The Pucking Wrong Man: A Hockey Romance (The Pucking Wrong Series Book 4)
Chapter 1

I opened my eyes slowly, the harsh lights of the hospital room blinding me for a moment before my vision cleared.

Where was I?

The room swam, and I winced, quickly closing my eyes again and taking a deep breath.

My entire body hurt.

Okay, I could do this, I told myself, opening my eyes just a crack this time so I could get used to the light.

Finally able to open my eyes wide enough, my gaze immediately fell on my leg…which was encased in a giant cast from my ankle to my thigh.

What had happened?

It took a moment, but then it all came back, my own personal horror story playing out in a macabre technicolor in my head. My father lunging at me, the sharp crack in my leg, and pain like I’d never experienced before.

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?

The edges of my vision were darkening, a panic attack fully setting in. And then a hand landed gently on my arm, causing me to jump in surprise. I turned my head to see…Michael? He was standing next to the bed, his too-perfect smile immediately making bile clog my throat. What was he doing here?

The sight of him on top of everything else made me want to scream, but all I could manage was a strangled gasp.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said, his voice unnervingly calm. “You’re going to be alright, Ana.”

I shook my head frantically, tears stinging my eyes as I tried to make sense of what was happening. Michael was the last person I wanted to see. What was going on?

“Why are you here?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.

But Michael just smiled that same too many teeth—psychopath smile, his eyes shining with a glint that made me want to jump off the bed and run down the hallway as fast as I could…to anywhere but here. “You’ve been injured badly. I just wanted to be here for you,” he answered, his voice almost…mocking, like he knew something I didn’t. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

I still didn’t understand what was going on. How had I gotten to the hospital? Where was my dad? Why would Michael, of all people, be here?

He reached down as I watched…and pushed my foot to the side.

I screamed.

It was like I was being torn apart, the pain radiating up my leg, through every fiber of my being.

The door burst open, and a team of doctors rushed in, their voices a blur of urgency as they worked to calm me down. I felt hands on my shoulders, holding me in place as they injected something into my IV, the world around me growing hazy and distant.

I tried to tell them what he’d done, but I couldn’t form words around the fog of pain and medication. Michael’s face hovered above me, his eyes filled with terrifying satisfaction. Darkness closed in, and I couldn’t help but wonder if one terrible thing…had become something far worse.

“Goodnight, little bunny,” he whispered as I lost consciousness.

Things hadn’t improved when I woke up, although the pain was at least tolerable enough that I’d stopped screaming.

Michael was still there, hovering close to me. Most of the time his hand was on my shoulder in what would have looked like a comforting gesture to anyone else—but to me was definitely a threat. I’d spent the last year shying away from his touch, only for him to touch me constantly for the past hour.

Nurses had been in and out, but none of them had caught my desperate looks. I was going to have to say something—but would anyone believe me?

A sharp rap on the door jolted me in the bed, the sound echoing through the sterile hospital room like a gunshot. The medicine they’d given me still had me off my game, and I jumped at any sudden sound or movement.

The door swung open without me saying they could come in, revealing two imposing figures in police uniforms and a stern-looking woman in a stiff skirt suit. Their presence immediately filled the room with an oppressive weight, and I shrunk back instinctively, my eyes wide with apprehension as they entered. A knot of dread coiled in my stomach as I watched them.

“Hello there, Anastasia,” the taller officer greeted me with a somber nod, his voice surprisingly gentle despite his imposing figure. “I’m Officer Rodriguez, and this is Officer Thompson. We’re here to talk to you.”

The woman in the skirt suit offered a strained smile as she stepped forward next. “And I’m Ms. Jenkins, your caseworker. How are you feeling, dear?” She was trying to sound kind, but she wasn’t very good at it. I also hadn’t missed how she had called herself my caseworker. What was that going to mean for me?

I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry as I struggled to replace my voice. “Everything hurts,” I mumbled, my gaze flickering nervously between the three of them. “What’s going on?”

Officer Rodriguez exchanged a glance with Officer Thompson before he spoke again. “Do you remember what happened to you?” he asked, his warm brown eyes filled with sympathy.

I shrunk further into the bed, scared to answer them, because I’d heard horror stories at school of what happened to kids when they were taken from their parents.

Worse things than what I had experienced with my dad.

“Anastasia, it’s okay,” Officer Rodriguez soothed.

“My dad was drunk. He thought I was someone else and he—he hurt me,” I finally whispered, my gaze focusing on my leg. No one had explained yet how bad the injury was. I needed to know.

“Thank you for being brave and telling us. He’s been arrested, but we needed to hear you say that so we can keep him from ever hurting you again,” the other officer said, his voice gravelly and authoritative. “What he did, Anastasia, he won’t be getting out of prison anytime soon.”

Even at my age, I obviously knew you couldn’t just hurt your kids as bad as my father had hurt me without consequences. But it still felt as though the ground had been ripped from beneath me, leaving me flailing in uncertainty. “What does that mean for me?” I managed to choke out, my voice barely above a whisper.

