Page 47 of Exes That Puck
I guess.
She curls back into my side, pulling the covers up to her chin. Her phone charges on my nightstand next to the Advil, and she puts on my hoodie like a security blanket.
I close my eyes and try not to think about how much she’s going to hate herself in the morning. I shouldn’t care though, right? I’m cool, chill, and relaxed now. A guy with those traits wouldn’t care.
18
The clock reads 8:42 when I wake up in Zeke’s bed. My head feels clearer than it should. I have no blackout gaps, no missing pieces from last night. I remember asking to stay, remember how he tensed when I told him I wished he was always like this.
I’m wrapped in his hoodie and then the sheet covers my legs, and my phone charges on his nightstand next to two Advil he must have left there.
A soft tap on the doorframe makes me look up. Zeke stands there with a cold water bottle, the same careful expression from last night.
“How do you feel?” he asks quietly.
“Fine.”
He nods, no pushing, no commentary about how much I drank or what I said. Just simple care.
“Let me get you home?”
I slip into yesterday’s dress that somehow ended on the ground and follow him to the hallway. Westley sits at the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal, and Dylan fills a protein shaker at the sink.
“Morning,” Westley says without looking up from his phone.
“Hey, Kara,” Dylan adds, like finding me here at nine in the morning is totally normal.
Zero side-eye. Zero smirks. Maybe guys really are cooler about this than girls would be.
Zeke grabs his keys from the counter. “We’re heading out.”
The drive passes in comfortable quiet. Radio low, winter light streaming through the windshield, streets lined with students walking to Sunday brunch. He keeps his hands at ten and two, and I watch campus slide by through the passenger window.
Something settles weird in my chest. This feels like a late-night call with a daylight exit. Temporary, surface-level, designed not to stick.
He pulls up to my dorm and puts the truck in park. No reaching across the center console, no “when can I see you again,” just a simple, “Text if you need anything.”
I nod. “Thanks for the ride.”
The lobby doors part, and Payton stands there with her arms crossed, ponytail pulled high, wearing her full judge-and-jury expression.
“I wonder who you were with.”
My stomach drops. “Payton, please... not right now.”
“Right now is exactly the time. I couldn’t sleep because I was waiting for you to get home.”
She follows me to the elevator, and I know there’s no escaping this conversation. When we reach our floor, she starts listing receipts like she’s been preparing for this moment.
“Remember that night a few months ago, I picked you up barefoot from the sidewalk after you guys fought. Held your hair while you cried.” She counts on her fingers. “Post-game Saturday when he accused you of flirting with his teammate’s brother. You got sloppy drunk, and I had to come save you.”
The memories hit like punches. Each one accurate, each one worse than I remembered.
“Thanksgiving break—2 a.m. FaceTime. You were shaking in your childhood bedroom, and I ordered you DoorDash and stayed on the call until sunrise.” Her voice gets tighter. “The silent week when you didn’t eat. I brought soup, convinced you to email your professor for an extension.”
I unlock our door with trembling fingers.
“The parking lot blowup last month. I left class to walk you back, sat outside the RA’s office while you calmed down.” She throws her tote bag on her bed. “How many times do I have to stitch you up, Kara?”
