Page 4 of Zero Pucks

“Tuck—”

“Seriously, stop fucking calling me that. Have a good night. Enjoy your last stint as a free man.” I shot him a wave without looking back to see the expression he was wearing, and I slowly made my way back into the lobby.

“Fuck it,” I muttered to myself. “I’m going to go make a mistake.”

If only I had a clue how that single declaration was about to change my life forever.

CHAPTERONE

TUCKER

I was notin my bed. I dragged my hands over the sheets, and yep, they were all silky and much more expensive than the starched white ones in the crap room my brother had paid for.

So…where the fuck was I?

It always took my eye a little while to adjust in the mornings. Bright light filtered through gauzy curtains, and I felt a small measure of panic because there was no way this was my room. My hand fumbled over the top of the nightstand, and thank God, my glasses were there.

I shoved them onto my face and blinked until the room began to clear as much as my eye was able to see. And it was confirmed: I was somewhere else. This was not my hotel at all.

Except no. Wait. In the corner of the room, the casino logo was etched into the mirror, just like the one I’d woken up to the other day.

I turned to my left, staring at the wide expanse of bed next to me. It was rumpled and used but empty. Turning to the right, I glanced out the slit in the curtain and was pretty damn sure I was at least six or seven stories higher than my room.

My mouth also tasted like I’d been gnawing on a dead rat all evening, and there was the faint scent of bourbon coming from my pores.

That explained a lot. I wasn’t great with alcohol on a good day. After my accident, I rarely indulged. Alcohol fucked with the medication I took to help my nerve pain, and also, sometimes the smell of it brought me back to the night of the accident, and yeah.

That was not a night I liked to relive.

I was not surprised I’d gotten blackout drunk after leaving Killian in the parking lot though. Especially after he made it very well known he hadn’t wanted me there in the first place.

The last thing I clearly remembered was the conversation Killian and I had outside, and that had not been pretty. My guts churned. They felt hollow and empty.

Jesus, I needed to get out of there. Scooting to the edge of the bed, I scanned the room for any sign of my legs, and my heart sank into the bottom of my stumps. I might not have had the best vision, but two random prosthetic legs were hard to miss, and they were nowhere to be found.

Shit. Was I still alone?

This was Vegas, for fuck’s sake. There was every chance I’d come up here with a prostitute—and Christ, if I did, I hoped he was hot. If I was going to make that kind of decision, he’d better have abs I could bounce a quarter off of.

“Hello?” I tried.

I was met with an echo, but there wasn’t another sound in the rest of the room. That was good. Maybe. Or terrible. I’d read horror stories like this too many times during insomnia-induced conspiracy deep dives on the internet.

My hand flew to my naked back, searching for new stitches where my kidneys and liver should be. Everything felt intact, and I wasn’t in a tub full of ice, so that was a plus. Now, all I had to do was find my missing legs.

Maybethatwas it. Maybe this was a leg heist.

It wasn’t totally unrealistic. My prosthetics literally cost more than a ten-year mortgage on a tiny home. The only reason I could afford the fancy ones I had was because the NHL organization felt bad for me in spite of the fact that the accident had been entirely my fault, and they made a big deal about making sure my legs would always be paid for.

And, to their credit, they’d held up that part of the bargain. Was it a PR ploy to avoid scandal surrounding their latest prospect? Probably. But I was going to take whatever they were willing to give me. I worked as a peewee hockey coach, for fuck’s sake. I could barely afford my rent.

So yeah, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone wanted to steal them and sell them on the black market.

I had no idea what I was going to tell my rep, of course. How did I explain that I’d gotten shit-faced the week before my brother was going to marry my ex, went upstairs with a stranger-possibly-prostitute, and found myself robbed of my ninety-thousand-dollar limbs?

I guess the truth could work. They were probably used to me being blunt, and I was sure they’d heard weirder stories than this one.

Hopefully.

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