Page 70 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
At home, I dump my gear bag by the front door and head straight for the laundry room. My practice clothes are still damp with sweat, so I hang everything up to dry, deliberately avoiding looking at my phone where it sits on the kitchen counter. I’m not giving Harper the satisfaction of knowing she’s getting to me, even if she kind of is.
Rex greets me with his usual enthusiasm, tail wagging so hard his entire back-end wiggles with the effort. At least someone in my life is uncomplicated.
“Just you and me, boy,” I tell him, scratching behind his ears. “No drama, no lies, just simple loyalty.”
He barks once in agreement, or maybe he’s just hoping for treats. Either way, I appreciate the straightforward nature of our relationship.
Late afternoon, I’m working on homework at the kitchen table when the doorbell rings. Rex immediately goes into guard dog mode, barking and racing toward the front door like we’re under siege. But when I look through the peephole, there’s no one there.
I open the door cautiously and find a small brown paper bag sitting on the mat. No delivery truck in sight, no Harper visible anywhere on the street. Just the bag and whatever’s inside it.
I bring it inside and peer into the bag. A six-pack of Henry Weinhard’s root beer—the obscure brand I always order at when I’m out with the guys because it reminds me of something my grandfather used to drink. Most people don’t even know they carry it, and half the time I have to remind the bartender where to find it.
On one of the bottles, written in black Sharpie in Harper’s familiar handwriting.
Thought you might need this. – H
I set the bag on the kitchen counter and just stare at it for a moment. This isn’t just random thoughtfulness—she had to remember a specific detail about my drink preferences, track down where to buy it, and coordinate the delivery without me seeing her. It’s the kind of gesture that requires actual effort and attention to detail.
I unscrew one of the caps and take a swig. It’s ice-cold, perfectly fizzy, and somehow manages to hit exactly the spot I didn’t know needed hitting. There’s something about the familiar taste that reminds me of weekend barbecues with my family, of simpler times when the biggest drama in my life was whether my little sister would steal the last burger off the grill.
It’s a small thing, but she noticed. She remembered. And it bothers me more than I want to admit that she still knows exactly how to slip under my defenses.
I know she’s doing this because she wants me back. It’s obviously part of whatever strategy she and Maddie cooked up after the disaster at the restaurant. But it’s also... Harper. She doesn’t half-ass anything when she wants something, and the fact that she’s putting this much thought into making amends means something, doesn’t it?
I find myself wondering if maybe I should at least hear her out. Let her explain what really happened, why she made the choices she made. It’s possible there’s more to the story than what I saw on that sidewalk.
But the second the thought forms, I shut it down hard. I’m not ready to give her that kind of power over me again. Not when the wounds are still this fresh.
I tuck the rest of the root beer into the fridge, but I push the Sharpie-marked bottle to the back where I won’t have to see Harper’s handwriting every time I want a drink. I can’t quite bring myself to throw it away, but I’m not ready to display it like some kind of shrine either.
“Shit.” I close the refrigerator door with more force than necessary.
Rex tilts his head at me, probably wondering why his human is talking to kitchen appliances, but he doesn’t judge. That’s what I appreciate about dogs—they accept your weirdness without requiring explanations.
But as I head to shower, I can’t shake the image of Harper tracking down that specific root beer, writing on the bottle in her careful handwriting, finding a way to get it to my doorstep without being seen. It’s the kind of thoughtful persistence that made me fall for her in the first place.
And deep down, in a place I’m not ready to acknowledge yet, I know I’m already thinking about what she’d say if I did let her explain.
Which is exactly the problem.
33
Public Display
Harper
I’msittingatmydesk, chewing the end of a pen while staring at the whiteboard like it might spontaneously reveal the secret to fixing my life. The pros and cons lists are still there in Maddie’s neat handwriting, but they feel less helpful now that I’ve actually tried—and failed—to execute Plan A.
“Sandwiches and root beer won’t be enough,” Maddie says, settling into the chair across from me with a cup of coffee that’s probably more caffeine than liquid at this point. “He needs toseeyou. Publicly.”
My stomach immediately ties itself into knots. “Publicly, like…?”
“Publicly, like showing up at his game tonight and making it impossible for him to ignore you.” She leans forward, eyes bright with the kind of strategic enthusiasm that usually gets me in trouble. “He’ll be focused, in his element, and you’ll be right there in his eyeline. Maybe he’ll remember you’re worth a second chance.”
I’m not thrilled about the idea of putting myself in Cole’s hockey world while he’s still mad at me. The arena is his territory, surrounded by teammates who probably think I’m some kind of relationship terrorist by now. But I also know Maddie’s right—gesture by gesture isn’t working. I need to be bold, visible, undeniable.
“But Liam?”
