Page 43 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

"Yeah," I cut her off, trying not to sound as frantic as I feel. "Definitely. Just ... give me a minute, alright?"

Before she can throw another suspicious look my way, I’m out the door, practically running like I’m escaping a crime scene. No way am I sticking around for more questions or for Holly to see me explode over Jake’s idiotic threats.

Because right now? Punching something sounds like a really, really good idea.

13

HOLLY

The silencein the house this morning sits heavy, like a storm cloud refusing to move. There’s a weird tension in the air — the kind that makes the house feel smaller and every creak in the floor magnified by ten.

I’d stayed up last night, waiting for the sound of his footsteps in the hall until he stumbled back through the door. One glance showed me that Ethan isn’t just brooding—he’s fully leaning into it. His usual ice-king aura has turned into full-on glacier mode. So, I woke up early and worked my butt off to make the kitchen as warm as possible— pancakes on the griddle, coffee brewing. The plan is to go for a morning that feels super cozy. But I’m doubtful whether even pancakes can sweeten the tension lingering in the air.

Ethan walks in, silent as a ghost, his usual swagger buried under layers of whatever he’s refusing to talk about. No eye contact, and just two words:“Good morning.”He quickly grabs his jacket like the kitchen—and the person standing in it—doesn’t exist.

His refusal to speak and the stone-cold wall of indifference isn’t helping the frustration building like a pressure cooker inside me, waiting to explode.

“Everything okay?” My question spills out, not because it’ll fix anything, but because there’s nothing else to do. The silence is unbearable. Surely, he can’t keep up this emotional disappearing act forever.

Ethan freezes mid-reach for his jacket, the faintest pause before continuing like the question barely registered. “Fine,” comes the gruff reply. He’s already halfway out the door, his voice distant, barely there. "Just got to go."

His body language screams “don’t ask.” The stiff movements, the clenched jaw—every bit of him shows avoidance. I should give in—just let him sulk like a spoiled, petulant kid. Should be easy, really, because the plan from the start was to ignore my annoying housemate—but that was all before the kiss that night, and the many more things.

“You won’t even get breakfast?” The words roll out, tinged with disbelief. “I busted my gut getting this ready.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know you prepared all this for me.” He walks to the table and grabs a fork like he’s got better things to do than exist in the same space.

There’s no point beating around the bush.

“So ... are you going to tell me what’s going on, or do I have to guess?” The words come out sharper than intended, but I mean, come on. He can’t act like this and expect me to stay cool.

Ethan stops eating, turns slightly, but his eyes never meet mine. “I’ve got a lot going on.”

There it is. The famous Ethan Carter brush-off. Hockey star, king of the ice, and champion of avoiding emotions. His shoulders are hunched like he’s carrying the weight of the world, but sharing? Not in his playbook.

“Well, maybe if you talked about it, it wouldn’t feel like so much,” I say, refusing to let him escape that easily.

A flicker of something—guilt, maybe? —crosses his face, but it’s gone in a second, replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. “It’s not your problem.”

That does it. Arms cross tightly, trying to keep the frustration from spilling over. “The least you can do is try to let me in on what’s bothering you instead of walking around like Batman without a cape.”

Finally, the phone slips back into his pocket, and he exhales like it’s the first breath he’s taken all day. “It’s not about you, okay?”

Oh, so now we’re doing vague deflection? Cool. “Could’ve fooled me.”

He pushes off the table, arms flexing under his shirt in that stupid, distracting way. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Ah, yes. I’m too simple to understand what’s going on in that brooding, hockey-smashed head of yours.”

I immediately regret my words when his jaw sets. This isn’t going anywhere.

“I’m not in the mood for this, Holly.” He turns, running a hand through his hair in that frustrated, slow-motion way that would have butterflies fluttering in my belly if we weren’t in this weird standoff.

No kidding. Taking a breath, trying for a softer approach, in a typicalcompromise and all that adult stuffmanner, I say, “I’m just trying to help, Ethan. But you keep shutting me out.”

This is getting old.

His eyes snap back to mine, cold, guarded. “What do you want from me? I said it’s not about you.”

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