Pucked Off (Pucked #5)(82)

“What was your fault?”

He shakes his head taps his temple. “She messed with my head all the time, my mum did. That night I met you for the first time, I wasn’t supposed to be at that party. I’d snuck out of the house through my bedroom window, like teenagers do. Or like I did, anyway. There was some big tryout the next morning for the top league in the city—on my birthday, right? My mum kept telling me she knew I was going to fail, and then we’d have to go back to Scotland. She said I better not dare do that to her.

“I figured what was the point? I was going to screw it up anyway, like I did everything else, so I went out, got drunk, and ended up in that closet with you.” He smiles a little and brushes my fingertips over his lips.

“When I got home, my mum was waiting for me in the garage. She was so pissed. And she was wasted, or high—or both maybe. Like, so fucked up. That was the night my aunt found out what was going on. She walked into the garage right when my mom was in the middle of her smackdown. She had boxing gloves on so she didn’t mess up her nails. Usually she’d keep to areas that weren’t visible, but not that night.”

He pauses, lost within himself for a moment. “Things got real messy after that for a while. And I shut out every single memory I could. All the good ones, all the bad ones. Everything. I buried it all.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It is what it is. I can’t change it now, so I try not to think about it too much. But stuff like that, it doesn’t ever really go away. Even when you try to put it in a box, it finds a way out.” He releases a long, slow breath, his expression pained as he touches my face with shaky fingertips. “I probably shouldn’t have told you any of that.”

I cover his hand with mine and turn my face into his palm to kiss it. “I’m glad you felt safe enough to share that with me.”

“I’m fucked up, Poppy.”

“We all have demons. It makes us human, not fucked up.”

“I tried to have a girlfriend my sophomore year of high school. It didn’t go so well.”

“Why not?”

“I discovered how much I don’t like being touched.”

His aversion makes more sense now. “I touch you.”

“It’s different with you. I don’t know if it’s ’cause of our history or what, but this…closeness, how I am with you, this isn’t how it usually is.”

“And how is it usually?” My stomach knots. The things I want to hide from are too close.

Lance closes his eyes, and his jaw clenches. When he looks back at me, he seems as scared as I feel right now. “I don’t really wanna answer that question.”

“Why not?”

“’Cause then you’ll know exactly how fucked up I am.”

I reach up and touch his cheek. He gathers both of my hands in his and clasps them together, bowing his head and pressing his lips to my exposed knuckles, almost like a prayer. “I don’t deserve this. You. I don’t deserve this kind of goodness. I shouldn’t be here, taking all these things from you when they shouldn’t be mine.”

“Lance.”

He looks up at me through narrowed eyes, and his fear vibrates through him.

“You’re not taking. I’m giving. Our pasts are part of who we are. They may shape us, but they don’t govern our future paths if we don’t want them to.”

“What we’re doing here is different than what I know.”

“Do you want it to be different than it is?”

“No, I want this, but the last time I tried it backfired really bad.”

We’re talking in a circle, skirting the parts of this that could hurt us both. “Because of something you did?”

“Yeah. No. Sort of.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember how I told you about that girl I was seeing last year and how it didn’t end well?”

I nod.

“It was a complicated situation. I wanted something she didn’t.”

“Which was what?”

“For it just to be us. Her and me. But she wasn’t interested in that.”

“What did she want?”

“To mess with my head.”

“I won’t play head games. I’m not like that.”

“You don’t strike me as the type.” His smile is almost shy. “I won’t do that to you, either. That’s definitely not what I want.”

“What do you want?” There’s a lot riding on this. I’m already past the point of no return where my heart is concerned, so I have to protect myself as best I can.

“Just you.”

It seems to be a common phrase with him. I have to get clarity. “What does that mean exactly?”

Panic flares behind his eyes, and I can see he’s struggling with words. In this moment I realize how much damage has been done to him. Prolonged, sustained physical and emotional abuse has a lasting impact.

So much finally makes sense now as I filter back to the first time he was on my table—and further back, to the night at the bar, where he was edgy and stressed over the way people kept bumping into him, and to the kiss in the closet when he wrapped my arms around his neck and told me to keep them there. That that was the real him.