Page 94 of The Stud

He does his best to smile yet falls short.

“You sure you’re going to be alright for a few days?”

“Oui,” Becks brushes off post another swig. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Perhaps because it’s Christmas Eve.”

“And?”

“And not everyone wants to be alone during the holiday.”

“I’m not alone. I’ve got,Ramirez and Warren,” his chin kicks to the flat screen on the wall opposite of him where STN seems to always be playing, “plus I’ve got a great dinner already going.” He rattles the bottle of pills around. “Et le dessert.” Becks tips the bottle in my direction on a half-hearted grin. “Cheers.”

I watch him chug down a few more ounces before offering an exiting nod.

Logically, I know I can’t save someone from themselves.

It’s similar to taking a shot from outside the crease when there are three bodies blocking the way. You’re tempted to do it anyway – after all you’re encouraged to always take the shot – yet you know it’s pointless.

That it’ll most likely result in you losing possession of the puck.

Granting the opposite team the opportunity to score.

Still.

The temptation is there.

The desire to do the logically impossible to hear the crowd cheer for you is so goddamn strong, but it’s still the wrong call.

Wrong move.

Not the one that serves anyone except you.

And that’snotbeing a good teammate.

Which is what Becks needs more than ever.

Particularly because he doesn’t have an actual one to be there for the assist.

Getting to Arden’s house, her and Bear into her jeep, and us on the road basically happens in a blur.

Hell, it isn’t even until I feel an unexpected long, wet swipe of my ear that I break out of the melancholy fog I didn’t realize I was trapped in. “Bloody hell, Bear!”

“Atta boy,” my girlfriend praises while offering him an open palm for a high-five.

“Why are you training yourMadagascaricon back there to attack me?”

“Why did you put us in my jeep to ignore us?”

“I’m not ignoring you.”

“We’ve been on this ‘Highway to Hell’ for almost two hours and you’ve said exactly that many words to me.” Arden pulls her light gray workout pants covered legs into her seat and rests her arms on top of them. “You didn’t even blink twice when I offered to let us listen to Dropkick Murphy’s post my top cheddar Shakira joke.”

It’s impossible to not toss her a mirthful glance. “You made another bad ‘Pucks Don’t Lie’ pun, aye?”

“Excuse you,” she sasses with an irresistible smirk. “I sang it.”

“And why is Shakira always on your speakers?”

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