The Puck Bunny

Thirty-Two

LUKE

"Pruitt?" I mumbled, attempting to open my eyes. My curtains weren't closed though, and the brightness forced them shut again.

Brightness?

Oh fuck it was the next morning?

"Jesus Bennett, what the fuck man?" Cooper's voice came.

"Coop?" I groaned, attempting to sit up before instant regret pounded into my head and forced me back down again.

"Get up"

I stayed where I was, eyes closed, until the undeniable feeling of water splashed me awake.

"What's your fucking problem Cooper?" I yelled, sitting up and looking into the eyes of my very angry best friend.

"My problem is that one of my players isn't on the ice when he's meant to be" My anger furrowed into confusion.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Luke it's 3:30, we have practice right now and you're in bed!" I shot into action and grabbed my phone, finding several missed calls and texts from the whole team, and a time that read 3:36.

"Ow, my fucking head"

"You want me to feel sorry for you? Tough shit Bennett"

I looked at Cooper and wondered why he was acting so harshly. For all he knew, I could be really sick. Then my eyes land on the two empty bottles of whiskey on my desk and I groan, head going into my hands.

"Coop, I'm sorry. I just needed to stop thinking"

"I'm surprised you didn't stop breathing. Jesus, did you drink both bottles last night?"

"I don't remember. Must have if they're both empty."

"No shit. Get your pants on, we're going to the rink."

"Are you joking Coop? Look at me, I can't fucking walk without looking drunk, let alone skate"

"Well tough shit Bennett, I'm not joking. You brought this on yourself and if you miss practice, what am I meant to tell the guys?"

"That I'm sick?"

"As someone who appreciates honesty as much as you do, I can't believe you'd suggest lying. This team will not be built on dishonesty. They deserve to see you in your true form and you deserve their remarks. Get dressed"

There was no arguing with Tyler Cooper when it came to hockey.

I could, and do, argue him on a lot and usually win. But hockey would never be one of those things. That man was a machine and when his brain worked in hockey language, it was unstoppable. I grumbled as I pulled myself from the bed. I swayed once I was on my feet, trying my best to ignore the sharp pain stabbing my brain and its desire to fight its way out of my skull.

"Atta boy, get some water in you" Cooper said, handing me one of the bottles of water I had on my desk. I opened it and took a big swig, sighing as I grabbed the sweat pants Cooper was holding and pulled them onto my body. I then grabbed an elastic and tied my hair back, sluggishly following Coop out of Centennial and to the rink.

I could feel in my stomach this wasn't going to end well. Or maybe I could feel the alcohol swirling around, unable to cling to anything and ready to force its way out in one way or another.

The light jog to the rink did not help at all. As a matter of fact it made things worse. I almost laughed at the thought, the word 'worse' meaning more to me than it ever would to anyone else, and more than I could ever attempt to explain. I got into the locker room and laced my skates onto my feet, before pulling my padding and my helmet on. I grabbed my stick and begrudgingly trudged my way to the ice.