Page 103 of Dirty Pucking Player

Oh, my God. Bash is retiring?

That can’t be right. It can’t be.

There’s absolutely no way Bash is going to give up that contract and playing the game he loves so much. Unless…the anchor is right. Maybe he’s hurt. Maybe he’s sick.

Acid crawls up my throat, and I gulp it back as every conceivable horrible possibility runs through my head.

What could cause him to retire?

A severe enough head injury could, and he’s definitely had a few concussions over his career, but we follow strict protocol now to prevent the kind of permanent damage the old players were exposed to. But…he did have his bell rung in the final game.

The staff checked him out, though, and he was fine. Nothing to worry about. He kept playing and seemed totally okay. Still, symptoms of a brain injury can appear days, weeks, or even months later, so it’s possible something major happened that’s only presenting itself now.

Why hasn’t Bob called me about this?

If Bash retired, for any reason, it means he spoke with the GM and filed paperwork with the league office. Even if Bob is pissed at me, he should have told me about this before I saw something on the damn television.

I have to call Bash.

It doesn’t matter that it’s been weeks, or that we ended things on hurtful and shitty terms. I need to know he’s okay. I need to know why he would do something so stupid.

If he answers.

I grab my phone and call him with a shaky hand. Each ring ratchets my heart rate up higher and tightens the vise around my chest.

“You’ve reached Bash. You know what to do.”

Shit.

BEEP!

I swallow through the lump in my throat. “Bash. It’s me. I just saw you’re retiring. What’s going on? Are you all right? Just let me know you’re okay.” The words “I miss you” sit on the tip of my tongue, but I bite them back and end the call.

Instead, I send the same message in a text…and wait.

I toss my phone onto the end table and meander over to the kitchen. The pizza that was my dinner still sits half-eaten on the counter. I grab a piece and bite into it.

Eww.

I forgot I hate cold pizza.

My mind is a jumbled mess right now.

I drop it back into the box and make my way back to the couch. My phone rings, and I practically dive for it and glance at the screen.

Bash!

Even after the way we ended things, even after the time that’s passed and the losses and the words we said to each other, my body still tingles and heats seeing his name. The memories of every moment we spent together—the good and the bad, the arguing and the making up, the wild and reckless—come racing back.

“Bash?”

“No, this is his sister Rachel.”

What?

Why the hell would his sister be calling…unless he is sick…

My entire body trembles. “Is…Bash okay?”

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