Page 72 of Don't Puck His Best Friend
When the game starts, it’s intense right off the bat. The puck is a tiny black thing shooting across the arena, fans are screaming, all the players have their game faces on. I can’t keep track of who’s who, and what score makes it until it shows on the scoreboard.
Maddie starts clapping for her boyfriend, and my heart’s racing, wondering if I made a mistake showing up here.
Did I mention I’m not a sports girl? I truly have no idea what’s going, but I watch anyway, trying to understand.
The game goes on and then someone makes a score.
Maddie grabs my arm. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
“I don’t like the feeling of this, Maddie.”
34
Taking Control
Cole
Thefinalbuzzerechoesin my ears as I skate toward the bench, but the sound feels distant, muffled by the white noise in my head. We won—I know that much from the scoreboard and the way my teammates are slapping each other’s backs—but the victory feels hollow.
I’d spotted Harper in the stands with Maddie in the same spot where my teammate’s girlfriends always sit. I glanced at Sirus, knowing he was up to something. Then Liam noticed her, and my blood boiled.
I spent the rest of the game trying to shove that image out of my head, channeling the frustration into my skating. Every shift since then has been sharper, meaner—not the focusedaggression that wins games, but the reckless kind that gets you penalties and makes your coach question your judgment.
In the locker room, I don’t linger. No post-game celebration, no analysis of plays, no ice baths to soothe muscles that are already stiffening. Just a quick shower that does nothing to wash away the image of Harper in the stands.
I’m shoving my gear into my bag when Sirus appears beside my stall.
“Good game,” he says, but there’s a question in his voice. “You coming? Team’s hitting—”
“I’m good,” I cut him off, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
He studies my face, probably reading the tension I’m not bothering to hide. “Everything okay?”
I don’t answer because the truth is complicated. My gut is pulling me toward—no.
In the parking lot, the cold air soothes my bad mood. There are still clusters of people heading to their cars, voices carrying across the asphalt. That’s when I see her.
She’s standing by a familiar car—Maddie’s BMW—arms folded against the cold, talking fast with her cousin. She’s wearing the same blue sweater from the first night we kissed, and even fromthis distance I can see the tension in her posture, the animated way she’s gesturing with her hands.
She hasn’t noticed me yet.
Part of me wants to get in my truck and drive home, let this continue until it dies out. The other part—the part that’s been simmering with frustration all week—knows that if I walk away now, nothing will change. We’ll keep circling each other, she’ll keep making these half-hearted gestures, and I’ll keep wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do with feelings for someone who can’t decide what she wants.
My gear bag thumps against my back as I cross the parking lot. The sound of my footsteps on the asphalt makes Harper look up, and I watch her freeze mid-sentence, whatever she was saying to Maddie dying on her lips.
Maddie’s eyes dart between us like she’s bracing for impact.
I stop a few feet away, close enough to see the way Harper’s breath clouds in the cold air, far enough that I’m not crowding her. My jaw feels tight when I speak.
“We need to talk.”
“Cole—” she starts, but I’m done with preambles and careful approaches.
“Not later. Not when it’s convenient. Now.”
