Page 248 of Wrong Pucking Player

Those hooded shades of blue look like a man who’d murder his enemies in cold blood if it meant preserving what was important to him.

“Then a loud noise pierced the air.” He looks away. He doesn’t want me to see how it still pains him. “The girl’s screams were all I heard until the darkness took me. After that, I was in the hospital. Mom was dead. My best friend could no longer be in my life because we were enemies now. The little girl I was supposed to protect was left behind. I failed before I could be given the real chance to protect her. It forced my dad to pull out the idea of me being a bodyguard in any way.”

“He didn’t want you to die on the job with the dizzy spells,” I mutter.

His head nods slightly while he takes a longer inhale of his cig. Blowing out a puff of smoke, he reaches for the drink in front of him and takes a go at it.

Finishes it clean.

“Another one?” I offer.

We share a look before he bobs his head.

All I have to do is raise two fingers for the server to get my signal and start preparing our next round of drinks.

“So, hockey became your world instead of doing your role as a bodyguard,” I summarize.

“It was the only way for me to still have a chance to walk down my dad’s footsteps somehow,” he confesses. “Only, I didn’t get that ‘opportunity’ to choose. It was forced. All because one side couldn’t handle losing.”

“Fernandez’s side,” I grumble, knowing well I hit the nail on the head.

“My dad trusted him. Everyone did. Until he used that trust to take someone that was precious. My mom didn’t deserve to die. That little girl didn’t deserve to be left behind after such chaos. How one person fucked up so many people’s lives.” He shakes his head. “And yet the surviving son who was there to witness the damage his father caused simply justifies it.”

We’re quiet after that, giving me the chance to slip my hand into my other pocket and retrieve the packet with his name on it. Placing it on the table, I slide it to the left until it’s in his line of vision.

“What is this?” He doesn’t sound apprehensive but intrigued by what I’m presenting to him.

A way out of this cycle.

“Twice a day for the first two weeks,” I begin, remembering my brother’s instructions. “Then once a day.”

Moving my hand away, I outstretch my arm so it’s along the top of the cushions behind him. It looks odd or even makes it seem like we’re more than just two guys dating the same girl, but right now, I’m not fighting my emotions.

The urging need to project dominance in a place like this.

I learned very quickly that no matter whether you can see your enemies or not, projecting a sense of power in a room can ensure everyone can feel your intentions.

I also want Wyatt to realize that I’m here for him. To feel my protective energy and accept that I’m on his side, unlike those in the past he could never trust.

Now that I think about it, it makes sense why Wyatt doesn’t have any close friends. He doesn’t have a best bud who’s at his side and has his back when he needs defending.

Fernandez was that person… and it was ruined before they could flourish into friends who always have each other’s backs.

“Oscar.”

When I look over at him this time, he lets me see how his emotions are riding through him.

How emotionally freeing this offered chance of normalcy can change his life.

I know he’s a doctor and probably assumes what I’m offering, but I figure revealing it wouldn’t hurt.

“The spells will stop with the consistency of those. Three to six months, it should be corrected entirely, but you can always get a brain scan and ensure things are good up there,” I elaborate. “Regardless, you’ll experience instant resolve. It’s the best medication on the market and can only be acquired in Moscow. Side effects are minimal, with the chance of nausea, but it subsides just as quickly. You should be able to power through the ice and even take a few hits without significant damage.”

He’s looking for words, trying to figure out an excuse to reject my offering. Yet he can’t fight the flicker of gratefulness in his eyes.

The mere imagination of making his dreams of being back on the ice while maintaining normalcy in his life lifts his spirit.

“Thank you, Oscar.”

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