The Pucking Wrong Man (Pucking Wrong, #4)

by C.R. Jane

But I was already on scholarship here. I was afraid to ask if they could cover a new class too. The girls already made fun of me enough. The kids in the contemporary class were older...they would probably be even more mean about it.

Miss Gallagher sighed like I’d disappointed her and patted my shoulder. “Someday, you will trust me, ma chérie,” she said before she glided away, her posture elegant and confident, and everything I wanted to be. I wanted to run after her and tell her all about Dad and how mean he’d gotten the last few years since Mom left. I wanted to tell her how alone and scared and hungry I was all the time.

Trudging to the bus stop, I did my best to keep the happiness with me. Dancing was the only time I felt happy. The only time I felt like everything was going to be okay. My life didn’t have to turn out horrible just because now was really hard.

The rich and the poor side. Unfortunately for me, I didn’t live in just the poor side. I lived in the so poor everyone forgot about you side, where they didn’t even bother to send buses because very few people—if any—were ever leaving there. Thus, the bus stop was a mile from my house.

I didn’t understand how in the same world, there were people that had so much...and others that had so little.

As soon as he turned, I sped toward home, thinking that someday I wasn’t going to run from anything that scared me. But that someday was definitely not today.

I’d eaten nothing but school lunches and stale bread for weeks...and he’d ordered a pizza...and eaten the entire thing. A tear slipped down my cheek, and I let it drip to the ground. My stomach grumbled again, and I rubbed at it, grabbing the cup I kept clean in the cabinet and filling it to the brim with water. If I drank enough water, sometimes my stomach wouldn’t hurt as bad.

Someday I’d be the greatest ballerina the world had ever seen. I would dance on the stage with the New York Ballet and the entire audience would give me a standing ovation. Everyone would know my name. They’d throw flowers on the stage and they would love me.

It was so cold. I didn’t want to die. I wanted to live. I wanted to dance…

My chest tightened as I stared at the cast, my breath coming in shallow gasps as an icy hand seemed to clutch at my heart. Was I ever going to be able to dance again?

But it wasn’t them. Thankfully. Instead, a kind-looking woman with a neat bun and a white coat, slowly opened the door and popped her head in. Unlike with the caseworker, the doctor’s concerned look seemed genuine. I wasn’t sure how I could even know that—it was probably wishful thinking. But the soft smile she was giving me still somehow made me feel calmer.

“Well, Anastasia, injuries like yours are quite serious,” she began carefully. “Usually, people with these kinds of injuries are lucky if all that’s left when it heals is a limp.” My heart dropped, and it was suddenly hard to breathe. “I can’t dance anymore?”

I wanted to scream or cry or rage because I would be alright with anything else being taken away from me. Anything but losing the ability to dance.

“Anastasia, usually doesn’t mean always,” she said gently, her voice infused with reassurance. “And things could be different for you, if you follow directions, and work hard at physical therapy and anything else we ask you to do.” She paused. “You also have youth on your side. Things could end up better than if this injury had happened later on.”

But I gritted my teeth when I took my first step in physical therapy, and it hurt so bad I felt like I might die. I forced myself to walk, and then to walk even farther, and then to run. And when it was finally time, I forced myself…to dance.

“You’re also the only one on the team that’s age appropriate for my grandma,” Logan helpfully added because he never missed a chance to point out that I was almost ten years older than him. Asshole. At least he hadn’t called me “Grandpappy” today. That was an improvement. “Rookie, when you score more goals, you can talk shit,” Ari commented as Logan lined up for a faceoff.

“Really, we’re taking Lincoln out?” Walker snarled from the goal behind me as play started again. “He can’t hear you, Disney,” Ari called as he chased down the puck. “No need to simp.”

“If that popcorn guy passes by Monroe one more time,” Lincoln suddenly growled from my other side. “She doesn’t need any fucking popcorn!” “Huh?” I asked, not expecting popcorn to be in the conversation at this point of the game.

Tearing my gaze off the ice, I glanced into the first row where the “first ladies” of the team were sitting. Monroe, Blake, and Olivia seemed to be popcorn free at the moment. I couldn’t imagine caring enough about a girl to worry if the concessions guy was within fifteen feet...but maybe it was a circle of trust thing. The circle of trust was...well, I wasn’t quite sure what it was, yet. It seemed to consist of my teammates Lincoln Daniels, Ari Lancaster, and Walker Davis—all stars on the team and in the League—and it seemed to be some kind of group for men scarily obsessed with their girls.

“Good fucking boy,” Lincoln screamed as Walker blocked a shot. I swear Walker preened. He definitely had some kind of man crush on Lincoln Daniels. I wasn’t too big of a man to say that I kind of felt the same way. Maybe it was another circle of trust thing.

“Hey, ref, you pregnant? You’ve missed two periods,” I sniped as I skated past.

“Your mama hits harder than that,” I gritted out as I gained control of the puck and passed it to Jones. I may be thirty-one years old...but “Yo Mama” jokes definitely still did it for me. Couldn’t get tired of a classic.

Did I have some sort of problem where I had a compulsive need to help women in distress. Yes. Was I ever going to admit that out loud? No.

