Charming as Puck(7)

My rug that used to be my grandmother’s rug.

I shoot a look at the ceiling and inwardly cringe, because I’m in total agreement with my sister. My grandmother could carry a grudge for eternity, and being in the afterlife won’t stop her. “Sorry, Gammy,” I mutter.

“Mooooo!” she answers from my bedroom.

Except that’s not my grandmother’s ghost.

That’s the fucking cow.

I dart to my bedroom and bolt through the door.

The cow’s standing on my bed.

She looks at me, grins, and switches her tail up.

And while I stand there watching, she drops a load.

Right there.

In the middle of my very nicely-made bed.

With a picture of me pointing at it and snickering hanging on the wall over my headboard where my championship ring goes, and with a note on the floor in Kami’s handwriting.

Kami’s angry handwriting.

Can handwriting be angry? Because that handwriting looks pissed as fuck.

The message sure as hell is.

In that moment, three things become crystal clear.

One, Zeus Berger is dead.

Two, Kami did not take care of the cow.

And three, she was serious when she said we were done.

I had a shit game last night.

I woke up with a cow this morning.

And it’s nothing compared to that hollow feeling sucking in my chest at knowing that I fucked up a good thing.

I thought Kami and I had something simple and easy and good.

Apparently, I was wrong.

So. Fucking. Wrong.





Four





Kami



I should’ve known something was up when Alina arrived at my house to drive me downtown for drinks with my best friends before the Thrusters’ home game tonight. But I took her It’s your birthday, so you get a sober driver to heart, and now, after pretending everything’s fine the whole way into the heart of the city, I’m wishing I hadn’t.

Because now, Felicity’s hustling Alina, Maren, and me—all of us die-hard hockey fans—through the staff entrance at Mink Arena after Alina drove us here to game central instead of to the bar.

“I just forgot something in the office,” Felicity lies, and it’s clearly a lie, because she has that little lip quiver going on. It’s a Murphy thing. “We’ll head out for drinks after I grab it. Come on up.”

She works for the Thrusters in their headquarters. She’s one of those certified geniuses who can do anything and has something like eighteen degrees ranging from bowling management to marketing to physical therapy assistance.

Plus, she’s a ventriloquist.

There’s literally nothing she can’t do. Except paint. She’s a terrible painter.

She also can’t magically make her brother not be an ass.

So there’s two things Felicity can’t do.

Oh, she also can’t read my mind to know that I’m utterly terrified we’re going to run into her brother and so far past suspicious right now that my knees are turning to concrete.

“Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?” I whisper, because I can’t find a better excuse to get out of whatever is waiting for me inside the arena.

“Um, yes.”

“I stop by here all the time,” Alina assures me equally suspiciously, because I might’ve gotten a little squirrely when we pulled into the parking garage where she magically produced a staff parking pass. “It’s totally legit. They just don’t want us to touch the Cup.”

“I don’t want to touch it. I want to lick it,” Maren announces while we step onto the elevator. She’s decked out in jeans and a maroon Thrusters jersey with Zeus Berger’s number on the back, because she says it’ll be a collector’s item one day with this being his real final season.

Alina’s in a black sweater and full make-up, which means she probably spent all day working on her next YouTube video. She’s a rock cellist with a huge following, and she’s also halfway through a twenty-city tour, which means we only see her a few times a month when she’s home.

And Felicity’s in a custom Thrusters T-shirt with the rocket bratwurst logo—yes, rocket bratwurst, and yes, there’s a story there—and the phrase “I’m carrying Ares Berger’s Baby” printed across her chest and arrows pointing to her small but growing baby bump.

It’s been remarkably effective in discouraging the number of men who hit on her when we’re out in public.

I stifle a sigh. Felicity’s not only smart, she’s also gorgeous with her red hair and green eyes and gets hit on all the time even with the massive rock Ares put on her finger. And she’s having a baby with the man she loves. Maren’s an environmental engineer and one of the biggest Thrusters bloggers online. Alina’s job is so cool, and she’s famous in her own right.

And then there’s me.

The third-generation veterinarian who sometimes cross-stitches profanity-laced wall hangings when my siblings—also quite brilliant—annoy me.

No wonder Nick only wants the benefits. I’m really fucking boring.

“How’s thirty?” Felicity asks while the elevator rises.

“She’s only been thirty for a few hours,” Alina points out.