Page 70 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

Ethan turns slowly, his eyes meeting mine, and there’s something cold there, something that makes my chest tighten. “I get it,” he says, his voice even. Too even. “I just ... I need a minute.”

My heart clenches, the panic rising. “Ethan, please?—”

“I’m not mad,” Ethan cuts me off, his voice softer now, but still distant. “I just need to clear my head.”

The drive back to the house is painfully quiet. I try to fill the silence, pointing out holiday decorations along the way, making small comments, trying to pull Ethan out of whatever place he’s retreating to. But it’s like talking to a brick wall. He responds, but barely.

When we finally pull into the driveway, Ethan offers a tight smile. “I’m ... tired. Think I’ll turn in early.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving me standing there, confused and more than a little heartbroken.

22

ETHAN

“YOU BELONG TO ME”

Morningsat the house are usually calm. Except for when we’re chattering away, there’s a kind of quiet when even the creak of the floorboards feels like it’s been waiting all night for an audience. I’m used to that. Today, though, the quiet is more unsettling—like the eerie calm before a storm. Stepping into the living room, the emptiness hits hard, the silence hanging heavy in the air.

Holly isn’t here.

For a second, the thought that she might have left early doesn’t sit well. Missing the sound of her humming while she moves around, the way her presence makes the house feel less like a building and more like ahome, gnaws at something deep. There’s a distinct lack of Holly-ness in the house, and it’s unnerving.

But reaching out to her? No, not today. Reaching out to Holly has crossed my mind, about fifty times overnight. I picked up my phone about fifteen times amid tossing and turning, but something stopped my thumb from hitting send each time—the lingering thought of Jake—freaking Jake Roland and Holly going to meet him.

While the rational side of my brain says it’s nothing, the other side, the one that’s been gnawing at me since yesterday, keeps whispering stuff. Stuff like, “Why is she willingly going to see her ex who hurt her that much?” and “What if she still has feelings for him?”

Yesterday’s awkwardness still clings like the bitter edge of winter wind, with the heavy weight of my pride. There’s no sense in looking too eager, too needy. That never ends well. And besides, there’s practice to deal with.

Still, the meeting with Jake nags at the back of my mind like a mosquito that won’t stop buzzing. Why would she evenentertainhim? Is there unfinished business between them? Maybe Holly still has feelings for him, or worse—maybe Jake has something she’s missing in me.

The thought is almost laughable, almost, if it wasn’t sinking like a stone in my chest. Whatever. She can handle herself. No need to spiral. Grabbing my gear, it's straight to practice. Maybe someone slapping a puck into my face will knock some sense into this stupid head.

Practice doesn’t start any better. The rink’s colder than usual, biting through layers and straight to bone. The noise of skates cutting into ice fills the air, punctuated by the thud of pucks hitting the boards. But there’s no focus. Today, the ice feels less like a second home and more like quicksand.

Coach Andrew’s barking orders, but his voice barely registers. Each play feels slower than the last, every pass coming late, every shot a little off. The stick feels foreign, unwieldy, like it belongs to someone else entirely.

“Carter,wake up!” Coach’s voice cuts through the fog like a slap. “You’re skating like you’re wearing snowshoes out there!”

The puck shoots toward me—fast, low—but my response is sluggish. Instead of sending it flying down the ice, it ricochets off the stick with a clumsy slap, bouncing toward the boards.

Ryan’s there, of course, sharp and quick. He’s always picking up the slack, and right now, and I’m leaving more than enough of it. Ryan glides past, shooting a look, one eyebrow raised.

“What the hell, man?”

But there’s no answer. Just a grunt of frustration and another fumbled play. The other guys don’t say much, but it’s clear in their sidelong glances that everyone’s noticed. Ethan Carter is off his game—thank God they don’t know it’s because of some slick actor with a fake smile, and made-for-TV charisma.

I’ve never had to worry about any woman being loyal to me because my relationships were all short-term, no strings attached until now. I believed Holly was different and things could be real between us, but now doubts bubble up. Maybe actor types are just better suited for women like Holly? He’s Hollywood, a walking Instagram filter, unlike a hockey player who’s more comfortable on ice than under spotlights—she’s an event planner after all.

The gray-edgedjealousyis making everything worse.

In the locker room, the atmosphere’s lighter, buzzing with the usual post-practice chatter. Guys laugh, towel-whip each other, the mood as loose as it gets. Parked on the bench, staring down at my skates like they hold all the answers to the universe, it doesn’t take long before I hear my friend’s heavy sigh.

Ryan drops down next to me, pulling off his gloves with a dramatic flourish. “Alright, spill. What’s eating you?”

The silence stretches for a beat too long before I can manage a mutter, “You ever ... you ever feel like you’re not good enough for someone?”

“Is this about you?”

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