Puck & Make Up (A Rush Hockey #7)

Chapter 15

Fifteen

Fox

I wind up and put every bit of my strength into the shot, sending it tearing through the air and into the back of the net with a satisfying thunk .

And then I grab another puck from the bucket I’d dumped out at my feet and go again.

And again.

Shot after shot until my arms ache and sweat is dripping between my shoulder blades and I turn to see Joel leaning against the boards, watching me with shrewd eyes.

Fuck.

Sighing, I shove my stick into the empty bucket, skate with it over to the net then drop to my knees and start picking them up.

He follows—because of course he fucking does.

“You shouldn’t even be at this rink,” I mutter when all he does is lean on the net and stare at me.

“Lucky for you, I’m only a short drive away,” he says then adds, when I don’t reply, “Okay, what gives?”

“With what?”

“The puck murder.”

Fucker’s funny, but I don’t feel like laughing.

She was gone.

Just gone.

We’d shared all that and?—

Gone.

Just fucking gone when I woke up, her side of the bed empty and cold, her car no longer parked at the curb in front of my house. And not answering her phone.

I’d told her I loved her and…

Fucking gone .

Now, am I going to let her get away with that shit? No fucking way. But am I pissed as hell and going to lick my wounds for a few hours before I track her down?

Yes.

So, grinding my teeth together, I don’t bite at Joel’s fishing expedition. I just keep picking up pucks and dropping them into the bucket. And then don’t stop until all of them are picked up.

Unfortunately, Joel isn’t as easy to get rid of.

He just stays there, reclining against the goal.

“I’m just getting some ice time in,” I mutter.

He snorts, pushes off the goal and starts trailing me when I shove my stick into the bucket again and skate over to the bench with it. I heft it up onto the bench and start walking down the hall.

And Joel’s right there.

“You know,” he says, “you were awfully cheerful these last couple weeks.” A long, pointed pause. “And you’re awfully pissed today.”

Jesus Christ.

Clenching my teeth together so tightly that a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw, I resist the urge to plow my fist into his face. First, he’s too pretty for that. Second, I’m in a shit mood and it’s not his fault.

Third…

Well, I don’t really have a third, except to say that he’s my friend and a good guy and…I don’t go around punching my friends.

Even when they’re being fucking annoying.

“Your point?” I grind out.

“My point is that you’ve gone from whistling that annoying little tune of yours,” he says, “to…”

“Murdering pucks?” I ask quietly.

“Exactly.” His lips twitch. “Which speaks of only one thing.”

I pause just outside the locker room and glance over at him, lifting an eyebrow in question.

“Woman trouble.”

My jaw tenses further and I know the asshole clocks it because he smirks. “Dessie?”

“Dude,” I mutter.

“I fucking knew it.”

“I didn’t say it was her.”

“I still heard you say her name.” He leans closer. “Plus, Rosie clued me in.”

That’s not helpful.

“How’s it going with the Gold?” I ask, trying to distract him.

His eyes dance, and I immediately know he sees right through me, but before I can pivot, he just says, “Great.” Then he shrugs. “So, how’d you fuck up with Dessie?”

I exhale and scrub my hands over my face. “I finally got in there, man. Behind the barbed wire and past the steel-lined walls. I thought we were going to be smooth-sailing for once and…”

“What?”

“I woke up after the best orgasm of my life”—he smirks—“after all but telling her that I love her and”—his eyes widen—“she was gone.”

“Too much too fast?”

I groan and shove my hair out of my face. “I didn’t think so, considering that she stayed and cooked me dinner after I told her how I feel, that she made the first fucking move to”—our eyes connect—“you know.”

He nods.

“She was…” I sigh and push through the locker room door, thankful it’s empty and my new teammates are nowhere in sight. “I thought she was finally all in.”

“Have you talked to her?”

I exhale. “No,” I mutter, dropping onto the bench. “I must have called at least a dozen times, and she didn’t return any of my texts, see?” I pull out my phone, start to show him the blank screen.

Only it’s not blank.

There’s a call.

And a text.

My heart squeezes hard as I read.

DESSIE: I’m sorry.

“She called?” he asks, leaning over my shoulder.

I nod. “And texted,” I say, lifting my phone to show him the screen.

He curses softly then looks back at me. “Want me to call Rosie and turn her loose on it?”

“Nah,” I mutter. “You guys have just made it through the shit. I’ll clean up my own house.”

He exhales and I can see that he’s warring with himself, but in the end, he just claps me on the shoulder and says, “It’s worth it, you know. The struggle. The worry. The work to get there.”

I nod goodbye to him as he walks out then haul my ass into the showers.

I don’t go home.

Instead, I drive up to River’s Bend, head directly to Dessie’s apartment, and even though the parking lot behind Monroe’s is devoid of her sedan, I still climb the stairs to her front door, still knock and listen for any sounds inside.

It’s silent.

Not a hint of a bad movie in earshot.

“Fuck,” I mutter, glancing down at my phone, hoping that it will magically ring again.

When it doesn’t, I call her.

Ring. Ring. Ring. And then voicemail.

And no reply to another half-dozen texts.

My temple throbbing, I groan and get back in my car.

And then I drive all the way back home to San Jose, intending to get drunk and forget all about this shit for tonight.

I’ll regroup in the morning, make another plan—call Rosie and Bailey into service if necessary.

But tonight I’m going to be miserable.

And drunk.

And—

Only when I pull up to my house…my porch isn’t empty.