Page 3 of Just My Puck
Sighing, I take a bite of the fresh cookie—soft, buttery, with just the right kiss of half-melted chocolate chips—and pivot in what Ihopeis the direction of my apartment.
Getting this little treat was a good idea. Sure, it wasn’t the smartest financial move considering my no-income situation, but I needed this to get through the day.
People on the sidewalk are craning their necks to glimpse something, and that’s when I see it. The dark smoke erupting from a building a few blocks away.
I slow my pace. Gosh, I hope it’s not someone’s home. It would suck to have your home destroyed a few weeks before Christmas. As the thought crosses my mind, I stop dead in my tracks, a cold dread gripping my spine. No, no, no. This can’t be happening!
I sprint in the direction of the billowing smoke, arriving onto the street I’ve called home for only a few hours. The entire top of my building has completely crumbled to ash, the inner structure barely remaining.
Of course this is happening to me. I’m the epitome of disaster and bad luck. We’re talkinggetting a parking ticket while my car is being towed—level unlucky.
A firefighter marches forward, blocking my path. “Sorry, ma’am. This area is not safe. Can’t let you through.”
“I—” My breath hitches. “I live here.” The words scrape my throat. I drop my bag on the pavement, my fingers trembling. “What happened?”
“Electrical fire. This building wasn’t up to code. Fire started in the upstairs studio and spread fast.”
My stomach plunges. “I live in the upstairs studio. I—” My voice breaks. “I just moved in last night.”
The firefighter’s face softens. “I’m sorry. Everything’s gone.”
“Everything?” My voice comes out strangled. “Nothing survived? Not even my weighted blanket?” I know it’s a ridiculous thing to focus on, but that blanket is the closest thing I have to comfort. When you’re destined to be alone, you make certain accommodations.
He shakes his head slowly. “Nothing, ma’am. I’m sorry.”
I nod, my body going numb as I turn away. My legs are moving, but I don’t feel them. I guess I should have put renter’s insurance at the top of my to-do list. The tears I’ve been holding back all day finally spill over, streaking hot down my frozen cheeks.
I have to literally drag myself to the hockey arena, but what else am I supposed to do? Spend the evening in the crappy motel room I booked for the night, staring at the peeling wallpaper while contemplating my life choices and wondering how I’ll dig myself out of this mess with a three-figure bank account? At least there’s free food included with the ticket, and it’ll get me out of the cold for a few hours. I’m still wearing the skinny black jeans and white sweater I bought for my first day at work, and I’m dying to take it off. I got it at a thrift store, and though it’s a size too small, I thought it looked nice. A lot nicer than anything I owned. Since I couldn’t afford anything better, I went out on a limb. I figured I’d buy more professional attire once I got my first paycheck. Well, I guess that’s not happening now. Good thing I’m not wearing heels, at least. When you’re accident-prone like me, you quickly learn that the closer to the ground you are, the better.
The sidewalks are packed with fans heading to the game, bundled up in team colors, and the air is buzzing with excitement. Everyone is clustered in small groups of friends and family, laughing, hyping each other up. I may be alone here tonight, but who knows? Maybe I’ll end up on the kiss cam and find someone special. I almost snort out loud at the thought. Who am I kidding? The poor guy would end up dead before the end of the game.
As with everything in my life, my track record with relationships—whether friends or more—is a complete disaster. My friends have lost eyebrows and locks of hair while hanging out with me. And boys? Well, I’ve never even made it to my first kiss. Every time I got close, something happened. One guy got bit by a dog. There were several interrupting phone calls, and one date broke out in hives. And those are the ones who actually made it to the first date.
The last guy I attempted to date got struck by lightning on his way to meet me. Actual lightning. That’s when I decided to call it quits on dating altogether.
Lost in thought, I don’t see the guy until he slams into me.
“What the—” I stumble, catching my balance just in time to see the man sprinting away. With my bag.
For half a second, I just stand there, blinking.
Seriously?
A guy a few feet ahead of me—hand-in-hand with his girlfriend—sees what happens and immediately bolts after him.
“Oh my gosh,” his girlfriend gasps, turning to me. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” I crease my forehead, more confused than anything. “He just . . . took it. Nothing I could do.”
A few moments later, her boyfriend jogs back, panting heavily, empty-handed. “I—ran—but—he—passed—it—off—” He bends over, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “I’m so sorry.”
“That’s okay.” I shake my head, feeling weirdly calm about it.
They both stare at me as though I just said ‘I’d be totally fine with getting hit by a bus.’
“You’re not freaking out?” the girl asks. “My entire life is in my bag. If someone took my phone, I’d be sobbing right now.”
I sigh. “Honestly? It’s been a day.” Well, more likeit’s been a lifetime, but they don’t need my full tragic backstory.
