Page 23 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

Maybe it’s because I know what it’s like to be pressured by others. Maybe it’s because David’s death anniversary is coming up, and Holly is the first housemate I’ve had since my brother.

Just then, my phone rings, too. It’s my uncle. I decide to answer this time, my patience worn thin.

“Ethan, it’s about time you picked up,” his voice grates through the speaker.

“What do you want, Frank?” I snap, my anger bubbling over. “You and your family don’t have lives of your own? You have to keep leeching off me?”

“Watch your tone, boy,” he growls. “We took you in when you had nowhere else to go.”

“And I’ve been paying for it ever since,” I retort. “You’ve milked every cent out of me, used David’s memory to guilt-trip me. I’m done being your cash cow. Get a job, Frank. Live your own damn life.”

“You ungrateful little—” he starts, but I cut him off.

“Ungrateful? You took us in for the money, not out of the kindness of your heart. You made our lives hell, and you think I owe you for that? Screw you, Frank. Screw you and your entire family.”

I hang up, breathing hard. The anger roiling inside me feels like a storm, threatening to break free. A shuffle of feet behind me makes me turn around. Holly’s standing there, shock and confusion in her eyes. I know she’s overheard my side of the conversation, and I can see the doubt in her eyes, wondering if I’m someone she can trust.

That flicker of judgment makes my anger flare again.I owe no one an apology, not even an explanation if they can’t bear to give me the benefit of the doubt.

I grab my car keys off the wall, avoiding her gaze. “I’m heading to training,” I say gruffly, storming out of the house without looking back.

As I drive, the anger gnaws at me, joined by disappointment. I’ve always told myself that I don’t care what others think of me. No one knows the pain until they’ve been in my shoes—but seeing that doubt in her eyes, knowing she’s questioning me, hurts more than I want to admit.

It doesn’t matter, Ethan. You don’t need her approval or anyone else’s.

I push the car faster, trying to outrun my thoughts. I can’t shake the image of Holly’s face, her eyes filled with uncertainty and something else—something that looks a lot like disappointment.

I’ve always prided myself on my control, on keeping people at arm’s length. But Holly has a way of breaking through all that, making me feel things I’m not ready to feel. And that worries me more than anything.

Maybe what happened between us last night is a mistake, and should remain so.

As I pull into the rink’s parking lot, I take a deep breath, trying to refocus. I can’t afford distractions, not now. Not ever. But as I step out of the car, the memory of Holly’s unwavering gaze follows me.

The practice hall is already buzzing with chatter and anticipation when I step in, the players changing into training gear, grabbing their skates. I'm surrounded by the familiar adrenaline in the air and hockey gear, a comforting ritual.

Coach Andrew appears in front of the group and, for the next two hours, we do an analysis of the previous games and identifywhat we can improve. As soon as he whistles to order us to the ice, Ryan appears beside me, a grin plastered on his face.

"Ready for practice, man?"

I nod, my mind still reeling. I'm torn between the desire to focus on the game and the need to figure out what's going on with Holly.

"You're awfully quiet today," Ryan observes, raising an eyebrow. "Scared I’ll have your ass on toast out there or you’ve got something on your mind?"

I shrug, trying to sound casual. "Just thinking about the game."

He laughs. "You're always thinking about the game."

I ignore his teasing. I need to focus. I can't let my personal problems interfere with my performance.

As we step out onto the ice, the cold air stings my face. I skate to my position, my mind racing. I need to clear my head, to focus on the game. But Holly's image keeps flashing before my eyes. Her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me last night.

I take a deep breath, trying to push the thoughts away. I need to concentrate.

The puck drops, and the game begins. I need to lock in now to play well, keep my mind sharp, and my body reacting instinctively. But I can't shake the feeling radiating through me. The puck is passed to me from the left wing and as it rolls toward my stick, I slow down. One of the defensemen slams into me, hard, and I crash to the ice.

Gasps and worried murmurs ripple through the rink. My assailant offers me a hand, and I grit my teeth, accepting the help to get back on my feet.

“Are you okay?” Coach Andrew calls out, his voice laced with concern.

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