The officers exchanged a look. “That’s where I come in,” Ms. Jenkins interjected, her tone falsely cheerful as she stepped forward. “You’ll be staying with the Carvers for the time being. You won’t even have to switch schools! They’re a lovely family, and I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable there.”

“What?” I gasped as Michael’s fingers dug into me. I glanced up at him, flinching at the smirk playing on his lips. My stomach started to hurt as reality set in.

I froze, terror seeping under my skin, and Michael’s fingers tightened, but I shook my shoulder, and he finally let go, probably wanting to play nice in front of these people.

The caseworker’s friendly mask dropped when she saw the expression on my face. “Anastasia!” she said, sounding appalled. “I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation. You should be over the moon that we don’t have to put you in the system! The Carvers are absolute angels for taking you in. We’re just lucky that they are already on the approved state list to be foster parents. There are a million children who would give anything to have such a generous offer. You should be grateful!” Shaking her head, her face changed back into a picture perfect look of concern.

“The medicine and your injuries are obviously confusing you. We should let you get some rest, and we can discuss this later, when you’re not in so much pain.” Sighing as if she was trying to pray for patience to deal with me, she gestured to the officers. “Let’s let her rest. The poor dear needs time to heal.”

The officers nodded.

“We’ll have some more questions to ask later,” Officer Rodriguez told me. I nodded numbly, and then he and his partner left the room.

“Michael, dear. Why don’t we go talk to your parents and leave Anastasia to get some rest,” Ms. Jenkins simpered. She was obviously already under Michael’s gross spell, showing she was a terrible judge of character—a trait probably needed for a caseworker.

“Of course,” Michael smirked, giving my shoulder a squeeze for good measure before he headed for the door. “I’ll see you later, sis.” He threw the words over his shoulder, his smile reminding me of the Joker’s.

And then I was alone. Nothing but numb silence surrounding me.

A tear slipped down my cheek, and I angrily brushed it away.

But it was a useless effort, because there were a million more tears that came after that.

Another knock sounded on the door, this one soft and non-threatening.

“Come in,” I called in a hoarse voice, rubbing at my face frantically just in case it was the caseworker…or Michael. I didn’t want either of them to see me cry.

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.

“Hello, Anastasia,” she greeted me softly. “May I sit?”

I blinked at her question, and then nodded numbly, watching as she pulled a chair up to my hospital bed.

“I’m Dr. Patel. I’m in charge of the team helping you while you’re with us.”

I returned her smile weakly, feeling a sense of relief wash over me at her calming presence. “Hi, Dr. Patel,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper.

She settled into the chair beside me, her expression gentle. “May I?” she asked again, nodding her head at the IV in my arm. I liked that she kept asking my permission, even if it was just a formality.

I nodded, and she carefully checked where it was protruding from my arm before sitting back in her chair.

“I’m afraid you suffered a concussion from the…incident,” she said, her words careful. “You also have a bruised spleen, which is why you’re feeling so sore.”

I nodded like I understood what all that meant. There was only one real injury I was concerned about, though. “And my leg?” I asked, my voice trembling as I stared at the cast.

“Your leg,” she began, her voice softening even further, “it’s broken in two places. You had two surgeries while you were out—” My head jerked up at that news. She held up a hand like that would calm me down. “We had to set the bones back in place. They had broken through the skin, and it was an emergency situation.”

I was feeling lightheaded at that news. I remembered the snap and the sharp pain…and then the numbness that had spread through my limbs.

“The good news,” Dr. Patel continued, “is that you shouldn’t need to have any more surgeries unless the hardware gives you trouble.”

I nodded slowly, my mind reeling as I tried to process everything she was telling me. A concussion, a bruised spleen, a broken leg. That was—a lot.

“Dr. Patel, how long do you think it will take for my leg to heal?” I asked. “When can I get back to my dance classes?”

Her brow furrowed slightly, and she hesitated before answering, her expression somber. “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?” My voice was high-pitched and squeaky, and the lightheadedness was getting worse. This wasn’t happening. I was going to wake up and this was all going to be nothing but a bad dream. I had to dance. I had to. I was either dreaming or she was lying.

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.

I was faintly aware of Dr. Patel’s hand on my arm. “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.”

I nodded, her words giving me a spark of hope that I was going to hold on to for dear life.

I would do whatever she said. I was going to dance again.

The door opened then, and Michael popped his head in, not bothering to knock. I tensed up.

“Can I help you, young man?” Dr. Patel asked.

“Just checking on Anastasia. My family will be taking care of her,” he said, his face the epitome of concern.

Dr. Patel clapped her hands together. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I’m so glad she’s going to have a support system.”

That numbness, the one I’d experienced as I lay on the floor of my room, it was spreading through me again.

But this time, I embraced it.

I stayed numb when they discharged me a week later, wheeling me out to Michael’s smiling parents who shared the same watery-eyed cold stare as their son.

I stayed numb when they locked me in my new room.

I stayed numb when they made me ask permission for any food I wanted to eat in their home.

I stayed numb when I had two more surgeries on my leg, and an infection set in that made me sick for weeks.

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.