Page 42 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

"Carter! Off the ice!"

And just like that, I’m benched. The coach sends me home after letting me stew for a bit more time.

The drive home is quiet. Too quiet. Normally, Ryan would be cracking jokes, calling out my bad mood, but he’s still at the rink. No one to distract me from my own thoughts. Just the sound of the engine and the growing weight in my chest.

Pulling into the garage, I sit there for a minute, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles ache. I don’t wanna go inside. Not yet. Not when Holly’s probably waiting, and all I’ve got is bad news.

Then there’s a knock on the window. Holly. She’s standing there, looking like she stepped out of some cozy Instagram reel—oversized sweater showing off two dots, spilling her braless secret, leggings, messy bun. Casual, effortless, and, of course, ridiculously beautiful.

"You good?" She raises an eyebrow, leaning down to peer through the window. "Or is the car winning whatever fight you’ve got going on in there?"

Rolling down the window, I shake my head. "Just ... stuff. No big deal."

She tilts her head, studying me like she doesn’t quite believe it. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Nah." I force a smile, climbing out of the car. "It’s nothing."

Holly’s eyes linger on me for a second longer, then she shrugs. "Okay. But, hey—if you wanna talk at any minute, know that I’m here."

"Yeah." I lean against the car, trying to push everything else away. Focus on her. On now. "Tell me about your day."

And for a moment, it works. Everything else fades.

Holly’s voice bounces in my ears as we step into the house, her hands waving around while she talks about the Christmas showcase like it’s the next Coachella. I nod, doing my best to stay present, even though my brain is still replaying the disaster that was practice. And that article. And Reid. Pretty much all of it.

“So, I was thinking, we hang these massive icicle lights all around the rink,” Holly says, practically glowing. “It’ll be like Frozen, but, you know, with less Elsa and more hockey players.”

“Sounds cool,” I mumble, still trying to shake the image of Raymond Blue’s smug face from my mind. Why do the worst people in life get all the media gigs?

She pauses, eyes narrowing. “Cool? That’s all you’ve got? Come on, Carter, this is going to be epic. We’re talking full-onInstagram-ableChristmas vibes. Do you have any idea how many viral TikToks could come out of this? We could break the internet.”

“Right, right. Totally. Very... TikTok-able,” I say, trying to sound like I’m 100% invested inChristmas decorand not mentally preparing to punch a wall.

We step into the kitchen, and Holly stops by the counter, her eyes darting to the fridge. "Hey, you want something quick to eat? I was thinking a low-carb snack or something, if you're into that whole post-practice, no-carb thing." She winks. "Gotta keep those abs, right?"

"Sure," I say, leaning against the counter, trying to focus onanythingbut the burning sensation creeping up my neck from the anger still simmering inside.

"Okay! I'll grab something real quick," she says, disappearing into the pantry, humming some upbeat tune like everything in the world is sunshine and glitter.

My phone pings.Please let this not be what I think it is.

Pulling it out, I swipe to the new message, and there it is:Jake Carter. The guy who makes Jake Roland look like a saint. Entitled, spoiled, and the human embodiment of a bad DM.

Jake: Hey, cuz. Just a friendly reminder: if you don’t send that check over by tomorrow, I’m gonna make sure that journalist writes another piece about how you’ve “forgotten where you came from.” You know how this works. Play nice.

Play nice? More likeplay dirty, and he’s the one with all the mud.

A low growl rumbles up from my throat before I can stop it, and the word comes out louder than expected. “Bullshit!”

Right as Holly walks in holding a tray of something that looks way too healthy to taste good. She freezes, eyes wide. "Excuse me?"

My heart drops. Of course. Timing’s always perfect when life’s trying to mess with you. "Sorry," I mutter, quickly pocketing my phone. "Not you. Definitely not you."

She raises an eyebrow, curiosity practically oozing out of her. "Right. Not me. So ... wanna talk about it? Or is yelling at imaginary things a new post-hockey thing you're doing?"

“Uh...” My brain scrambles, trying to catch up. "Look, I’ll take a raincheck on that snack, okay? Something came up, and I need to deal with it. Like, now."

She steps forward, setting the tray down with aclink, her eyes narrowing again. "Are you sure? You look kinda?—"

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