The Pucking Wrong Man: A Hockey Romance (The Pucking Wrong Series Book 4)

I woke up, the sterile smell of disinfectant assaulting my senses as I blinked away the remnants of sleep. Staring up at the white ceiling, I listened to the sounds of people getting up for the morning.

Their waking sounds were much better than the sounds they made when they were sleeping.

A lot of them cried out in their sleep. Their tragic days creeping into their nights like sinister centipedes walking through their brains.

Crying was a demonic lullaby at this point. Pain and despair my constant bed companions.

I hated that their nightmares had become my own.

I had enough of my own to deal with, thank you very much.

Yawning, I stretched my arms above my head, trying to get the kink out of my neck and wake up. I glanced at the people milling around the room, most of them looking as out of it as I probably did in the mornings.

There was a strict curfew to get in the shelter, and a specific time that you had to be up for the day and out of here.

I was used to it.

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’t heal right.

And you got to be in pain…forever.

With a deep breath, I pushed myself up onto my feet, bracing myself against the edge of the cot as I stretched. Each movement was slow and deliberate and agonizing.

My leg protested with every stretch, a sharp pang of pain shooting up from my ankle to my thigh. I cursed under my breath—I hadn’t had a chance to ice last night after dance like I needed to. Somedays if class ran long and I didn’t finish mopping in time, it was hard to get back in time for curfew, so I had to skip.

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.

As I finished stretching, I gritted my teeth and forced myself to stand upright, ignoring the throbbing ache. There was work to be done, rehearsals to attend, money to save up…I couldn’t afford for a little pain to hold me back.

I bent over to touch my toes…

Okay, it was actually a lot of pain.

I grabbed my bag from underneath my bed, checking to make sure that none of my belongings had disappeared during the night.

If you got caught stealing, you were immediately banned from coming back. But that didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

We were all desperate here.

Desperate to survive. Desperate to exist.

Desperate.

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.

I made my way to the communal bathroom, passing by some of the other regulars, their tired eyes and hollow cheeks a reflection of their own struggles. We exchanged nods of recognition, but no words were spoken. Besides the staff, no one here bothered to talk to me. It was lonely, but I got it. When you were just trying to get by, it seemed like too much to ask to get to know someone.

What if they wanted to talk to you? What if they told you their troubles? No one in this room could take on any one else’s burdens. They had too many of their own.

Like the main room, the bathroom was clean, but the tiles were worn and cracked.

I’d take clean and old over dirty and new any day, though.

The Carver’s opinions on “gratefulness” splashed through my mind like spoiled wine.

I was sure they’d approve of that line of thinking.

Splashing some water on my face, I tried to wash away the lingering remnants of sleep, but it was no use.

Because the soundtrack of misery I heard every night…I was a part of it. And even now, the memories of last night’s nightmares clung to me like a second skin, refusing to let go.

Hopefully I hadn’t screamed too loud. There had been a mom with her two little kids in the cots next to me last night.

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.

With grim determination, I slung my bag over my shoulder and hobbled out of the bathroom, steeling myself for another day of struggle.

I got up to the front desk and my first and perhaps only smile of the day slid across my lips.

“Ana, girl, how are you this fine morning?” Montana said warmly, smiling at me like she always did—like she was happy to see me—like I wasn’t a burden.

I’d been coming here for the last three years, and she had worked here the entire time. She was always in a good mood. She was always smiling.

Maybe one day I’d ask her how she managed to do it in the face of so much misery.

“Great,” I said, my voice almost sounding cheerful…it was kind of hard to be dreary in the face of such positivity.

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

There was that word again.

“I’m having a lot of luck this morning. It was the craziest thing, but Sonic gave me an extra breakfast burrito when I stopped through the drive-thru. I thought maybe you would want it…” she said innocently, her dark-red corkscrew curls bobbing around her head like they were waving at me or something.

“Bless you,” I gasped, a little embarrassed about the squeal in my voice right then.

This was a familiar routine for us. She would pretend that she’d been given extra at some place and give it to me. And I should have felt guiltier about greedily taking it every time considering there was no way they paid her very much for working here.

But as I’d said before…I was desperate.

