Page 2 of Puck of My Life

“I don’t give a damn about his name. There are no humans in our pack. There never have been. You know our law.”

“But he’s my mate.” I considered falling to my knees and begging, but Alpha wouldn’t be moved by my gesture.

“A human who knows who we are is a danger to the pack. You will not mate him, not while I’m Alpha.”

I blurted out that I’d leave the pack and never return, and my dads hugged me and told me to reconsider what I was saying

Garrick’s nostrils flared. “You’ll eventually come back and bring him with you.”

I begged my folks for help, but they whispered they couldn’t do anything, and I shoved them away, inwardly raging at their cowardice.

“You’re never going to see or speak to him again and don’t even think of driving past the hotel again.” He went on to say I was going to let our bond whither and die. “And if you don’t, I’ll deal with him, and you’ll get to keep the memory of his face.

My wolf bowed his head inside me and said we had to let Walter go. This was the second kind of cold, and it was worse than the low temperatures outside. I couldn’t sign Walter’s death warrant, so I agreed.

I applied to every college on the other side of the country and got a scholarship offer eleven days later. I’d study, play hockey, and not think about Walter and the hopefully happy and carefree life he was living.

I told everyone it was the offer of a lifetime, and it kinda was, but for Walter, not me. He didn’t know I existed. I hoped being so far away would stop me from turning my truck around and driving back. There was no guarantee, but other than finding a deserted island in the middle of the Pacific, this was the best option.

Garrick was right about one thing. A mate bond didn’t cease because of distance. But Walter was alive and safe. He was mine but only in my heart. I’d never know where he went to college or if he got married and had a family.

I consumed gallons of coffee on the drive to university, only stopping for food and gas, and I didn’t look back.

2

WALTER

Present Day

“Please work this time.”

I tapped the numbers on the pad and was relieved when the light turned green. It had only taken three tries to unlock my door today, which was better than the day I moved in when it had taken nine. I’d called the apartment manager numerous times about the stupid thing. They’d come out twice and both times blamed it on user error. As if tapping numbers had a learning curve.

One of my new coworkers, Louisa, told me it had to do with the speed I tapped them. If that was the case, fine, but I needed someone to teach me that timing because this was getting ridiculous. But what did I expect for the price I was paying for my studio apartment?

I stepped inside, took off my shoes, and dropped my bag beside them. To the left of me was a small counter that held my tea kettle, my mini draining board, and nothing else. My apartment-size stove and fridge and enough cabinets to hold dishes for two, a few canned goods, and a very basic cooking set completed the kitchen area. Cooking a full meal here wouldn’t be easy. The space was too crowded and the oven too small, but it suited the purpose for what I needed as someone living alone who didn’t enjoy playing chef.

I filled up the kettle and turned it on. It was a cup of noodles kind of night… just like every other night for the past week. Part of it was that I came home late most nights. I needed something quick. But most of it was the fact that I was rent poor. As “reasonable” as this place was for the area, it sucked up most of my take-home pay. I’d been surprised I was approved because I definitely didn’t meet their income requirement. If it hadn’t been for my references, there was no way I’d have gotten in here, and I’d have been answering all of the “roommate needed” ads and living on someone’s couch or a closet that was converted into a bedroom. This was better. I needed my own space.

I still hadn’t completely unpacked, not so much out of laziness or exhaustion, but because there wasn’t any place to put my things.

Instead of a twin bed, which was the only thing that would fit in the space, I had a couch. It was comfortable, and it did have a pullout element, but I had to move everything else out of the living room/bedroom to make it fit. When the bed was out, it encompassed my entire living space. I couldn’t see ever using it unless my uncle came to visit.

I’d tried to figure out a way to have a small desk here. It was impossible.

Unlike a few other places I’d looked at in my price range, I didn’t need to leave my room to get to the bathroom. It had an itty-bitty shower stall and a pocket door that was broken, but that was better than wandering down the hall in the middle of the night. I wasn’t sure how those places qualified as apartments, but apparently that was allowed here.

I plopped on the couch.

“So this is what it means to move up,” I said, leaning back and closing my eyes, waiting for the kettle to whistle.

It had been a long journey to get here. I’d gone to school for journalism, and had big dreams of being a reporter at one of the top newspapers, my byline on the front page so often I became a household name. Back then, I thought I had a chance to just slide into the perfect job. I was top of my class, after all.

How wrong I was.

My first job was at a midsize paper, and my position focused on fairly local happenings. It was the chance of a lifetime, they said, an opportunity for career growth. My classmates were so jealous I was hired weeks ahead of graduation. I thought I’d hit the jackpot pot. I had not.

What it actually was was a pretty crappy job. I was the one to fetch coffees. I was the one to lug boxes from one place to the next. If someone recorded an interview, yep, it was me who had to transcribe it. They didn’t like the idea of transcription software but didn’t mind underpaying someone for a job that was extremely frustrating and time-consuming. I didn’t let them see my frustration, though. I slapped on a smile and took on every task they gave me, waiting for my opening to move up.