Page 37 of Absolutely Pucked
“Oh. God, I—” He stopped and frowned. “Actually, that’s not something I ever thought about. Then again, I’ve never really thought about what I wanted to do with my life at all.” Bowing his head over his plate, he shrugged. “I wasn’t really good at school. It was hard to concentrate after my parents threw me out. I ended up not being able to graduate, so I just took my GED and left home the second I was legal.”
That was not what I was expecting him to say. Not that I knew him well enough to form any real expectations, but it was odd to hear him say it. Which was probably just the privilege I had spending most of my life with Ivy League grads.
Fuck, I felt like such a snob.
“I don’t think you need a Cordon Bleu education to be a chef.” I stabbed my fork through a piece of very tender pineapple and fought back a groan at how good it tasted. I didn’t know when I’d have to give this up again, but I hoped I got to stay for a little while.
Ford hummed softly and shrugged. “I mean, it’s whatever. I don’t have a shitty life. It does kind of suck being so far behind my friends though. Bodie’s about to get drafted onto a pro sled team, and Tucker just got promoted to head coach for the Legends.”
“The Legends?”
He waved his fork at me. “Professional blind hockey. Think NHL levels, but a little less pay becausethe system is still ableist as fuck. But it’s a fucking amazing job.”
“Oh.” My throat got a little tight, and I realized the feeling was pride. “So he never had to give up on hockey at all, did he?”
Ford grinned like it was his own accomplishment. “Nah, man. And I’m fucking thrilled for him. He got a huge raise and shit. He and his hubby?—”
My veins went cold. “Husband?”
Ford didn’t quite look apologetic, but there was a tiny spark of regret in his eyes. “It’s a long story. Um…and it’s not really mine to tell, so?—”
“No, no. It’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but I had no right to demand more. “That’s just…I’m happy for him. I’m surprised he decided to quit playing though.”
Ford sighed and glanced away. “I’m not. I think the fire died when he had his accident. He just wasn’t ready to give it up back then. Have, uh—have you watched a sled hockey game before?”
My chest ached at the fact that he had to ask. “Yeah. I watched him on TV during the Olympics. And there was some other game before that against Canada? He could have gone pro, you know.”
Ford laughed softly. “Yeah, I know. And technically, he has with this new job. He’s really close friends with a bunch of the guys on the Legends, and they’re happy to have a blind coach.”
It felt weird to call my brother blind, even though he was. It was just a mark of how much time we’d spent apart. It brought back rough, painful memories of holding his hand in the hospital, a thick patch on oneeye, a blue-scarred iris staring blankly at me on the other side.
And I remembered the first day he’d gotten light perception back.
And then the first night he’d been able to make out the contours of my face.
I let him cry, and then I went home and scream-sobbed into my pillow because such a small thing meant so much, and that wasn’t fair. He’d fucked up a lot, and he was the one who’d made the dipshit decision to get high and get behind the wheel, but he hadn’t deserved all the pain that came with those consequences.
“…think it’ll make things better,” Ford was saying. I’d lost half the conversation, and I tried to focus on the present. “Anyway, yeah. So he and Bodie are doing their thing, which is great. But I don’t know if I’m actually content to do this for the rest of my life or if I want to switch it up.”
“Will you stop playing since it’s just some community league?”
He looked mortally offended. “Fuckyou, dude. That’s my team.”
“I didn’t mean…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t sure if the team was supposed to be a pit stop between that and the pros or not.”
Ford took a breath, then sat back. “For some of them, it’s everything. For some of the guys, it’s a path to regaining what they lost.”
“What is it for you?”
He pushed away from the table and stood up,looking down at me. “It’s my family. Probably not something you’d understand.”
And then he turned and walked off. I’d fucked up somehow—once again getting it wrong. I was never going to be good at this, and the only saving grace was that at least Ford could now understand I was telling the truth when I told him that night that if he knew me—the real me—he would have never looked at me twice.
CHAPTER
ELEVEN
FORD
