Page 92 of Grumpy Puck

“And you can’t leave until we have some drinks to wish you farewell,” Coach adds.

This idea is met with cheers all around.

Fuck.At some point these assholes stopped hating me as much as they did before, and I guess I can almost stand having them around.Hell, I might even have to visit this shithole from time to time—purely because they are all sentimental ninnies.

“Can I have a word with you in private?”Dante asks, looking more serious.

I skate away, and when we’re out of everyone’s earshot, he asks, “When in the Big Apple, are you planning on visiting a certain theater?”

I give him a look so vicious he manages to pale another shade, which I didn’t think possible, but here we are.“Go to the dick.”

“Fine.None of my business.I get it.”

He skates away, his shoulders stooped.Regardless, I want to give chase and punch his kidneys for putting the thought back into my head.

Not that it hasn’t been there for over a month now, like a broken record.No matter how hard I’ve worked on the ice or how much progress I’ve made with the foundation, treacherous “what if” thoughts have kept popping up, like a splinter from a cheap hockey stick.

What if I’d left that dinner more politely?What if I’d groveled a little more before she left?

Fuck… what if I called her now?Wrote to her?Visited her?

Those last three are the killers, and it’s taken all the willpower I possess to not give in to the temptation to reach out… and, lately, I’ve forgotten why I resist it so much.

Am I a fucking masochist?

My phone dings.

Oh, fuck.It’s the guy I hired from a freelancer site.

I get off the ice, perch on a bench, and debate if I should watch the video that I commissioned.A video that is likely going to make the “what ifs” infinitely worse.

Fuck.Who am I kidding?My fucking excuse for willpower is useless.If it weren’t, I wouldn’t have hired the guy in the first place.

So, I play the video of Calliope’s first show, and I’m glad that I’m sitting—and that I’m away from my knucklehead teammates.If my eyes are misty by the end of it—and they’re totally not—the last thing I want is to have to kill anyone for teasing me.

Calliope was magnificent.She and her rats.And it was the first show.It’s only going to get better from here.To be honest, I couldn’t imagine the rats could bethatentertaining, but they were, especially as they played their little soccer game, which has gotten a lot more sophisticated since I last saw it performed.

Fuck.I totally am a masochist.All the pain I felt when she left—it’s back with a vengeance.As is the desperate desire to get in touch with her, or go after her, or?—

You know what?Fuck it.I can’t take this shit anymore.

I’m going to call her, and if she tells me to go to hell, so be it.I doubt I can feel shittier than I have this whole time without her.

Heart hammering viciously in my chest, I dial her number—and hear a phone ring near the entrance to the rink.The ringtone isThe Hockey Songby Stompin’ Tom Connors.

Weird.

As I wait for her to pick up, that ringtone keeps blasting.My chest squeezes when I get her voicemail.

Fuck.

I hang up and call her again—only to hear that same ring tone right behind me.

No.

Can’t be.

Pushing to my feet, I turn around and frown.

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