Page 87 of These Pucking Boys: Part Two

“Peaches, please tell me that’s not your car I see in the middle of a wreck.” I force the words out.

“What? Where are you?” She sounds panicked.

From my view across the road, I see a guy knock on the window of the car, then, in the background, I hear a male voice asking if June is okay.

The barbed wire squeezing my heart becomes tighter. “Hell, it is you! It’s okay, my love. I’m coming. I’m coming.”

I run toward her, and my pulse matches my speed. June sounded fine on the phone, so she must be okay. Shehasto be okay. When I finally reach her car, she’s already standing outside speaking to the man who checked on her. The first thing I notice is the big gash on her forehead, and all the blood dripping from it.

“Ryan,” she gasps.

The man steps out of my way, but I don’t dare touch June, afraid she might have injuries I can’t see. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I wasn’t wearing my seat belt, and this is the result.” She points at the gash on her forehead.

“Why weren’t you wearing your seat belt?” My voice rises, making her wince.

“I... I left in a hurry. Someone was following me. I think a paparazzo.”

“What?” I scan the area around us, but I don’t see anyone pointing a professional camera at us.

“Maybe I managed to lose in traffic.”

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I scan her body and mercifully don’t see any other wounds.

“No,” she replies through a choke, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

Before I can stop myself, I pull her into my arms and kiss the top of her head. “You’re okay, my love You’re okay.”

“I was so scared, Ryan,” she sobs.

“It’s just a dent,” the guy near us pipes up. “I didn’t hit your car that hard.”

Anger surges from the pit of my stomach, tingeing my vision red. “You’re the motherfucker who crashed into her car?”

The man takes a step back, eyes widening. “I... uh, I’m sorry, okay? She would have been fine if she’d been wearing a seat belt.”

“Don’t you dare blame her for this? She would have been fine if you hadn’t hit her car!” I yell.

June leans back and touches my face. “Ryan, I’m fine.”

My pulse is pounding in my ears, and my muscles are tense, ready to engage. If she wasn’t in my arms, I might have punched the asshole who crashed into her car.

June stopped crying, but her cheeks are still wet. I wipe her tears with my thumb. “That’s for a doctor to say. You could have a concussion.”

“Hey, aren’t you Ryan Bertrand?” someone in the crowd asks.

Fuck. It didn’t cross my mind that I could be recognized. This isn’t Canada, where hockey players are the biggest celebrities. I don’t know who asked, but I spot several phone cameras pointing at June and me now.

I toss an arm around her shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“I can’t leave. I’m still waiting for the cops.”

“You need medical attention. We aren’t waiting.”

“I don’t mind if you leave.” The guy who caused the accident shrugs.

“I’m sure you don’t,” I grit out.

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