Page 9 of Pucking the Grump

And in Stone’s book, Barb’s well-being absolutely comes before mine.

As it should. After all, Barb is his fur baby. I’m just the fuck buddy who kind of sort of dumped him two days ago.

My vision blurs with the tears I’ve been trying to hold back since the tire blew with a heart-stopping pop that sent me fishtailing onto the shoulder.

I shouldn’t be crying. Lauders don’t cry over flat tires. We don’t cry over almost anything. Even when Mom died. Aside from those last few moments at her bedside, I never saw Dad cry a single time, not even at her funeral.

Lauders don’t whine and whimper and “woe is me.” We pick ourselves up, brush ourselves off, and push forward, refusing to let the cruel world break us.

But I’ve been pushing so hard for so long…

For nearly three years straight, I’ve worked long days at the Badger admin office—wrangling paperwork, schedules, and the behind-the-scenes business of running an NHL team—before dashing straight to my latest coaching gig, to volunteer work at local schools, or to the gym to keep myself in the kind of shape that engenders respect in other athletes.

Now, I’ve added in prepping for the biggest interview of my life while coaching my best amateur team ever. The Frosted Bushtits—allegedly named after the American Bushtit, a bird native to Oregon, but we all know that bird on the jerseys isn’t fooling anyone—could win it all this year. I really don’t want to let them down.

Usually, just thinking about the Bushtits and how much I enjoy coaching the smart, hardworking, hilarious players on my team is enough to make me smile.

But right now, I’m just too damned tired.

I’m exhausted and starting to get genuinely scared as the light continues to fade and another truck—this one a white pickup, whose driver is clearly staring at his phone—swerves dangerously close to the shoulder.

He looks up from his screen in time, but just barely, leaving me trembling.

If Stone doesn’t get here soon, I might actually die out here. On the side of the road. Just another pathetic cautionary tale that won’t stop anyone from texting and driving because people who text and drive are stupid and careless, and stupid, careless people never learn their lesson until it’s way too late.

A sob bursts from my throat before I can stop it, and the dam finally breaks.

Hot tears spill down my cheeks as I toss my cell into the open purse at my feet. Why have I been clinging to a dead phone anyway? Cell phones are just like people: they don’t magically come back to life, not ever, no matter how much you want them to.

I swipe at my face with the backs of my hands as another pair of headlights rounds the nearby curve. But this person is actually going the speed limit, then slower than the speed limit…

I straighten, heart beating faster, as the vehicle continues to slow as it nears my car’s flashing hazards. Then Stone’s SUV pulls onto the shoulder behind my car, and I exhale a ragged breath.

I should be relieved, comforted, but instead, for some dumb reason, the tears only come faster.

Stone jumps out, dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved Henley, looking rumpled and worried and unfairly handsome in the deepening twilight.

“Hey, there you are,” he says, jogging toward me. “Sorry, traffic was nasty getting out of the city.” As he gets close enough to see my face, his expression shifts from concern to alarm. “What’s wrong, Rem? Are you hurt?”

I shake my head, trying to regain my composure, but another monster truck chooses that moment to roar past. The wind buffets us both, making me flinch and my already frazzled nerves feel like they’re being electrocuted.

“No, I’m fine. Sorry, I’m just—” I break off with a sob, and to my absolute mortification, I’m suddenly crying even harder.

Not delicate tears, but full-on, ugly crying like I haven’t in years.

Stone is at my side in a heartbeat, pulling me against his chest. “Oh, babe. It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he murmurs into my hair. “It’s scary out here. I get it. People drive like assholes. I’m sorry it took me so long. There was an accident on the bridge, and everything was backed up for miles.”

I should pull away, wipe my eyes, and get my game face back on. But he’s so warm and snugly, and his arms feel so good.

So safe.

“I c-couldn’t get the jack in the right place,” I manage between hiccupping breaths. “It’s either broken or my car is deformed or I’m stupid. And the trucks kept getting so close, and half the people are texting and driving and?—”

“I get it. Fuck people. I hate them. All of them. Except you.” His arms tighten around me as he kisses the top of my head. “And you’re not stupid. Spare jacks are notoriously pieces of shit. But I’ve got a good one in my truck.” He pulls back to guide my hair from my face, before brushing my tears away with a smile. “Let’s get you packed up safe and sound in the Range Rover, and I’ll come back and take care of the tire, okay?”

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” I say, my voice thick from crying. “I mean, I’m in distress, obviously. But I can help you. I know how to change a tire. I’ve done it before, just…not for a long time.”

He nods. “I believe you. But you’re really upset. And seeing you upset makes me upset. And when I’m upset, I forget how to use tools. This is a me problem, is what I’m saying, not a you problem. So, I’m going to need you to sit in the car so that my easily overwhelmed man brain can function.”

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