Page 82 of Pucking my Enemy Boss

Still, she waits. There’s no one else who could ask this and be given the time of day. And the irony sits in my stomach like a stone.

“I’ll help you,” the words spill out before they’re ready. A small way to close this chapter. But the terms come out firm. “This is the last favor. After this, the tab’s closed.”

Silence again, broken by a soft, almost resigned, “Thank you.” She pauses, adds, “I hope you find the kind of peace you’ve been looking for away from us. Really.”

A click, and the call’s over. The quiet that follows is nearly oppressive.

Returning to the house, it’s hard to shake off the weight of the call. Family—always just one small favor away from bringing the past back. Inside, there’s warmth again, the scent of pine filling the air from the decorated Christmas tree, blinking with soft lights. But instead of the comfort, it’s a reminder that this season, so steeped in family tradition, carries its own ghosts.

As if sensing my mood, the lights flicker across the living room, their soft glow dancing across the room. But it’s Holly who catches my attention—standing in the doorway, arms crossed, gaze watchful.

“You’re still awake,” the words stumble out, an attempt to recover from the surprise of her presence.

She raises a brow, eyes flicking to the phone still in my hand. “I heard the door. Did you ... have a call?”

“Yeah,” slips out without conviction. “Just ... the agent.”

The look she gives holds every ounce of doubt she must be feeling, her lips pressing into a thin line as if trying to hold back something sharper. She nods once, quietly, picking up a bottle of water from the counter. Her movements are smooth, controlled,but it’s the tension in her shoulders that says she’s carrying something too heavy.

“Something wrong?” The question’s as careful as a step onto thin ice.

She gives a small shake of her head. “Nothing. Just needed some water.”

Her retreat is swift. She turns around and heads off to her room, and all that’s left is the quiet, her silent words still hanging in the air. It’s not a good night. Not with this much unsaid, lingering in the space between us.

I want to rush to her door, knock on it, ask her to give me another chance to explain things, but I’m scared Holly won’t see things as I do. She grew up sheltered in a huge family. She’s always spoken glowingly about big family parties and everyone on good terms with each other. It’s a stark contrast to the mess that is the Carters.

And I’m worried that it won’t paint me in positive light if I open up on this to her.

A week goes by,and every day feels as though the silence around me and Holly has wrapped itself tighter. She’s there, but distant, polite. The kind of careful calm that feels more unsettling than an argument would.

I’d mostly say she avoids me, but whenever I’m around, she moves through the house in a labored way, pale, her words clipped, with a smile that’s a shadow of its usual self.

Seeing her that way fills me with an ache that has no easy cure.

Today’s practice, every pass, every hit against the boards, feels hollow. The puck slides away as if it, too, senses the unease.Each lap around the ice is colder, the layers of padding and helmet doing nothing against the bite of the chill inside.

And the guys? They’re starting to notice. Even Ryan’s usual quips are toned down, his gaze catching mine in a way that holds questions. But none can be answered here, on the ice, where the focus is supposed to be on the game. Only, the game feels like just another empty motion right now.

After practice, Reid calls me into the office. He’s perched by his desk, that usual managerial glint in his eyes as he leans back, watching with a calm that feels anything but.

“You’ve been making strides,” he starts, voice smooth, the kind that’s meant to build trust. “The fan engagement has been remarkable. The team’s never looked better. And, by the way, Raymond Blue’s latest article? Glowing.”

A pause, sharp and heavy. “That raises some flags.”

“And he’s asked for an interview.”

Suspicion snakes through the relief that had barely settled. Raymond Blue—my personal favorite nightmare, known for spinning even the most innocent news into something dark and twisted. Trusting him is like shaking hands with a snake.

“Interview?” The word tastes bitter.

Reid’s nod is firm, like this is some well-thought strategy instead of a dangerous invitation. “Think about it. The man’s got influence, and if he’s writing positively, there’s a chance to keep that momentum. Meet him, see if he’s genuine.”

Genuine. If Blue’s genuine, then hockey’s a ballroom dance, and this meeting’s about to become some choreographed disaster. But Reid’s stance is clear—no sense arguing. This is just another hoop to jump through, another PR move that’s meant to do the team good.

Reid gives me a location to meet him—a swanky restaurant that’s as exclusive as the high rollers who frequent it. Fine. Hewants a meeting? We’ll see just how friendly he can be when he’s backed into a corner.

The restaurant’s the kind of place where subtlety is an art form—lighting so dim it feels like a conspiracy, waiters who glide with the precision of ghosts, and decor that whispers wealth in soft, shadowed tones. It’s a place meant for secrecy, and maybe that’s why Raymond Blue chose it. He’s seated when I arrive, his expression smug, eyes glinting like a predator who’s already seen his prey fall.

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