Pucked Off (Pucked 5)

“Lance?”

He makes a sound, acknowledging me.

“Are you okay?”

A long pause follows before he finally says, “Aye.” But his tone belies the word.

I lift my head and find him staring at the ceiling. I skim his lips with my fingertips, and he turns toward me.

I keep my eyes on his as I kiss his shoulder. “What’s wrong, baby?”

The pet name is one I’ve used only a couple of times before, and only when it seems like something’s on his mind. Like now. His hand comes up to cover mine, and his eyes fall closed as he kisses my fingertips.

“Tomorrow would’ve been my brother’s twenty-first birthday,” he whispers.

His intensity and introspection make sense now. “I’m so sorry.”

“Me, too.” He plays with my fingers, sweeping them back and forth across his lips.

“Lance?”

“Mmm.”

“Can I ask what happened to him?”

He tenses for a moment, and his hand tightens around mine. But eventually he releases a breath, along with my fingers.

“I don’t like to talk about it all that much.”

“It must’ve been awful with him being so young. Was he sick?”

Lance shakes his head. “I killed him.”

It’s my turn to tense, but I don’t take my hand away, because I’m aware his words are intended to shock and make me withdraw. “What do you mean?”

“The last time I told someone about this, she used it to manipulate me.”

“You mean the complicated relationship?”

I get a small nod in reply.

“Manipulate you how?”

“She would use it against me. She made it worse.”

“She made what worse?” I don’t understand where he’s going with this, and I have all sorts of scenarios running through my head that don’t add up to the man taking up space in my bed and my heart.

“The guilt.” He eyes me warily. “It’s my fault he’s dead.”

Though I haven’t been to see him play in person, I’ve seen Lance on the ice. The TV does a great job showcasing the aggression he works hard to contain most of the time. I’ve also seen the lid pop off and all the pent-up anger explode out of him. It results in things like the black eye he’s currently sporting. I can spin my own ideas about what could’ve happened, but knowing Lance, his perception on this might be skewed.

“Can you explain that, please?” I ask.

Another long silence follows, and his breathing grows more anxious with every passing moment. I press my lips against his shoulder and shift so I can touch them to his neck, his cheek, his chin, and finally his lips.

“I just want to understand, Lance. I don’t want to use the information to cause you pain.”

He can’t look me in the eye, and I don’t push for it, knowing whatever he’s about to tell me must be hard.

“When I was a kid I used to play ball hockey with some guys after school. I always told my mum my brother and I had stayed for the after-school tutoring or math stuff or whatever, and she never checked, ’cause math was my thing.

“One afternoon I got a little caught up and didn’t realize how late it was, or maybe I ignored how tight time was getting. My mum was going through a bad phase—not sleeping all that well, probably drinking too much, maybe not taking the pills the doctors gave her. Plus, my dad was away on another business trip, so she was on us more. On me more.”

He pauses, eyes still glued to the ceiling.

“Being late meant bad things. Not for Quinn. He was a good kid. Always did what he was asked, followed the rules, didn’t give anyone a hard time. We lived in a nice part of town. We had a big house and nice clothes. My parents drove expensive cars, and we had private education with uniforms. I took it for granted a lot; I still do. But there was an area close to where we lived that wasn’t so nice, a lot of poverty there. That’s where some of the gang kids came from. Sometimes they’d graffiti our school walls, hang out and threaten some of the mouthy kids, stuff like that.”

Lance pauses again. He picks up my fingers, studying them, and I wait, because the end of this story is devastating. It marks a loss that I’m positive changed this man in a lot of ways, and will fill in so many missing pieces of the puzzle that is Lance.

When it seems like he’s struggling to continue, I finally ask, “Did you get mouthy with them?”

He shakes his head.

“What happened, then?”

I get another headshake, more playing with my fingertips. His voice cracks when he finally speaks again.

“We were gonna be late ’cause I’d played hockey too long. Quinn, he’d just sit there watching, ’cause he was good like that. Real patient. He’d read a book sometimes if he was bored, but that day he told me more than once that we needed to go, and I ignored him, told him five more minutes. I just wanted to beat the other guys, and I did.”