He lay absolutely still, inventorying the damage. Oh yeah, this hurt a lot, and it wasn’t just the shoulder he’d dislocated a couple of weeks ago, which hadn’t had time to heal and which had taken another hard hit against the boards last night. He opened an eye, winced, and then groaned as the movement shot splinters of pain piercing into his brain and gut. The last time he’d had such a massive hangover was almost a year ago, when the Beavers lost the Stanley Cup in double overtime in the seventh game of the finals. He sure as hell couldn’t show up for practice like this. Gritting his teeth against nausea, he hauled his ass out of bed and into his jogging shorts. He added a ratty T-shirt and gingerly bent to put on socks and running shoes. Each step was more agonizing than the one before. Out the door, down the hall, into the elevator where the sickening swoop downward from the penthouse floor almost made him toss his cookies. Into the street. Fresh air, thank God. His condo was in Vancouver’s Yaletown, and he always ran along the seawall.
What do You think about The Dirty Girls Book Club?
