Charming as Puck(12)

But she’s so smart, she graduated college almost before he was out of high school, and she’s three years younger than he is. I always thought he worked so hard at hockey when he was younger to prove he was good at something too, because how do you compete with Felicity, especially when you add in how charming and funny and talented she is, and that he was always overlooked.

Like me.

My brother’s an astrophysicist who regularly gets interviewed on the national news and who writes books that hit bestseller lists, and my sister’s a biomedical engineer at a research lab with an entire staff.

I get it. I know what it’s like to be the not as successful one.

Except unlike me, Nick has no ego problems whatsoever.

He’s a professional hockey player. He’s won the national Chester Green Award for goaltenders two years straight. He makes a crap-ton of money on endorsement deals on top of his healthy hockey salary. He’s funny and talented in his own way, and I don’t know why the Thrusters thought he needed charm school, because he shoots charm out his nostrils just by breathing.

He’s not just the vet in his family.

He’s equally as successful in his own right as Felicity is brilliant in hers, and he’s every bit as successful as his dad was before him.

“So where’s Sugarbear’s new home?” Felicity asks as she climbs into the driver’s seat.

I suck in a deep breath through my nose before I answer.

Because the hard questions are still rolling, and I’m pretty sure she’s not going to like my idea.





Seven





Nick



This time last year, I was heading home on a high after a blow-out win. Tonight—or more like this morning, as it’s officially Sunday now—I’m straggling through the door to my building with the weight of disappointment making me sick to my stomach.

Lavoie’s with me, since he lives two floors above me, and he keeps giving me one of those looks like he’s thinking we need to talk about something.

The doorman scowls at me.

Join the club, buddy. Yeah, I’m the asshole who let New York score three fucking goals in the last period. That’s right.

It’s my fault the Thrusters have lost two games in a row, both our home game Thursday night and our away game last night. We’re one and two.

Terrible start for defending champions.

Whereas Indianapolis is undefeated.

And they’re down their enforcer, who’s suspended for what he did to Jaeger in the playoffs at the end of the season.

He won’t be when our game against the Indies rolls around next month though.

I skip the elevator and trudge up the stairs.

“The stairs?” Lavoie says. “Are the stairs going to make it better?”

“Losers don’t get to take the easy way out. Losers have to work their asses off to become winners again.”

My phone’s sitting heavy in my pocket. Is it weird that I want to text Kami? I’ve texted her after every road trip the last eight months.

Not six. Not nine.

Eight.

She came over right before Valentine’s Day. I remember because she made a joke about not having to explain where the hockey puck chocolates came from, since I wasn’t the kind of guy to send Valentine’s Day chocolates and we were just friends.

It’s October. Eight months later. We were good friends for eight months.

Friends text back though.

Kami still hasn’t texted me back, and my messages to her are still showing as unread.

Maybe I should’ve sent her hockey puck chocolates for Valentine’s Day.

Or maybe she’s disgusted at how awful I’m playing this season.

I hit my floor and punch the door open. Lavoie should keep going up to his own floor, but he doesn’t.

He follows me.

The hallway still smells like hay and cow shit, but not as bad as when I left town Thursday night.

October.

It’s October.

Fuck.

“Fuck fuck FUCK,” I exclaim. “I missed Kami’s birthday. Shit on a—”

“Kami? Felicity’s friend Kami?” Lavoie turns sideways and blocks me. “Fuck, Murphy.”

Embarrassment isn’t something I do, but my face is getting hot and my nuts feel like they’re dangling out in the open like a pi?ata waiting to take a hit, I’m that exposed.

“It was just a friends with benefits thing,” I mutter.

I try to elbow past him, but he blocks me again.

“Was?”

Was. Have I ever lost a friend? I don’t think so. I’ve lived with women a time or two, but never anything serious. Most of my hook-ups are just that—hook-ups. We all know the score.

I don’t get tied down. It’s just not for me.

But losing a friend—this fucking sucks. I can’t look Lavoie in the eye. “She hasn’t talked to me since Berger left that cow in my condo.”

“Thought I knew that look.”

“What look?”

“The heartbroken look.”

I snort. “I am not heartbroken.”

“No? You’re acting just like I did when I got my divorce papers.”

Dude’s crazy. I shoulder past him. “I’m not you.”