But someday, when I figured out my life, I was going to sleep in. Maybe all day. Just because I could. I rolled over on the thin mattress, the springs creaking beneath me. Someday I was also going to have a bed that I actually wanted to spend all day in.

With a heavy sigh, I swung my legs over the side of the cot, wincing as the familiar ache shot through my leg. It was always worse in the morning, the stiffness and pain a cruel reminder of the past that I could never escape...because it was always with me.

Turned out when your father broke your fibula and your femur in multiple places, and you didn’t get to the hospital for nearly twenty-four hours—and you almost died...your injury didn’...

That seemed to be the theme of my life, never enough time, never enough energy at the end of the day to take care of myself.

Someday I was going to have a place to keep all my stuff too. Here, everything I owned had to be packed up every day and taken with me, nothing left behind. Someday I’d have a room, a closet, and a place for all my things. Someday. That was the word that kept me going. And usually, dreaming about the future helped.

But other times, like this morning, when my leg felt so fucked up I wasn’t sure how I was going to walk, let alone do a freaking plié, I wondered if my “someday” would actually ever be a reality.

Staring into the mirror, I sighed, feeling so fucking resigned. Was my life going to be this terrible forever? That attitude isn’t going to get you anywhere, Anastasia, I swore at myself fiercely.

Someday I was going to be like Montana for someone, a burst of sunshine on someone’s cloudy day. There was that word again.

On the positive side, no matter how much my stomach ached...my leg pain always hurt worse. “Have a good day, sweetheart,” she said, her brown eyes crinkling at the edges as she gave me another full-faced grin. “I have a feeling today’s going to be a lucky day for you.”

“I’m performing tonight,” I admitted shyly, not sure why I was saying anything, but wanting to tell someone...anyone...about the fact that I’d gotten a leading role again after years of being relegated to the background after my injury.

Stepping into the dance studio, I breathed in the familiar scent of sweat and new ballet shoes hanging heavy in the air. No matter what had happened to me, this place, this smell. This. It had always been my one constant.

I liked Clara, as much as I liked anyone, really. But we had never been friends. Clara was so bright and shiny and perfect. From what I’d heard her talk about in passing conversations, she had a loving family, and an even more loving partner. It didn’t really seem like someone like that, could be friends with someone like me. A nobody.

But I couldn’t stop. I wouldn’t stop. I refused. Not when the stage called to me like every dream I’d ever possessed for this life, the only time I ever found release, the only time I ever felt...free.

I danced with a desperation that bordered on madness. There was no greater high than the rush of adrenaline that flooded my veins when I stepped onto this stage. There was no pain that was too great, no sacrifice too large. The only pure moment of bliss I would ever get in this life. I danced.

On this stage...I wasn’t poor. I wasn’t homeless. I wasn’t the daughter of a drunk father and a mother who never wanted her. I was perfect up here in front of them, someone they admired. Someone they respected. I was something more.

I soared through the air with reckless abandon. I was alive. I felt nothing else but that. And although the strain on my body might kill me someday. I danced.

A single spotlight lit up the stage. And I saw her. Her. A vision that I wasn’t sure was real. There were other dancers around her, but she might as well have been the only person left in the world.

Her body moved with a fluidity that defied description, commanding the attention of everyone in the audience as she danced. Each movement was a fucking revelation, changing my life and my focus with every step she took.

I tracked every sway of her hips, every twist of her torso. I memorized every step she took, knowing that it would consume my thoughts until maybe the end of time. The music swelled around her, every gesture imbued with emotion and intention. She danced with a fervor that seemed to consume her, her body a...

With each leap and turn, she cast a spell. My life changed. There was only be...

And I was solidly in my “after her” era, a world I didn’t recognize. My pulse was racing, my heart beating out of my chest. I was afraid to blink because I didn’t want to miss a moment of her. “She’s good,” Geraldine said, her hands clasped in front of her as she bobbed along with...

Her movements seemed effortless. Every extension of her leg, every point of her toes, drew me in until I was forgetting basic things about myself...like how to breathe. As a professional athlete, I’d thought I knew what passion looked like...certainly what it felt like. But she was blowing my mind.

I’d never seen so much passion in a human being, it seemed as if she would die if she wasn’t out on that stage. Instead of dancing to the music, the music was playing for her. Like it was made for her.

She danced the same way I played hockey. As if, nothing else mattered to her in the world but that dance.

She threw back her head, her entire face visible under the lights...and holy fuck. I thought I knew what pretty was. Beautiful girls were throwing themselves at my feet constantly—I wasn’t being a shitty prick when I said that. It was just facts. When you had a face and a body and a job like I did, it was kind of par for the course.

She was a fucking masterpiece. I’d never seen anything in my life as beautiful...as perfect as… Fuck! I glanced around, a strange heat clawing up my neck. Everyone was seeing her like this. Everyone was seeing what was mine. I was strangely proud and outrageously upset about it at the same time.

I thought I had cared about hockey more than anything, but staring at her, I wasn’t sure that I’d ever cared about anything—not if this was what it looked like. I was mesmerized by her every gesture, every flick of her wrist, every tilt of her head. Maybe magic was real. Maybe she was a witch. Maybe I’d fucking died and this was heaven.