Page 41 of Exes That Puck
Back in my room, I pull out my phone and start typing.
Last night was fun.
Delete. Fuck, that’s too much.
Coffee later?
Delete. Jesus Christ. We’re not dating, that’s in the past.
Have a good shift at work.
Delete. What the hell am I doing?
I leave the text field blank and put my phone away. The rule is one line only if necessary. This isn’t necessary. This is just me wanting to feel connected to her, which isn’t her responsibility to manage.
Self-control is harder than I thought it would be.
I channel the restless energy into a short lift session at the campus gym. Some pulls and core work, then some edge work on the practice rink. Between sets, I write a single sentence in my phone notes:Control is healthy. No control is reckless. Control is protecting, not possessing.
Later, hanging out in the team lounge, Westley mentions something about line combinations.
“Lines are clicking or Coach is lying.”
“Both can be true,” Carter adds.
I float a calm adjustment, “Stagger F3 higher; we’re trading rushes.”
No one flinches. Just nods, considers it. Leadership without control.
Evening settles quiet around the house. I tidy my room without staging it. No candles, no playlist, just the lamp on warm and water at the nightstand. I put my phone face-down and tell myself that if she doesn’t text, the day is still a win.
From 8:30 to 9:20, I watch game film on my laptop, pausing to jot down neutral cues for tomorrow’s practice. My heart rate spikes every time my phone buzzes, but it’s just group chat messages.
I don’t text her.
At 9:27, my phone lights up with a notification.
Kara: This weekend?
I exhale slowly, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. A dozen responses crowd my brain, but I remember the rule. One line. Simple logistics.
Zeke: Side door will be unlocked.
I hit send and set the phone aside. My pulse hammers against my ribs.
This weekend can’t come fast enough.
16
I wake up before my alarm for once. No pit in my stomach, no dread weighing down my limbs. I actually hum while brushing my teeth. The girl in the mirror doesn’t look puffy-eyed anymore, she looks like she slept.
If he were always last night’s version of him. The quiet, careful, listening version this would be so much easier. Healthier. Better.
Payton shoots upright in bed, hair a mess, eyes narrowed. “You—” She stops, studying my face. “Where were you last night? I got up to pee and your bed was empty.”
I keep my voice even, casual. “Study lounge. Couldn’t sleep. Knocked out on a couch for a bit.” I add quickly, “Didn’t wake you because you had your eight a.m.”
She studies me like I’m a puzzle missing pieces. “Uh-huh.” Then: “You better not be––”
