Page 30 of The Pucks We Freeze
She exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “You think someone’s fixing games?”
“I think someone’s betting on us losing or winning in specific ways. And I think they’re getting help from the inside.”
The weight of it all pressed in around us. Heavy. Suffocating.
Her voice was soft. “I’m scared for you.”
I closed the distance between us again, brushing my fingers against her jaw. “So am I. But we can’t unravel it all tonight. And right now… I just want this. You. I want to remember what it feels like to breathe. Because when the week ends and you’re gone…”
Her eyes shimmered. “I don’t want to think about what comes next.”
“I don’t either,” I whispered. “But there will come a time when you leave, when you head back to Braysen, and I won’t get this time back.”
She leaned into my touch, her hand coming up to rest over mine. “Then let’s not waste it.”
When I leaned in to kiss her, it wasn’t frantic. It was deep. Sure. Her lips moved against mine like she was accepting how fleeting this would be. My hands roamed her back, her sides, memorizing the warmth of her, the feel of her skin beneath the soft fabric.
Clothes slipped off one by one, until the only thing between us was the ticking clock we were pretending didn’t exist. We fell into the sheets together, hearts pounding, mouths finding each other again and again until all that remained was her name on my lips and the press of her body beneath mine.
Later, we lay tangled in silence, her fingers tracing softly across my chest. Her head rested over my heart like this was the only place she felt safe.
And then a sharp crack echoed in the distance, followed by glass shattering.
I bolted upright. The sound yanked me straight out of whatever peaceful haze I was in. My heart hammered as Willow jerked beside me, eyes wide.
“What was that?” she whispered.
I was already moving. I pulled on my jeans, shoved my feet into my sneakers, and swiped my phone from the nightstand. My pulse thundered in my ears as I stepped outside.
The crisp night air hit like a slap. Gravel crunched beneath our feet as we stepped off the porch, the soft glow from inside spilling out behind us but doing little to touch the dark that wrapped around the trees.
It was quiet. Too quiet.
No rustling leaves. No crickets. Only a quiet stillness pressed around us, as if we were waiting for what happened next.
Willow stayed close, her breath catching as we rounded the corner and caught sight of my truck.
My stomach sank.
Beneath the harsh glare of the floodlight, the shattered window sparkled like ice. Glass was everywhere, glinting on the gravel and sprinkled across the front bench seat like frost.
And sitting dead center on the driver’s seat… a single black puck.
I didn’t say anything. Didn’t move.
Willow edged closer, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her eyes flicked between the woods and my truck, as if she were expecting someone to step out from the trees.
Still, the air buzzed with something—fear, maybe. Or warning.
I stepped on the footboard and reached through the blown-out window. The jagged edges of the frame were tiny shards clinging to the metal, like teeth. I brushed them aside, careful not to cut myself, and lifted the puck from the seat.
It was heavy, cold from the night air.
I turned it over.
#12
The thick and dark number was written in silver Sharpie. Fresh ink, no smudges.
