Page 22 of Zero Pucks

My anxiety induced anger didn’t seem to faze him at all. “I know that there are rules when it comes to legal marriages, and you have to file a marriage license. It’s very unlikely that you managed to be drunk enough to forget yet coherent enough to be granted one. And you said yourself you woke up alone the next day. Unless this—what did Ford say his name was?”

“Amedeo,” I said, testing the sound of it on my tongue. It was terrifyingly familiar. “Amedeo. What kind of name is that?”

“Sounds Italian,” Boden answered like I was asking literally. “Unless Amedeo filed the license the next day—which I doubt, considering he wasn’t even around to meet you in the morning—it’s probably…”

“A nothing burger,” I finished for him.

He wrinkled his nose. He hated that phrase.

“So why is he, like, at our house?” I was starting to panic again and shoved my face back in the bag. “Oh God, I think I’m going to puke.”

“Not in there, you’re not,” he snapped, tugging the bag away from me. “Open the window.”

“I’m not being serious, you dick.” I yanked the bag out of his hands and took a deep breath of his feet stench. My shoulders relaxed, and I took a moment to hope I didn’t develop some kind of weird fetish for sweaty toes after this. “Seriously though. Why would he come here if it’s nothing?”

“It’s possible he’s trying to piece together that night just like you.” He pulled to the stoplight that was at the corner of our condo unit and rolled to a stop. I was still close to hyperventilating. “Tucker.” His voice was uncharacteristically kind. He stretched out his hand and brushed a touch over the back of my neck. It was instantly soothing. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you, and neither will Ford.”

I didn’t know why that brought me back down to earth. Maybe it was the truth of it. We weren’t the nicest guys—none of us really had ever been. We all had chips on our shoulders and tragic pasts that made people like us hard to love.

Boden was a chronic rule follower, even when he occasionally rebelled. Ford and I were the fuckups, which was why we’d probably never make more than minimum wage and never be team captain.

But we were family. And we would live and die by the rule that no one—no matter who they were—would ever be able to hurt one of us.

If this were happening to Ford or Boden right now, I’d be saddling up to ride to war.

“I’m going to call Ford and see what’s going on.”

Boden smacked my hand away from my pocket. “You aren’t. You’re going to sit in the parking lot and take a few more deep breaths. You’re going to use your cane when you walk up to the house so you don’t fall on your face in front of this stranger,” he instructed. “And you’re going to calmly but firmly ask him what he wants.”

“Guide me,” I begged. I didn’t want to use my cane. Too many people saw it was a weakness. As a way of taking advantage of me. I didn’t know this stranger, and I didn’t want to give him the impression that I was an easy mark.

He sighed. “It’ll be your job not to trip over my wheels, then.”

I could do that. But I wasn’t feeling any better. This guy had really tracked me down, showed up here, told Ford he was my husband, and for what?

“Do you think he’s some kind of weird fetish serial killer who has a thing for amputees?” I asked, half-hysterical again as he pulled into his parking spot.

He gave me a look. “I think you’d have been dead in Vegas if that was the case.”

“But, like, what if I karate chopped him in the balls and he ran off and that’s why he wasn’t in bed with me. And now he’s coming back for revenge.”

“You’ve been watching Micah’s creepy indie horror movies too much,” Boden said flatly. He turned the car off, then twisted his body to face me, taking me by the shoulders. “He’s probably just confused and wants to know who you are and why this all happened.”

“Well, I don’t have an answer for that,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I mean, what do I even say? I was sad and pathetic sitting at a bar while my brother partied with his frat boy friends before his wedding to my ex?”

Boden’s mouth twitched.

“Fuck you. Don’tlaugh.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m not laughing. But you never know. Maybe his story is worse.”

I couldn’t imagine how, but the longer I sat there, the more I realized that logic was the only way I was going to survive this. I couldn’t let myself get caught up in panic and conspiracy theory. He was just some guy I’d met at a bar. He was probably hot because I could be a real shallow prick when I was drunk, and he was probably a twink because I could also be a real picky prick when I was drunk.

I probably took advantage of him too, which made me feel worse.

“I don’t know if we had sex.”

“One more question for your list,” Boden said. “Wait right there for me.”

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