“You are a literal angel, Montana Thatcher,” I murmured, carefully taking it from her like it was actually gold. I would have to eat it slowly, because I’d only had a piece of bread and some peanut butter yesterday…which I’d burnt off in about ten minutes of class.

My stomach was to the point of cramping and eating it too fast might make me throw up.

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.

“Sonic must have known,” she said with a wink, and I did my best not to cry.

You weren’t supposed to cry about Sonic.

“Must have,” I told her in a surprisingly steady voice before I slipped out the door, eagerly tearing open the wrapper and biting into the burrito with a groan.

It was still freaking hot.

I savored every bite the entire walk to the bus stop. The resulting stomachache was completely worth it.

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.

The ache in my leg pulsed with each heartbeat, reminding me what the doctor had said a few months ago…but it was easier to ignore the pain when I was here.

We’d be practicing for our performances for the rest of the day, and pain wasn’t going to hold me back.

I approached the barre to begin my warm-up, biting down on my lip as I sunk into the movements, all of them engrained so deeply into my consciousness, it was like they were engraved in my soul.

Except…fucking hell, my leg hurt.

The familiarity of the routine felt more like torture.

“Anastasia, mon dieu, what do you think you’re doing?” Madame Leclerc barked, her accent thick with disdain as her eyes widened owlishly. “You look like a baby cow. What is that posture? Get lower!” She rapped her cane against my leg, and the only reason I didn’t fall to the ground was because of how hard I was holding onto the bar. Her withering glare made me wish I had fallen, though—-straight into a hole in the ground.

“I…I’m sorry, Madame,” I stammered, sinking lower. She held my gaze, a challenge clearly there as I held my plié. The seconds seemed more like years as she watched me, daring me to break form. Just when I thought I was going to collapse, she finally huffed and went to destroy someone else.

I quickly straightened as soon as she turned away, a traitorous tear slipping down my cheek from the pain shooting through my leg.

“Ana, are you alright?” Clara whispered out of the side of her mouth as she moved next to me. “You’re looking a little…pale.”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly. 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.

“I have some Advil in my bag,” Clara offered. “Or something stronger if you need it,” she winked.

“Thanks, but I already took some—Advil, I mean,” I added quickly to the end. As much as I liked Clara, I didn’t trust anyone. That was all I needed was for someone to tell Madame or one of the other instructors that I was coming to class high. I’d add that to the list of things that I hoped someday could happen—that I could trust someone.

“Okay,” she said with a small frown. “But, I’m here if you ever need anything.”

I gave her what I hoped looked like a real smile, because I wasn’t trying to hurt her feelings.

And then I got back to warming up.

Before my accident, the morning “company class” had been a chance to get ready for each day. It was when the entire group got together and worked on refining our skills outside of our preparation for a particular show. It was a time I could turn off my mind and slip into my rhythm.

It had been years since that was the case, but I still missed the feeling of having a set time of day I could let go of my worries.

Without that time, all I had were my worries.

Madame Leclerc’s cold and disapproving gaze brushed over me again, and I quickly dipped down into a plié. The last thing I needed was for her to voice concerns on if I was ready to perform my piece or not.

“Shoulders back, chin up,” she barked at us. “Plié, plié, demi plié and rise, demi and rise, demi into grand plié. Hold!”

My muscles trembled as I obeyed her instructions.

“Téndu en second to coupé, extend, extend!”

“Grand battement, higher, higher!”

Her eyes scanned the room for any signs of weakness, falling on me the most.

I gritted my teeth and forced myself to push through, each step sending shockwaves of agony up my leg.

After barre warm ups, we moved across the floor and every leap felt like a death sentence, the strain and pressure of the movements threatening to tear me apart from the inside out.

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.

The music swelled around me, and I lost myself in the dance, my body moving on autopilot despite the protests of my leg. I was teetering on the edge of oblivion, every movement a tightrope walk between ecstasy and agony.

There were hundreds of eyes on me, but I blocked them all out, soaking in the lights and the sounds and the passion that throbbed in my soul.

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.

I danced until my muscles screamed in protest, and my breath came out in ragged gasps. I danced until the world faded away and all that was left was the music and the movement.

As I leapt across the stage, I finally let myself soak in the audience’s gaze.

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.