Page 42 of Don't Puck Your Best Friend’s Girl

"Doesn't it?" I miss the next ball entirely, my frustration throwing off my timing. "I slept with my ex's best friend two days after we broke up. Then I lied about things I'd said about him. What kind of person does that make me?"

"Human," she answers simply. "A messy, complicated human who sometimes screws up."

I shake my head, not ready to accept her absolution. "You should have seen them, Chloe. The way they just…moved around me. Like I was nothing. Like what happened meant nothing."

"Men compartmentalize," she explains, retrieving a ball that rolled to the fence. "They can separate you sleeping with Cade from their friendship. It's annoying but also how they survive emotionally."

"While I'm over here feeling like my insides have been put through a blender," I mutter.

"Because you process things differently. Neither way is wrong, just different." She tosses me another ball, which I smack with renewed vigor. "Besides, did you actually want either of them to acknowledge you? What would you have said?"

The question catches me off guard. What would I have wanted? Byron to yell at me again? Cade to look at me with that cold indifference from the car? Neither option seems particularly appealing.

"I don't know," I admit. "I just… I guess I wanted to matter. To have some impact. Their friendship surviving intact makes me feel like I was just… insignificant."

"Or maybe," Chloe suggests gently, "you're making this all about you when it's really about them. Their friendship has history and roots you'll never understand. Just like they'll never understand why you did what you did."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, forcing me to consider a perspective outside my own hurt feelings. Maybe this isn't about me being insignificant. Maybe it's about something between them that has nothing to do with me at all.

"When did you get so wise?" I ask, catching a ball instead of hitting it.

She grins. "Dev Psych is my jam. Now, are you going to keep torturing that ball, or are we going to play for real?"

"Let's play," I decide, tossing the ball back to her. "I'm tired of being in my head all day."

As we rally back and forth, the tight knot of anger and humiliation in my chest gradually loosens. It doesn't disappear — I know myself well enough to recognize that I'll be processing this for days, maybe weeks. But the sharp edges of the pain begin to dull, worn smooth by physical exertion and Chloe's unwavering support.

By the time we finish, the sun is setting over the campus, casting long shadows across the courts. We gather the scattered balls, some of which I sent halfway to the nearby softball field in my enthusiasm.

"Same time tomorrow?" Chloe asks as we shoulder our bags.

I consider the prospect of another day facing the possibility of running into Byron or Cade — or worse, both of them together.

"Definitely," I nod. "I have a feeling I'm going to need a lot more ball-smashing therapy in the near future."

We head back toward our apartment, the evening air cool against my sweat-dampened skin. With each step, I feel a little more solid, a little more myself. The world didn't end when they walked past me. It didn't end when Byron discovered the truth. It won't end tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that.

But I'm still bothered by what happened.

Especially because of Cade.

Chapter 13

Morning practice with Sandy feels different today. The ice seems clearer somehow, the drills sharper, my lungs working better despite the early hour. Maybe it's the lack of tension between us, the absence of that constant undercurrent of competition that's been there since we were kids competing for Dad's attention.

"Your edges still need work," Sandy calls as I round the corner during our warm-up laps. "You're leaning too far into your turns."

"Your face needs work," I shoot back automatically, the childish retort slipping out before I can stop it.

To my surprise, Sandy bursts out laughing. "Wow, quality comeback. Did you learn that in your fancy business classes?"

"Nah, learned it from listening to you in high school," I grin, catching up to him. "Remember when Coach made you apologize to that ref and you said—"

"I'm sorry your eyes don't work right," Sandy finishes, his face lighting up at the memory. "God, Mom was so pissed when she found out."

"Grounded you for a week for being disrespectful," I confirm. "And you snuck out every night anyway."

"Not every night," he corrects, slowing as we approach the bench for a water break. "Just the important ones."

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