Page 6 of Puck Your Friend
For once, I feel like I could belong. Maybe I should give it a few more days before I ask to come home.
Present day….
Being at camp with them every summer for four years was the only time I felt comfortable in my skin. I grip my tablet tighter. My calves strain, begging me to move, to close the distance and bury my face in their necks, to rub against them and cover myself in their scent.
Fuck me, this is going to be impossible.
I should turn around and leave.But they’ve been the first thought on my mind every morning for so long. My feet refuse to turn.
How do I explain why I disappeared the summer everything changed between us?
Even if they moved on, which I’m sure they have.Would they ever forgive me for never reaching out?
They can never know the truth. No one can. Doug finishes adjusting the rig, bracing it against his shoulder with both handswrapped around the front grips. He glances over, raises his brows, and tilts his head slightly.
Time to speak.
My throat tightens. My heart pumps harder, and I know it has nothing to do with nerves from being on the job.
I glance around the room. Most of the players are moving through routines, laughing, stretching, and tugging on gear. Some sit slouched on benches, more focused on tying skates or swapping out pads than the two people who just entered their space.
Part of me hopes they’ll glance my way with a flicker of recognition in their eyes. That they’ll remember the lake, the trouble we got up to, and the carving we etched into the tree. I still doodle that symbol all the time.
Another part of me hopes that memory and the years to follow have blurred in their minds. That I’m just another face lost in the haze of childhood.
I don’t let myself dwell on it. Squaring my shoulders, I take a step forward.
“Hi, everyone,” I project loud enough to cut through the buzz of voices. A few heads lift. Most don’t. “My name is Francesca Darian. I’m the producer working with Victory Newsline Media on the upcoming documentary about the Bears.”
No one reacts. Someone laughs at something their teammate says. Another player tosses a towel over their shoulder and heads toward the sinks.
I force a smile, like the indifference doesn’t grate on my last nerve. “We’re here to film your current season, the team’s history, and everything that makes this franchise what it is.”
Still nothing. Just a couple of glances. I try not to look at them.
“This is Doug, our lead cameraman. You’ll see a lot of him.”
Doug lifts a hand in a brief wave, camera still perched high on his shoulder. He doesn’t smile. Never does. Just nods and waits for the shot.
“For now, just act natural. We will grab some warm-up footage in here before heading to the ice. After practice, we’ll pull a few of you for interviews. Keep doing your thing. Don’t worry about us.”
I move toward Doug to give him direction on where to focus when a bench scrapes against the cement.
Ford stands up so fast that it jolts Jace and Logan beside him. He closes the distance between us in three strides, even with his skates on.
“Frankie!”
Before I can move, he grabs and lifts me clear off the ground, pulling me into a full-body hug like no time has passed.
Everything inside me drops.
Doug shifts the camera, hitting record just in time to capture the moment. Ford repeats my name, and every player in the locker room stops to stare.
Too late to run, they all see me.I don’t know if I want to laugh or cry.
Well... Fuck.
Chapter 2
