Page 35 of Exes That Puck
Tomorrow is on.
13
I drive home wired, hands gripping the steering wheel like it might fly away. The taste of her kiss still lingers, and my brain keeps replaying the way she grabbed my face, the intensity in her eyes when she said “hey” like she was trying to memorize me.
At home, I need to move. Need to do something with my hands before I do something stupid like text her. I take the trash out, load the dishwasher, scrub the counters until they gleam. Busy work to keep from breaking our one-line rule before it’s even twenty-four hours old.
My room looks like the disaster it is. There are clothes on the floor, sheets that haven’t been changed in too long, textbooks and water bottles cluttering every surface. If she comes tomorrow, she won’t walk into last semester’s mess.
I strip the bed completely, toss everything into the washer on hot. While it runs, I vacuum the floor, clear off my nightstanduntil it’s just the lamp and my phone charger. Open the windows to let fresh air chase out the staleness.
The washer cycle feels endless. I time it like shifts on the ice, pacing between the laundry room and kitchen. When I finally transfer everything to the dryer, I stand over my bare mattress and try to imagine her here without a fight preceding it. Just her, relaxed, maybe wearing that soft smile she used to give me on Sunday mornings.
Dylan appears around midnight with his gym bag and wet hair, looking like he just came from somewhere that wasn’t the gym.
“You around tomorrow?” I ask.
“Might be out.”
I clock the pattern. He’s been out a lot lately, always with that same mysterious energy. “Seeing someone?”
“Nah, man. Just keeping busy.”
I nod. Everyone deserves their secrets.
When the dryer finishes, I make my bed like I’m working at a hotel. Fresh sheets with tight corners, extra pillowcase, everything smooth and clean. I close the windows and choose a clean hoodie to leave on the chair. She’s welcome to take that one too.
Sleep comes in chunks. I turn my alarms off, then back on, then off again. My jaw stays tight, and I have to physically put my phone across the room to keep from texting her. I repeat the one-line rule to myself like a mantra until it finally sticks.
Morning comes slowly. Coffee, eggs, a long shower where I don’t let my mind wander too far ahead. Minimal scrolling through social media, just enough to check team updates, not enough to spiral.
I email my sport psychology professor about missing lab tomorrow, then knock out the assigned reading and quiz. One margin note catches my attention:Listen first.Simple advice that feels revolutionary.
Dylan breezes through around noon with another mysterious bag, humming under his breath.
“Probably gonna be out again tonight,” he says, tapping his fingers on the counter. “Lock the side door.”
The knowing look he gives me carries supportive roommate energy but also confirms my suspicions about his own mystery girl situation.
By afternoon, my idle hands are driving me crazy. I hit the campus gym for deadlifts, pulls, and press, then a slow run to bleed off the nervous energy. Mental discipline reps between sets:Don’t text her. Tonight is going to be epic.
At six, Carter texts about guys’ night at his place. Perfect distraction.
His apartment is loud with hockey talk and the background noise of an NHL game. Matt, Scott, and Westley are already deep in pizza and analysis when I arrive.
“We’re not layering in the neutral zone,” Scott says, gesturing at the TV where Detroit’s getting picked apart.
“Tight gap on entries,” I add. “First angles, second seals, third stays above. No flying the zone.”
Carter nods. “Our power play looks like five strangers out there.”
Westley’s the quiet one, but he chirps Matt about trying to sauce passes through three sticks. Matt gripes back about Coach juggling lines every practice.
Normal hockey banter that feels grounding. Like I’m part of something bigger than my own spiral of thoughts.
“Pretty sure Dylan’s screwing someone,” Westley says during a commercial break.
Matt perks up. “He’s first on the ice, last off. That’s either love or performance anxiety.”
