The Puck Stops Here (Heart Goals #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

His ride share pulled up in front of the house, and JP sighed at the sight of all those stairs. Fuck-a-duck there were a lot of them. More than he remembered. A lot more than he wanted to deal with.

He hurt. Everything hurt, but his leg hurt the most, and he wanted a pain pill in the worst way, but they were somewhere in his suitcase, and he needed to get up those stairs and somewhere he didn’t have to move again for a while before he took one anyway.

“This is it, eh?” his driver asked.

“Yeah. Sorry, yeah, this is it.” Man, he felt hoarse as hell. He also didn’t want to have to move. Getting out of the car was going to suck. Going up those stairs was going to suck more.

“I’ll grab your bag for you.”

“Thanks.” He was going leave a big damn tip.

He heaved in a deep breath, let it out, and then opened the door before he grabbed his bad leg, gritting his teeth as he half-turned to lift it out of the car.

The house looked the same, mostly. A two-story home, roses on one side. A huge stained glass window in the front. Rocking chairs on the porch.

Of course, now there were two tricycles in the yard and chalk drawings on the driveway.

The kids were old enough to ride tricycles and draw…

How had three years gone by with no contact?

Okay, that was an easy one. When he’d been traded to Florida, Ian hadn’t wanted to come, and they’d had the mother of all arguments.

They’d both said some nasty shit, and he’d packed a bag and gotten on that plane on his own.

And now he was back, his tail between his legs, one of which was smashed up - the doctors had said they were pretty sure they could save it - needing somewhere to light, someone to take care of him.

“So do you need help getting out?” the driver asked.

He gave a brief shake of his head and grabbed the crutches, standing them on the pavement and using them to help haul himself up and out of the car.

“Cool. Good luck.” The guy dipped his head and got back in the car before driving off.

He stood there, looking at the stairs, his huge duffel on the ground next to him. Okay. How was he going to do this?

“Can you make it up the stairs if I get your bag? They can’t put the ramp up yet.”

He hadn’t even heard the door open or his husband coming down the stairs, he’d been concentrating so hard on his dilemma, but now Ian stood there, lips tight.

“If not, I’ll get you a hotel room.”

“I can do it.” He wasn’t going to let Ian see him fail.

“All right. I’ll grab your bag. The kids are napping. I put a hospital bed in the formal dining.” Ian looked old, tired, pinched.

“I wouldn’t be here if I had anywhere else to go.” He didn’t want to do this to Ian, but what the fuck was he supposed to do?

“I know. This is your house. I’ll keep the children quiet and out of your hair.”

“The pain pills knock me out pretty good,” he admitted.

“You could probably run a heard of elephants through, and it won’t bother me.

” Okay. Enough awkward conversation. His leg was killing him.

His head was killing him. Everything hurt.

He felt like a total asshole, and he just wanted to take a pain pill and to make everything go away for a couple of hours.

He took the first step toward the stairs, gritting his teeth to keep from crying out.

“Are you not going to be able to do it on your own? I can’t lift you up the stairs. Maybe I can call Michael…”

God, his best friend and Ian’s brother. Faboo.

“I’ve got it,” he growled. “Why don’t you just go ahead with my bag and leave me to it?” Damn it, this was embarrassing and awkward as hell.

“Because if you fall, you’ll crack your skull open and die in my front yard. It’ll make a mess.”

He growled and started crutching his way to the five billion stairs he had to climb, each step jolting through his entire body. Falling and dying was starting to look like a good option, but he just kept going, determined not to look any weaker in front of Ian than he already did.

Ian, to be fair, stayed right with him for every single step. Right there.

They got to the stairs, of which there were actually six, and he didn’t stop for a second, worried that if he did he wouldn’t get up them, and he was pretty sure Ian didn’t want him lying at the foot of them instead of inside in bed.

Finally he was going through the front door, and he told himself he was almost there. In a minute he’d be sitting or lying down, and he could take the pill, and the fucking hurt would back off, and then maybe he could deal with Ian.

“I got you a wheelchair. Sit.”

“What?”

“I got you a wheelchair. Please, sit. Do you want soup? Toast? I didn’t know.”

He stared at the wheelchair for a minute, then shifted and sank down into it with a groan.

“I should have something with the pill,” he admitted.

“Yeah. I made chicken noodle soup.”

He didn’t wince. Ian was a notoriously bad cook.

Maybe he meant out of a can.

“Sure. Maybe with a couple crackers?”

“Of course.” Ian pushed him through the house, and the dining room was gone, replaced with a hospital bed, a cushy chair, a television, and a simple dresser. “The bathroom down here is yours.”

He had to blink hard, the kindness this showed almost too much for him to bear right now. “Thank you.” His voice was gruff.

“Of course. Do you want milk? Coke? Tea?”

“Daddy? Daddy?” The word was soft, a stage whisper. “Is it the hockey-man?”

He turned to stare at the little boy. Peter hadn’t even been one when he’d been traded to Florida, and now he was standing there by the staircase, towheaded and wide-eyed.

“Go on. He’s sleepy and needs soup. You need to try and go potty, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy.” The boy stared for a moment longer before turning and going back up the stairs, dragging a stuffed rabbit behind him.

“He’s so big.”

“He is. They both are. Victoria loves to ice skate. He’s scared of it.” Ian sighed and shook his head. “What did you want to drink?”

Scared of skating. That was crazy.

“Ginger ale if you’ve got it.” His stomach was starting to churn. He knew it was from the pain and being overly tired, but he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep much else down at the moment.

“Okay. I’ll be right back. Don’t worry. You’re…home.”

Ian disappeared into the kitchen, and JP had to admit, nothing smelled bad. Or burnt.

Home. He nodded slowly. It was true. Florida had never been home.

And he had to admit that Ian would have hated it there if he’d come.

Hell, JP hated it there. His small apartment had just been a place to lay his head between games and practice.

His friends had all been his teammates. It had never felt like home.

Not like here did. Despite the way they’d left things, and that he hadn’t been back in three years, this was more like home than anywhere he’d been.

He managed to get himself onto the bed by the time Ian came in with a glass, a bowl of soup, a few crackers.

“Here, we’ll get your shoes off, and you can eat. Then I’ll help you get to the bathroom.”

“I’m sorry. I know you don’t need another person to take care of, let alone me.”

“I—We’ll figure things out when you’re rested. You’ve got to be able to breathe.”

“Well, I appreciate it.” He nodded to his duffle. “My pills are in my shaving bag in there. Could you fish one out for me, please?”

Because he needed to take it soon before his head exploded, and it smelled like the chicken soup was actually edible.

It was totally not canned, either. Chunks of carrots, celery, chicken swam in it. In fact, it looked amazing.

Ian got him his pills and unpacked him while he took them and a bite of soup.

Oh damn, this was definitely not canned soup, and it tasted as good as it looked.

He managed to finish three quarters of the bowl, two crackers and about a third of the ginger ale before the last twenty-four hours came crashing down on him.

He let his spoon fall back into the bowl and rested his head against the back of the cranked-up bed.

Ian rolled the bedside table off to one side. “Do you need the bathroom, or are you okay?”

Ian eased off his shoes, so careful.

“I don’t think I can move,” he admitted. “And I should be good. Went when I got off the plane.”

“All right.” Ian covered him up. “You rest. I’ll bring your supper later. The remote is on the table.” Ian headed out of the room, and then turned to look at him. “Welcome home.”

“Merci, Chou,” he murmured as his eyes drifted closed.