Page 97 of My Pucked Up Enemy

The light through the window is the kind of golden haze that should feel peaceful. But this morning, my stomach’s in knots, and my brain’s spinning like I’m still in the middle of that kiss.

Alex. His mouth on mine. The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing that existed in that moment.

I sit up in bed, heart still unsteady, and scroll to his name in my phone. My thumbs hover for a second, because once I type this, there’s no pretending it’s casual.

Can we talk?

I hit send. Seconds stretch.

Then—

Where do you want to meet?

Could I come to your place? It might be easier. On the way to my office anyway.

Yeah. Okay.It’s quiet here.I'll text you the address.

Perfect. Is late morning okay?

Yeah. I’ll be here.

I exhale slowly, then start getting dressed.

***

His house is tucked just outside downtown, a renovated craftsman-style place with navy-blue siding, white trim, and a porch that looks like it’s seen its share of quiet mornings and late-night decompression. It’s got clean lines, modern touches, but still manages to feel lived in—like Alex. A pair of hockey sticks lean near the front door, and a set of well-worn running shoes sit beside them. There’s a faint scent of pine as I step onto the porch. The front door opens before I knock.

He’s in joggers and a hoodie. Barefoot. Hair damp like he just got out of the shower. And he smiles.

Sort of.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He steps aside, letting me in. The place smells like fresh coffee and the faint scent of whatever body wash he uses that makes me want to lose my mind.

We stand awkwardly for a second. Then he gestures toward the couch.

“Want coffee?”

I nod. “Please.”

He hands me a mug, and we settle into opposite ends of the couch like we’re in some kind of negotiation. It’s not tense. Not yet. But there’s something tight under my skin.

“So,” he says, sipping. “Big night for the team.”

I smile a little. “Especially you. That glove save in the third? Unreal.”

He smirks. “Thanks. I’m still waiting for someone to put it on a T-shirt.”

“Please don’t,” I say with a smirk of my own. “No one wants to wear that much ego on cotton.”

He chuckles, settling deeper into the couch. “Fair. I guess it belongs on a poster then. Maybe with glitter.”

I laugh and shake my head. “You want glitter now? That’s a bold choice for a goalie.”

“I’m a man of depth,” he says, sipping his coffee. “I contain multitudes. Including glitter and shutouts.”

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