No.” I looked over and saw my crutches were exactly where he’d left them: perfectly within reach.

“I’d appreciate if you didn’t watch me. I’m…

not at my best today.” I took a breath and forced out the words I deeply meant but very much didn’t want to say.

“I’m sorry. What I said—I know you didn’t. I know you wouldn’t.”

His face softened, and he nodded, but he didn’t take back what he said. Yeah, he was going to punish me. And I was going to feel it. He turned and left the room, and I could hear him scraping something into the trash.

Holy fucking hell, he had made me breakfast, and I’d just… Oh, no one could hate me more than I hated myself right then.

I managed to climb to my feet, and the walk to the car was painful. It took several moments of sitting behind the wheel with the angry sun directly in my eyes to get my hands relaxed enough to drive, and then I made my way home.

God, I couldn’t do this anymore. Any of it. I was living a life of compromise and taking my anger out on a man who didn’t deserve it. I had to do something drastic. I needed to blow it all up.

By the time I pulled into my driveway, I had an email composed in my head, letting everyone at my office know that I wouldn’t be in for a few days. I mentally composed texts to all my friends, begging them to leave me alone while I wallowed in my own self-imposed isolation.

Then I went inside, sent none of them, had a long piss and a big glass of water with all my meds, and collapsed on my bed. I was comfortable on the outside, but inside, it was like I was made of a thousand tiny blades piercing just beneath my skin.

I had been such a fucking monster, and for what reason? Because I was embarrassed that I’d slept in his arms all night and liked it? That I wanted to wake up to turkey bacon and whatever else he’d chosen to make me?

Hugo probably wasn’t hurt the way I thought he was hurting.

I couldn’t possibly have that much power over him.

But the thought that I might have—that I could have actually wounded him—chased me into a long, restless sleep that stretched on and on.

In that moment, I didn’t care what I lost: friends, job, hockey .

All of it seemed so pointless and trivial. After a single day, I swore I heard my phone buzzing, and my email pinging, and my doorbell ringing. But I pulled the blanket over my head and continued to rot.

And I would have no regrets.