Page 93 of The Stud

Thankfully, Arden doesn’t immediately believe the reports like she used to, but I look forward to the day I do not have to constantly explain myself.

That she simply sees them and knows.

Believes.

Which would be a day that could grace us with its debut much sooner if we weren’t on the same team – so to speak.

Two taps on the guest bedroom door in my apartment inform me that it’s not actually closed; however, when I stroll inside, Becks’ immediate frozen disposition clearly displays he believed otherwise.

My eyes cut the half empty bottle of vodka in his possession a curious glance before closing in on the hand that’s partially hidden by the charcoal comforter. “Tell me your dick is in your other hand.”

He swiftly reveals to me the bottle of prescription pills with a cheesy grin.

“Honestly would’ve preferred you wanking it, mate.”

“To killin’ my pain?”

“To killingyourself.”

He rolls his head as well as his eyes. “Get off my jock about that shit, Frosky.” It takes no more than a flick of the thumb to move the lid. “I’m not crashing here for you to lecture me in between banging your broadskie, aye.”

He’s crashing here because he didn’t have anywhere else to bloody go.

No bunnies were willing to house a hockey player that doesn’t actuallyplayhockey.

No so-called friends in other leagues were willing to have an out-of-work couch crasher.

And no other ex-teammates were willing to even answer his call to share a hotel discount rate that most of us get through a rep.

It’s like once he left the league the world stopped giving a fuck about him.

Overlooked that he even existed.

Being Gretzky is every puckheads greatest dream…while being completely forgotten is every puckheads greatest nightmare.

One that he is most certainly living.

“Becks-”

“I’m fine,” he insists prior to shaking the container into his open mouth, clearly giving no shit about the dosage. “Juste une petite douleur dans ma jambe, bud.”

Yesterday the “little pain” wasn’t in his leg but his shoulder.

Last week it was his back.

Before that it was his ankle.

Becks always claims he’s in some sort of pain unless he’s got a crest on his vest, which tellsmethe real pain isn’t physical.

It’s bloody mental.

And no amount of pills or booze is gonna handle that.

I casually lean my black sweater covered bicep against the door frame and announce, “I’m headed out for the holiday-”

“Already?” Becks pours an entire mouthful of liquor, gulps it in one go, and uses the back of his bottle holding hand to wipe away any remains. “I thought your flight to Highland wasn’t until late tonight.”

“It is; however, my gift to Hoss is a road trip away from here, hence why my ass is up like I’m headed for pracky rather than to pick her up.”

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