Sincerely, The Puck Bunny (Totally Pucked #2)(6)
“Alright, got it. Yes. Yes. Okay… yes. Will do. Got it. Thanks.”
Conrad’s five foot three, balding, and wears Armani three-piece suits every damn day of his life. He’s been with me since I was drafted, and I trust him with my life. He’s handled every mishap, every fuck-up, every single thing I’ve gotten myself into, and he’s somehow dug me out of all of it. He’s a ruthless, cunning mother fucker, but I know that he’ll handle things no matter what.
So when he looks up at me and says, “Briggs, my man, I’ve got some bad news, and you might want to sit down for this,” my stomach plummets.
Bad news? I’ve had enough bad news in the past three years to last a lifetime. Like when my contract was on hold, and they refused to renew it until I got my act together. The endorsements that I lost. Hell, I’ve spent more time in the penalty box than on the ice until recently.
Fuck, are they gonna drop me from the Avalanches?
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t immediately speak up.
“Your brother is having a baby.”
The floor sways beneath my feet, and I grip onto the kitchen counter to stay upright.
“I’m sorry, Briggs. I know it can’t be easy to hear. I’m sorry, son.” Conrad looks at me with pity in his eyes, and it’s what I hate most of all.
Fucking pity. The fact that everyone in the entire world knows what happened to me. They know how broken I am, how hollow, how much I hate myself more than anything. They’ve watched me spiral and fuck up my life. The entire world has sat back and watched it from their smartphones or on the televisions in their living rooms. A mother-fucking front row seat.
And now… life has a cruel way of pouring salt on a busted open wound.
I should’ve known that nothing stays okay for long.
Three
Imagine the two people you trusted more than anyone in the world betraying you. Slicing your heart open, then watching it bleed out without ever lifting a finger to stop it. Then picture seeing that reminder day in and day out, realizing not only did they wound you, they betrayed you in the worst way imaginable, and the world has a fucked-up way of never letting you forget it.
That pain doesn’t stop. There’s not a switch you can just flip off. You can only ignore it for so long before it becomes a permanent, dull ache somewhere deep inside of you.
When the news of Beau’s kid broke, the last thing I wanted to do was stay in Chicago, where the entire world has a front row seat to the worst betrayal I’ve ever known. I wanted to put my fist through the wall and break everything in my house, but instead, I drank an entire bottle of whiskey, puked my guts out and then went to bed.
Alone. Just like every other night.
The next afternoon, when I was able to crack my eyes open, I found my phone under the couch with a text message from Conrad, saying he booked me four days at a small inn off of Lake Geneva. I guess he knew I would need time to digest this and come to terms with it, and the last thing he wanted was to find me on the home page of The Puck Bunny’s site with another headline. Hopefully by the time I make it home, the tabloids will have found something else to latch onto. If only it was that easy.
I log into my phone then turn off notifications and silence it for the rest of the day. I don’t answer calls from the guys, my parents, or Conrad.
I need to be alone to process this, and the feeling of betrayal that’s once again rearing its ugly head.
Sitting in my truck, staring at the doors of the Brickhouse Inn, trying to keep my head from going to places I don’t want to visit, a storm brews above me, painting the sky an onyx color that settles over the Inn. Heavy, fat raindrops begin to fall, splattering against my truck.
It’s soothing in a way. The rhythmic beat of the rain against the tin of the inn’s roof, and I realize this probably is the best thing for me. I need time away from Chicago to clear my head. To not be surrounded by daily reminders from the media and my family of everything I’ve endured in the past two years.
Outside, the rain begins to fall harder, and if I don’t get out now, I’ll only end up stuck in a downpour. My phone beeps with a weather alert, and it looks like this storm isn’t going to blow over anytime soon. I sigh heavily, grabbing my duffle bag that’s in the passenger seat, then shut my truck off. The second I open the door, the wind crashes against it and rain pelts my face.
Holy shit.
The wind whips and billows as I make my way to the wrap-around porch of the inn, finally taking shelter under it. I shake my hair, trying to get some of the rain out of my eyes. The damn sky all of a sudden opened up with a torrential downpour.
My fingers wrap around the slick metal of the door handle and I wrench it open, stepping inside. Rain still drips from my hair onto my already soaked shirt and bag as I stand in the entry way. I scan the small room, my eyes dragging over the antique furniture, and realize that it’s a lot cozier than I expected.
At this point, Hell is probably a lot more comfortable than outside right now.
“Hi, checking in?”
An older lady with light gray hair and a pair of thin-framed glasses walks into the room. She’s wearing a long dress with a light pink apron tied around her neck that’s covered in flour, as if she’s come right out of the kitchen from baking something.
“Hi, I’m here to check in. I called ahead...” Lowering my voice, I say, “Briggs Wilson?”