Page 48 of They All Puck Me

"No," I admit. "How can I? They're all focused on the playoffs right now."

Sophie nods thoughtfully. "True. But they’re also adults who can handle complicated situations."

"Maybe," I say quietly. "But I'm not sure I can."

She reaches across the counter to squeeze my hand. "You'll figure it out. Just take it one step at a time."

I nod, appreciating her support even though my mind is still a mess of conflicting emotions and professional obligations.

We eat in companionable silence for a while before Sophie speaks up again. "You know you don't have to decide anything right now, right? Just focus on your article and let things unfold naturally."

"Yeah," I say with a small smile. "Just pass the damn ice cream and a spoon."

The press boxis a sea of activity, but I force myself to stay focused on my notes. My eyes, however, keep drifting to the ice. Liam and Noah are looking like the second string of a damn little league team. Liam's usually impeccable blocks are missing their mark, and Noah's passes are sloppy. Ethan, ever the lone wolf, tries to pick up the slack, but his solo attempts at the goal are futile without Liam's defense and Noah's precision.

"What's going on with them?" murmurs another reporter beside me.

I don't respond, but the guilt gnaws at me. This tension between them... it's my fault.

On the ice, Liam slams into an opponent with more force than necessary, knocking the puck loose. He sends it flying towards Noah, but Noah isn't there to catch it. Instead, the opposing team intercepts and races down the rink.

"Damn it!" I mutter under my breath.

Ethan skates in from the left wing, eyes narrowed in determination. He weaves through defenders with ease, but without support from his teammates, his shots on goal are blocked every time.

"Come on, guys," I whisper, willing them to find their rhythm.

The crowd groans as another missed pass sails past Noah. He throws a frustrated glance at Liam, who shakes his head in exasperation. Their chemistry is shot.

Ethan tries again, this time managing to get close enough for a powerful shot. The puck ricochets off the goalie's pad with a loud thud. Ethan's frustration is palpable as he skates back into position.

The period ends with a dismal score for the Wolves. As they head to the locker room, I catch glimpses of their faces—Liam's jaw set in anger, Noah's brows furrowed in confusion, and Ethan's eyes dark with frustration.

"Olivia," says Tom, one of the senior reporters, snapping me out of my thoughts. "You alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I lie. "Just... tired."

He nods sympathetically. "This team needs to get its act together if they want to make it through the playoffs."

"Yeah," I agree quietly.

As the next period begins, I resolve to keep my distance even more. My presence here has already done enough damage. I focus on jotting down observations for my article but can't help sneaking glances at the ice.

Liam and Noah continue to struggle with coordination. Their timing is off; plays that should be second nature now seem like Herculean tasks. Ethan's attempts to compensate only highlight the disarray further.

"Liam looks like he's about to have a coronary," comments another reporter nearby.

I bite my lip, knowing they're right. This is not just about hockey anymore—it's personal.

The final buzzer sounds, signaling another loss for the Wolves. The disappointment in the arena is tangible as fans file out silently. I pack up my things slowly, my heart heavy with guilt and confusion.

As I leave the press box, I hear snippets of conversations around me—fans lamenting the team's performance and analysts dissecting every missed opportunity. It’s all too much.

I need to fix this somehow before it destroys everything—for them and for me.

I make my way to the post-game press conference, my notebook open but my mind elsewhere. I find a spot in the back, hoping I can blend in and not be seen. Liam steps up to the podium, his jaw clenched, eyes scanning the room. When they land on me, there's a flicker of something—hurt, confusion, maybe both. I force myself to look away.

"Captain Makar," someone starts, "can you walk us through the defensive breakdown in the third period?"

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