Page 75 of Slap Shot Daddies

The familiar scratch of my pen is soothing, a comforting routine, yet my heart isn’t fully in it.

Still, Kenzie lingers in my thoughts, slipping through every gap in my focus like a shadow I can’t quite catch.

Resolute, I push the thought aside and immerse myself in the work.

My mind sharpens, falling into the rhythmic cadence of the game. I can visualize it all, the puck snapping with precision across the ice, the sharp sound of skates carving into the surface, the crisp slap of a one-timer hitting the twine with satisfying force.

This is where my strength lies, seeing the play unfold before it happens. Anticipating the gaps. Exploiting the weaknesses.

But off the ice? With her?

I'm just winging it.

I exhale deeply, closing the notebook after an hour of intense focus. My eyes burn from the strain, but the plan is solid, and Coach will be pleased.

I only wish winning Kenzie over were as simple as diagramming a perfect drill.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Kenzie

Monday morning dragsitself in under a blanket of gray clouds that matches the queasy churn in my stomach.

I push myself out of bed, feeling as though my limbs are weighted with lead, each movement a struggle.

My head throbs with the dull ache of a restless night. I shuffle to the bathroom, hoping to shake off the fog of fatigue.

Brushing my teeth is a dance to avoid my gag reflex; the minty toothpaste foams up in my mouth, turning into a frothy adversary rather than the refreshing ally it should be.

As I rinse, my phone buzzes again on the bathroom counter.

Ally’s texts blink up at me.

>> Get your butt in gear, Kenz. You need fresh air, and you need your files.

Her words are like a nudge from the corner of my mind, reminding me of the tasks ahead, even though the thought of facing the day, and everyone around me, feels like an insurmountable mountain to climb.

I wrap my hands around a chipped mug filled with ginger tea, the warmth seeping into my fingers as I pull on my favorite pair of jeans and a loose sweater.

The soft fabric is a small comfort against my skin, though the tea does little more than offer a fleeting reprieve to my unsettled stomach.

Sliding into the driver’s seat of my Jeep, I twist the dial to blast the heater, battling the piercing cold of a late-autumn Minnesota morning.

I look at the travel mug I’ve neglected to wash and the seats and dash that need wiped down. As I reverse out of my parking spot, my stomach lurches at the familiar bump of driving out onto the street, a jarring reminder of my current state.

Today promises to be a marathon, not a sprint.

But I need those files, and I need to check on the macaws.

The early morning sun is hidden behind the gray clouds, casting the cityscape in a dull, cheerless glow that mirrors my mood.

Each turn of the wheel is a small triumph over the persistent nausea.

But my thoughts are not on the road ahead: they're on Braden, Reggie, and Ambrose.

My throat constricts as vivid images of their faces flood my mind: their expressions the last time I saw them, etched with concern and warmth. They had held back, respecting Ally's request to give me some space.

I can almost feel their curiosity, their silent questions about what’s been going on with me, and the weight of secrecy presses heavily on my chest.

---