Shut Out (Bayard Hockey #1)(44)

“What the f*ck are pierogies?” Buck dunks a tortilla chip into salsa. We’re treating ourselves with binge TV shows, junk food, and shots of tequila.

I gape at him. “You don’t know what pierogies are?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus. Every Canadian knows what pierogies are. They’re Ukrainian and they’re f*cking awesome.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I thought Canadians were French, not Ukrainian.”

One of the other Canadians on the team is French, Pascal Bouchard, known as Butch. I laugh. “You’re bullshitting me.”

He grins. “Okay, I know you’re not all French.”

“Watch the show. Let’s see how they put those delicious little pillows of dough and potato together.” I munch on some chips. “I have to confess, I’ve never had homemade pierogies. My mom buys those frozen ones in huge bags at Costco.”

After the pierogies, we learn about diesel engines.

“What would you be if you couldn’t play hockey?” I ask, then toss back another tequila shot.

Buck contemplates that. “Maybe a soccer player—no, a pilot. I’ve always wanted to learn how to fly.”

I nod in approval. “That’s cool.”

“What about you?”

“I’d be an engineer. Maybe a mechanical engineer.”

Then they’re showing us how golf clubs are made. “That’s my backup plan!” I lean forward. “Pro golfer.”

“You any good?”

“Hell yeah.” I give him an offended frown.

“What’s your handicap?”

“Five.”

“Huh. Same here.” Buck lifts his chin. “We need to play.”

“Golf’s for the off-season.”

“Right. As soon as we win the Frozen Four, you and I are hitting the links.”

“You’re on, dude.”

We watch a few more episodes, at which time I realize I’m staring blearily at the TV screen. The tequila shots have snuck up on me with motherf*cking stealth.

“I’m wasted, man,” I tell Buck.

He grins, a loose, mellow grin. “Me too.” He stretches his legs out in front of him, feet on the coffee table, hands behind his head. “So tell me…why’d you come to Bayard?”

“It’s a good school. Great hockey program.”

“Yeah, yeah, but why any school down here? If you were some hot prospect up in Canada, why wouldn’t you stay there?”

It’s obviously the tequila that makes me think it’s a good idea to spill my guts to Buck. I spew a brief version of the story.

“That blows, man.” Buck gives me an unfocused but sympathetic look.

“You believe me?”

He frowns. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”

I shrug and pick a crumb of tortilla chip off the front of my shirt. “Lots of people didn’t.” I don’t want to tell him how much that hurt and pissed me off. “You don’t even know me.”

He’s silent for a moment. “I know you’re not a rapist.”

This strikes me as funny and I start laughing. “That’s high praise.” I guess from him it’s better than nothing.

Surprisingly, he laughs too. “Yeah, that didn’t sound good, did it?”

“So, now you know.” I almost don’t want to give him this much power, but I say, “I’d rather no one else knows about this.”

Buck lays a hand over his heart. “I wouldn’t f*cking tell.”

I swallow. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Hey. I’ll share my own ugly story with you. That way you’ll have something over me too.”

“A good basis for a lasting friendship—blackmail.”

Buck laughs. “Yanno, Flash, I’m kinda getting to like you.”

“Gee thanks. Okay, what’s your story?” I’m thinking he probably did something embarrassing with a chick, like pass out while he was getting a BJ, or accidentally text his mom something meant for his girlfriend.

“Okay. My dad was murdered when I was six years old.”

“Jesus.” I stare at him, my tequila haze suddenly vanished.

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I don’t remember a whole lot, but I know it was never really investigated and they never found who did it. All my life, I grew up thinking it was some kind of robbery gone wrong.”

I nod slowly and pour myself another shot. Then I pour him another shot.

“Thanks. Then about four years ago, I found out that it was actually my uncle who killed him. My mother’s brother, not his own. Apparently they both had drug problems and my dad owed him money.”

My gut tightens painfully. This is awful.

“So my family life wasn’t exactly all happy TV sitcom family.”

I know he’s from Buffalo, but for some reason I thought he came from a well-off family, I guess because of how he likes to dress and the stuff he has.

“After my dad died, my mom didn’t have much and I grew up in a pretty rough neighborhood with a lot of crime. I couldn’t wait to get out of there. So that’s my ugly secret that nobody knows.”

“And I thought mine was bad.” I frown. “You seem to have done okay, despite all that crap.”