Page 5 of Zero Pucks

“Get it together, Tucker,” I told myself, shaking my head.

I was being irrational. I had not been robbed. They were just…lost. Or left wherever I had taken them off. But Christ, I felt like I would have remembered hand-walking or being carried up to this room. I wasn’t sure there was any amount of booze that could make me forget something like that.

I peered down and found my jacket on the floor beside the bed. Fumbling with the fabric, I snagged it by the pocket and began to search. My wallet was still in it, all my cards and cash still there. So yeah, I hadn’t been robbed, which was more progress, but still not the damn answer to my question.

Also, I realized as I went through the small pile of clothes, my pants were missing.

My boxers, my shirt, and my jacket had all made it upstairs with me, but that was it.

Maybe they took the pants with my legs? But seriously, what kind of fucking weirdo did that? I did not want to know. I needed to get out of this room before they got back and wanted to have an awkward conversation about it.

My bladder took that moment to let me know it needed to be emptied. I searched my wallet for my room key, and thank God it was still there, but my only option of getting out was scooting on my ass, walking on my hands, or crawling across the floor.

The last one would have my trainer out for my head. I’d been out of commission twice last season for ignoring pressure sores, and I thought rug burn would qualify as breaking my promise that I was going to take better care of my limbs.

I was an expert at hand-walking, so I supposed so long as I didn’t run into any kids and scare the bejeezus out of them, I could get to my room without incident.

People would stare—and it was Vegas, so it wasn’t like the hotel was empty—but hey. I’d done worse things. My one winter Paralympics ended because of my antics in public, so yeah. This was par for the course.

Sliding to the floor, I quickly did a once-around the room to make sure my legs really weren’t anywhere to be found. It was a large suite with a huge bathroom and a tub with jets, which made me a little sad that I hadn’t been able to enjoy them.

Or…had I?

Damn it! At this point, it was impossible to know what the hell had gone on the night before.

The more I tried to remember what happened after I walked into the lobby, the blacker my memory got. My head started to ache, and it was as I began sliding toward the toilet that I realized I was hungover.

Oftentimes, body aches tended to fade into the background. Not only was I an amputee with persistent nerve pain, but I was also a hockey player. Sled hockey was arguably more violent, only because we were right there on the ice, all up in each other’s shit. We had two sticks with pointy ends and long blades beneath us.

It was my kind of sport, for sure. It helped take all the edge off my aggression, but I usually left the rink looking like a sunset.

But it did make recognizing the quiet throb of a hangover that much harder.

My stomach roiled as I pulled myself up onto the toilet to unleash my bladder, and while I thought I would feel better, somehow, I felt worse. I was starting to sweat, and the more I carried my body weight on my arms, the more they began to shake.

This was not normal. I was far from out of shape. I must have really fucked myself up the night before.

Grabbing what little of my things remained with me, I slung my jacket around my neck like a scarf and put my wallet between my teeth before opening the door. I peered left to right, my heart thumping hard, but the universe was smiling on me because there wasn’t a soul in the hallway.

Now, I just had to figure out where I was and how far I had to go to get to my room. I scooted on my butt into the hall, and as the door swung shut, I looked up at the little plaque beside it and squinted up through my glasses to see the numbers.

The sign read 1506. Fuck my life. I had to go down six floors?

Fine, whatever. I could do this. If I could get to an empty elevator, I could make it without killing myself or passing out—both of which felt like a real, genuine possibility with the way this hangover was making me feel.

The only problem? Where the hell was the elevator? Rolling my shoulders back, I leaned forward on my hands and lifted my ass into the air, beginning the long arm-walk toward…well. Wherever this hallway was leading. I got about twenty feet around the corner when I finally saw the sign on the wall indicating elevators were in the opposite direction from the way I’d come.

I kind of wanted to cry. I couldn’t go back. I wasn’t going to make it. My arms were shaking, and now my stomach felt like it was trying to crawl all the way up my throat.

If I kept this up any longer, I was going to throw up on the nice, plush carpet, and I couldn’t afford the cleaning bill. Hell, I couldn’t afford this trip. I was here on my brother’s dime, and—oh God. Was this his doing?

Was this a prank?

I forced myself to breathe. There was no way Killian would be this cruel. And pranks weren’t really his style. Obviously we hadn’t gone to college together, but every time he’d come home on break, all he did was bitch about his frat brothers giving him shit because he was against hazing.

The one good personality trait he had going for him.

So yeah, no. This wasn’t him. This was me promising both Killian and Ford that I was going to get drunk and make bad decisions. Which, apparently, I had. I needed to give up though. I really wasn’t going to make it.

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