Page 8 of Pucking the Grump

After grabbing our pool toys, Tank and I join her in a long float. The conversation shifts to safer topics like training camp and whether the new Bucky the Badger retro merch line is cool or creepy. (I say, both.) But my mind keeps circling back to Tank’s accusation.

Have I been expecting Remy to read my mind?

I mean, I think I’ve been pretty obvious about how important she is to me, how much I care, but maybe I’m wrong. Or maybe she thinks I’m like that with all my casual lady friends, and she’s nothing special.

But she is.

But what if I’m not special to her? What if I come clean and she winces and lets me down easy, ending this on-again-off-again thing between us for good?

For the first time in my life, the prospect of rejection is enough to stop me in my tracks. I’ve always gone after the things I wanted, full throttle, but Remy isn’t a thing and this whole situation is so fucking complicated.

By the time Tank and Steph head out, the sun is beginning to set. I take Barb, the best chihuahua in the whole world and my sweet baby fur princess, out for her evening walk and feed her before sinking into a lounger on my private deck. As the evening light above the city skyline turns from pink and gold to a darker orange, I do some serious soul searching.

For as long as I can remember, hockey has been my number one. Every decision, every sacrifice, every relationship or lack thereof—all of it has been in service to the game. Now, with retirement looming on the horizon after this season, I’m facing a future without the one thing that’s given me purpose and focus for so long.

But watching Tank and Stephanie today, seeing the way they look at each other, the future they’re building together...

I want something like that. I want it as much as I did at the beginning of the summer, when I decided it was time to push Remy for what ended up being our one-and-only disastrous date. And yes, it was scary, almost getting caught by my teammates, but there will come a time when that won’t matter. In nine short months, I won’t be a Badger or one of her dad’s players anymore.

Would that make a difference to Remy? If I dare to point it out?

I’m still sitting there in my now-dry suit, marinating in indecision, when my phone buzzes on the small table beside my lounger.

I reach over, thinking it might be Tank.

Maybe he and Steph forgot something or just want to say thanks for a fun afternoon.

But it isn’t Tank or one of my brunch buddies or Sheila from the crafting co-op texting to see if I want to start the beginning crochet class series next week.

It’s Remy. And she’s in trouble if her text is anything to judge by.

She shoots me a highway name and mile marker along with—Phone about to die. Also about to be run over by semi-trucks and can’t get the jack in the right place to change my flat tire. Please come. SOS!

In a heartbeat, I’m out of my chair, dashing into my bedroom to throw on clothes as I text—Be right there!

And I will.

As fast as my secretly smitten legs and Range Rover can carry me.

Chapter 3

Remy

I should have called my father.

The thought hammers at the base of my skull as I huddle against the guardrail, my car tilted sadly on its blown tire just a few feet away. The sun has just dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of orange and purple that would be beautiful under any other circumstances. But here, on this busy stretch of highway with semis and cars whizzing past at ninety miles an hour, the approaching darkness feels threatening.

Another truck barrels past, so close to the shoulder that the blast of air lifts my hair off my shoulders and rattles my car on the stupid spare tire jack I can’t seem to position correctly. My heart jams into my throat as the vehicle’s massive rear tire momentarily drifts toward the white line.

“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, shrinking back against the metal barrier. A few more inches, and I’d be roadkill. Or forced to throw myself down the rocky embankment behind me.

Just how I wanted to spend my Sunday night after an exhausting weekend— choosing between certain death and likely death.

I don’t want to be contemplating any kind of death. I just want to be home in bed with the covers pulled up over my head, pretending I’m not staring down another high-stress week of work after having zero time to recharge.

I glance at my phone, but it’s still as dead as it was forty minutes ago when I texted Stone. I guess I should be glad it stayed functional long enough for me to receive his text that he was on his way, but what if that wasn’t the whole message?

What if he texted “right after my food delivery gets here in thirty minutes,” or “as soon as Barb finally decides where to poop” or something, and I’m going to be stuck here even longer than I thought? Barb is the cutest little spoiled brat in the world, but Stone’s pampered chihuahua takes a notoriously long time to decide where to leave her three precious turds.

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