Page 117 of That's Too Pucking Bad

I grip tighter, moving faster. It hurts like hell, but I don’t care. I just need—

“Fuck!”

I stop, hand falling uselessly to my side. It’s no use. I can’t do this.

I drop to the floor, back against the bedframe, and let my head fall back. My ribs throb with every breath, and my chest feels hollow. Like something’s missing.

It’s her.

She’s the missing piece, and I pushed her away.

I rub a hand over my face, trying to swallow the lump forming in my throat. But it’s no good. For the first time in years, I let go.

The tears come slow at first, then faster. I’m shaking, and I hate it, hate myself.

But the tears don’t subside. They just keep fucking rolling down my cheek.

This is who I am now. A broken fucking mess. And I don’t deserve her.

I have never deserved her.

The rink buzzes with noise— sneakers squeak on the concrete floors, voices rise and fall, chants echo. The Blackridge Ravens are suited up, ready for war. I should be locked in, focused. I’m not. My eyes scan the crowd, darting past banners and faces. She’s not here.

Remy. My little slut. My fucking sanity, apparently.

I exhale sharply, pushing the thought aside as I adjust my helmet. Focus. One game, one win, one step closer to scouts.

“Coburn!” Coach yells. “You’re starting center. Let’s go!”

I nod, skating onto the ice. The opposing team, Eastbrook Falcons, is lined up. Big guys, fast skates. Doesn’t matter. We’ve crushed worse.

The puck drops, and the game blurs into checks, passes, and shouts. Adrenaline keeps me moving, hitting harder, skating faster. Every time I glance at the stands, I hate myself a little more. She’s not here, watching, but my dad is. His grin stretches wider than the damn banners hanging over the rink.

Third period. We’re up by two, and I’m gassed. I pull off my helmet during a timeout and lean against the boards. Caleb skates up, slapping my shoulder.

“Good shit out there,” he says, grinning.

I nod, barely hearing him. My eyes drift to Maya in the stands, standing up to hug Caleb when he skates off. I don’t know why it pisses me off, but it does. Remy should be there, wearing one of my hoodies, flipping me off when I mess up and grinning when I score.

Game ends. We win.

Locker room’s chaos— guys shouting, slapping backs, spraying water like it’s champagne. I sit on the bench, peeling off my gear. My dad’s waiting by the exit when I step out, still damp from the post-game shower.

“Good game,” he says, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. He claps me on the shoulder, but it’s not pride— it’s expectation. “Scouts will be here next game. Don’t fuck it up.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, my voice flat.

“You could’ve moved faster in the second period,” he adds, like I didn’t just help secure the win. “You’re holding back. Don’t let that tattoo of yours be a distraction.”

His eyes flick to my arm. The tattoo of Remy’s eyes, shaded and perfect. His fingers grip my bicep, hard. Too hard. I flinch before I can stop myself.

He smirks. “Thought so.”

I yank my arm back, flexing my jaw. “Eric’s waiting for our next session,” I say, keeping my tone calm. “You don’t want me late, right?”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Smart boy. Dinner tonight.”

“Dinner?” I echo.

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