Page 90 of The Pucking Player

“Which ones?” The question slips out before I can stop myself.

Jessica’s eyes narrow. “That’s what you took from that? God, you really are a piece of work.”

“Look, Jess?—”

“No,youlook.” She stands, closing the distance between us. In her heels, she’s only a few inches shorter than me, quite impressive for a girl. And she manages to loom. “Sophie trusted you.Itrusted you. Hell, I went to bat for you with Dad. And this is what you do? Well, I say, good riddance.”

Each word lands like a body check. Because she’s right, I’m destroying quite a lot to protect Sophie. Breaking promises I meant to keep.

“How’s she doing?” I hate how rough my voice sounds. How desperate. “Besides the ice cream and rom-coms?”

“Why do you care?” Jessica crosses her arms. “Shouldn’t you be too busy with your pop star to worry about the girl whose heart you’re smashing?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Isn’t it always with you?” She shakes her head,disappointment radiating off her. “You know what the worst part is? I actually believed you were different. That all those stories about the ‘Bad Boy of Hockey’ were bull.”

I force a smirk, even though each word feels like swallowing glass. “Maybe you shouldn’t believe everything you read.”

“Get out of my office,” Jessica hisses and turns away, shoulders rigid. “And stay away from Sophie. She got into Stanford, and I don’t want you getting all mixed in now. She deserves better than a meandering philanderer like yourself.”

Ouch.

I head for the door, pausing with my hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, Jess? I never meant to hurt her.”

“Yeah, well.” Her voice is quiet. “You did a pretty shit job of that, didn’t you?”

The door clicks shut behind me, but her words follow me down the hallway. Because she’s right, I am hurting Sophie. Breaking her heart to keep her safe.

Some hero.

31

THREE THOUSAND MILES

SOPHIE

There’s something deeply satisfying about color-coding your closet when your love life is a dumpster fire. At least hangers don’t ghost you after weeks of intense pursuit. Sweaters don’t show up on Instagram canoodling with pop stars. And shoes would never pretend to be all in, then ice you out like a Zamboni.

“Oh my God, Soph, you have to see this!” Jenna squeals from where she’s sprawled across my bed, phone held aloft like she’s discovered the cure for cancer. “This hotel has a DOLPHIN BAR. Like, actual dolphins! Swimming! While you’re having your cocktail!”

I pause my aggressive reorganization of winter wear by shade and fabric weight. “Pretty sure that’s animal cruelty.”

“Pretty sure that’s paradise.” She scoffs and flips her phone around, showing me photos of an absurdly blue pool where actual dolphins appear to be participating in happy hour. “This is exactly what you need. Sun, sand, and marine mammals enabling your quarter-life crisis.”

“I’m not having a crisis,” I say, maybe a bit too defensively. “I’m decluttering. And I’m only twenty-one.”

“Honey.” Jenna sits up, giving me her patented “who do you think you’re fooling” look. “You’ve rearranged that closet three times this week. Your notes are color-coded by subject AND emotional resonance. Yesterday you alphabetized the spice rack. The spice rack, Sophie.”

“My system makes perfect sense! It’s now super easy to find basil.”

“The system is your way of avoiding thinking about Liam O’Connor, who is a grade-A ass.”

I turn back to my closet, pretending the mention of his name doesn’t feel like a paper cut to my heart. “I’m not avoiding anything. I’m being productive. Getting organized before spring break. Making plans for summer.”

“Right.” Jenna’s voice drips skepticism. “And the fact that you’ve checked his Instagram seventeen times today is just...research?”

“I have not—” I sputter, but my phone chooses that exact moment to buzz with a notification.

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