Page 118 of Pucking Forbidden

It’s manipulation. It’s a sickening, predatory ambush. I know it. But as I stand in the freezing shadow of the apartment building where Hadley is sleeping peacefully, dreaming of a future we can never have, I realize I don't have a choice. I can’t let my shit destroy her life.

Gritting my teeth, I lock him with a glare.

“Fine,” I snarl. “I’ll do it.”

The assistant nods, thoroughly satisfied, and turns on his heel, walking away toward a waiting black sedan at the edge of the lot.

I stand beside my truck and stare after him. The pale Colorado sunrise burns down on my face, feeling like my entire chest has been ripped open. Leaving nothing but an empty, bleeding cavity behind.

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE: A GOOD MAN

HADLEY

I stare at my phone, resting on the kitchen counter, willing Julian to respond to my latest message. I’ve sent him about a dozen since I woke up this morning to find him gone from my bed.

Hadley: Hey, practice should be over by now. We were supposed to go get food when you were done, and I haven’t heard from you. Julian, seriously, you're scaring me. Are you okay? Please text me back when you get this.

No response. I don’t get it. Practice started at ten this morning, but he was gone before eight when I woke up. He didn’t even say goodbye. What’s going on?

The coiled knot of irritation in my stomach has slowly metastasized into worry. Julian doesn't do this. He doesn't just disappear into thin air. Sure, he’s gone cool with his messages before, but he’s never outright ignored me. I pace the length of the kitchen, my socks sliding against the floor, trying to talk myself down from a complete spiral. Maybe there was a mandatory team meeting he didn’t know about. Maybe he’s in the training room getting his knee taped.

Maybe he’s gotten into a car crash and is horribly hurt.

No! I can’t let my mind go down that road.

To force my hands to stop shaking, I walk over to the front door and pull it open, deciding to grab the mail from the wall slot down the hall just to give my brain a different task.

There are only two letters addressed to me. I make my way back inside the apartment and lean against the kitchen counter as I open the first one.

The first envelope bears the official blue-and-gold seal of Denver University. I frown. What could this be?

When I open the letter and pull out the paper inside, it takes me a few moments to comprehend what I’m seeing.

It’s an official financial award letter from the university’s internal scholarship committee.

Dear Ms. Sullivan,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as the sole recipient of the Chancellor's Experience-Based Bachelor's in Education Scholarship. This scholarship provides full tuition coverage for the remainder of your undergraduate studies, effective once you officially declare your change of major to Education. The only requirement for maintaining this scholarship is that you continue pursuing real-world teaching experience throughout your undergraduate career.

I stare at the paper until the letters start blurring together as hot, blinding tears fill my eyes. Is this real? Part of my mind thinks this might just be some cruel prank someone’s pulling on me for no reason, but I reread the letter again and again. A full ride. This changes everything. My dad can’t hold my tuition over my head anymore. He can’t threaten to cut me off if I don't do what he wants. I finally have something that belongs entirely to me.

As a tear slides down my cheek, an obvious question slams into my brain.

How is this possible? I didn't apply for this. With everything going on, I wasn’t going to look into switching majors and financial-aid options until after finals. I never even knew this was an opportunity. I know for a fact that no one in my family would do this for me. Then who? The letter implied I have to keep my teaching job, probably at the ice rink. So who…?

Julian.

Did he do this? When? How?

I blink, stunned. My heart swells, but my anxiety only grows sharper. Where is he?

The joy of the letter evaporates, replaced by a growing panic. I grab my phone and fire off text messages to every single person on the Night Hawks roster I have a number for. Within ten minutes, the responses come back in a wave.

Jensen: Haven't seen him since he left the rink at noon, sorry!

Owen: Truck was gone when we left.

Jayce: He’s not answering his phone, Hads.