Page 29 of Exes That Puck
I unlock the front door and settle into my opening routine. There’s comfort in the predictability of counting the register, checking the shelves, straightening displays that customers knocked askew yesterday in the checkout line.
The romance section needs attention, spines scattered and facing every direction. I work methodically, alphabetizing authors and making sure covers face outward. My fingers pause on a book with a hockey player on the cover. He’s a shirtless guy with a stick, predictable abs, the works.
I flip it facedown with a smirk at myself. Then I put it away, feeling like something is pulling at my chest. Longing, maybe?
The morning passes quietly. A mother with twin toddlers needs help finding winter picture books, and I kneel to their eye level, showing them one about a snowman who comes alive.
“This one has pictures that move when you turn the page,” I tell them, demonstrating the pop-up mechanism.
Their eyes go wide with delight, and their mom mouths “thank you” over their heads. There’s something satisfying about being helpful without agenda, making someone’s day a little easier.
A college student approaches the counter with a Huskies beanie pulled low over his ears. “Do you have anything on sports history?” he asks. “Specifically football?”
The beanie makes my chest pinch for reasons I don’t want to examine. But I smile and lead him to the right section, pulling out a comprehensive history of football.
“This one covers everything from the early days through the modern era,” I say.
He thanks me and heads off to browse, leaving me alone with the lingering ache that sports references still bring. It’s duller now, more manageable, but still there.
My phone buzzes.
Payton: you alive?
Kara: Sure am. You?
Payton: Wolf boy is so hot!
Kara: I need to know his name.
Payton: Same.
The bell above the door chimes, and I look up from my phone to see Dylan walking in. Tall, quiet, the same polite demeanorI remember from the few times we met. My stomach tightens reflexively. If Dylan’s here, then maybe—
Zeke appears in the doorway behind him, and my breath catches.
He looks different somehow. Leaner maybe, or just more careful in the way he moves. His hoodie is pulled up, hands shoved deep in his pockets, and when his eyes sweep the store, they’re wary. Respectful of the space. Of my space.
Dylan heads toward the romance section. Interesting choice. While Zeke lingers near the entrance like he’s not sure he’s allowed to be here.
I busy myself with assisting customers at the cash register. Zeke moves through the store quietly, scanning book spines without looking in my direction. The careful distance he maintains feels deliberate, like he’s giving me room to breathe.
It’s… unexpected.
The next customer approaches my counter, and I help her find a cookbook while tracking Zeke’s movement in my peripheral vision. He’s made his way to the sports section, pulling out a book on mindfulness for athletes. Dylan joins him with what looks like a romance novel tucked under his arm, and they have a brief, quiet conversation.
When they’re ready to check out, Zeke guides Dylan toward the other register where my coworker is stationed. He doesn’t try to catch my eye, doesn’t angle for my line, doesn’t create an excuse to interact with me.
The restraint lands differently than I expected. Instead of feeling dismissed or invisible, I feel… respected.
As they finish their transaction, Zeke finally glances my way. Our eyes meet for exactly one heartbeat. It’s long enough for him to give the smallest nod of acknowledgment. Not an invitation or aplea. Just recognition that I’m here, that he sees me, that this is my space, and he won’t intrude on it. Then he turns and follows Dylan out the door.
The bell’s chime echoes in the sudden quiet, and I realize I’ve been holding my breath. I exhale slowly, something loosening in my shoulders that I didn’t realize had been tense.
The fact that he didn’t approach me, didn’t try to force a conversation or create drama. It shifts something. Maybe he really can be different. Maybe those sixty-three days of silence meant something for him too.
The thought brings a dangerous flutter of hope, immediately countered by defensive cynicism. People don’t just change, do they? No. This just means he’s moved on. He doesn’t care about me anymore. I should be grateful. After all, it’s what I asked. And I just witnessed that my wish came true.
I’m still processing this when I notice a receipt someone left on the counter.Winter Classic – Donation Linkis printed across the top in bold letters, along with a QR code and website.
