Page 111 of That's Too Pucking Bad

“You okay?” she asks, her voice muffled against my chest.

“Yeah,” I lie. It’s automatic at this point.

I pull back just enough to look at her, and before I can stop myself, I lean in and kiss her. She tastes like peppermint and something sweet.

When I finally pull away, she’s staring at me, wide-eyed. “Wow,” she breathes, her lips curving into a smile.

“You’re done with class?” I ask, trying to focus on anything other than the way her dress hugs her curves.

“Yeah,” she says. “I wanted to check on you. Make sure you were alright.”

“I’m fine now,” I say quickly. The lie comes too easily.

She tilts her head, studying me. “So… can we go back to your place? Hang out, have some fun?”

Her words hit me like a slap and a caress all at once. I feel the reaction immediately, a heat pooling low in my stomach, but then the pain flares up again— sharp, searing.

I wince, trying to hide it, but she catches it.

“Zane, are you okay?” she asks, concern lacing her voice.

“I—” My brain scrambles for an excuse. “I’ve got a migraine. Probably from practice. I just need to rest.”

“Oh,” she says, disappointment flashing across her face. “Okay. Do you want me to help? I can—”

“No,” I cut her off, hating how harsh I sound. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later, alright?”

“Alright,” she says softly, stepping back.

I pick up my bag and walk to my car, my chest tight. Sliding into the driver’s seat, I grip the wheel so hard my knuckles turn white.

“Fuck,” I hiss, slamming my fist against the steering wheel. The pain, the frustration, it all boils over, and I punch it again, harder this time.

When I get home, I’m greeted by a guy I’ve never seen before. He’s standing in the living room, holding a clipboard and wearing a no-nonsense expression.

“Zane Coburn?” he asks.

“Yeah. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Eric, your physical therapist. Your father hired me.”

Of course, he did.

Eric steps forward, glancing at my leg. “He told me about your injury. Let’s take a look.”

I drop my bag and sit down, pulling up my shorts enough for him to see the bruise forming along my inner thigh.

He whistles low. “Damn. That’s a mess. How long has it been like this?”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, brushing him off. “What’s the plan?”

“The plan,” he says, crossing his arms, “is rest. That’s what you need.”

“Not an option,” I snap. “I need to play. Fix it.”

“If you keep pushing, you’ll make it worse. You could tear it completely.”

“I don’t care,” I say, my voice rising. “I need to be on the ice. So, whatever you have to do, just do it.”

---