Page 7 of Down to Puck

“Well,” she gives me a wry half-smile. “I’ve been back in the same zip code as my parents for forty-eight hours, and my mother has asked about grandkids twice. So I decided to take a mental health day. Twice, Yas.”

She wiggles two fingers at me with a strangled laugh.

Despite the emotions and confusion storming through me, I can’t help but laugh along.

Skylar Morgan has been my best friend since before I knew what a best friend was. We grew up two doors down from each other in San Diego, closer than most sisters.

My happiest childhood memories all revolve around Skylar’s rambling beachfront house, filled with laughter and the scent of something delicious on the stove.

My mother spent so many late nights in the operating room or doing hospital rounds that the Morgans had a bunk bed put into Skylar’s room for me. They took me on every family vacation, included me in all of their holiday celebrations.

When I was offered an early admission and full scholarship to Rice University, I waited until I was sure Skylar got accepted before making a decision. The same day Sky landed a job on the Snowhawks massage therapy team, she walked my resume over to the head of the medical staff.

“Glad to see they’re handling the move well.” I nudge Skylar’s shoulder with my own. “Your dad deserves the job— I’m happy for him. Hawks are about to have a hell of a season.”

Owen Morgan is a retired marine and, until last week, a college hockey coach. Skylar’s dad taught some of the best players in the league— including Snowhawks team captain Sawyer Lawson. As much as Sky bitches about it, I know she’s thrilled to have her family close again.

“He’s going to be the best coach in the league.” Skylar nods, pride lighting up face. “Now—”

She shifts, turning to look at me from her spot on the rug.

“Pizza and wings will be here in twenty minutes.” As if on cue, Skylar’s stomach rumbles loudly. “And don’t you dare say a word, or I won’t save you any. Start talking, Yas. What’s got you upset?”

Ignoring the warning, I roll my eyes. Skylar eats like a twelve-year-old boy on summer vacation. Her metabolism works at the speed of light, and if I didn’t love her so much, I would definitely hate her for it.

Sky has a tight, athletic frame. We played all the same sports in high school, but apparently my body never got the message.

Blonde hair, blue eyes, golden tan — Skylar is living Malibu Barbie, complete with surfboard and lower back tattoo.

“It’s ok,” she slings one arm over my shoulder and squishes me in a side hug. “I’ll listen whenever you’re ready. We can just sit for now.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat.

“I think I maybe, possibly, might have a crush on one of the guys,” I blurt out with a wince.

The words are hollow half-truths. What I feel for Emerson can’t be called something as trivial as a crush. I’m falling for him— I have been since I looked into those turquoise eyes for the first time.

“Oh, honey,” Skylar shakes her head and squeezes me again. “Don’t make me be the sensible one. These guys are professional athletes. You know they’re all trouble.”

She shoots me a sideways glance.

“Except for Sawyer. He seems okay, I guess.” She sniffs dismissively. “Is it Sawyer?”

I Shake my head.

“No, not him. It’s Emerson,” I blow out the breath I’ve been holding for a week. “Emerson Stone. I treated him after that awful cheap shot on opening night.”

Tension drains from Skylar’s shoulders.

“Emerson. Yeah, that makes sense.” Sky’s pale eyebrows knit together, a serious look on her face. “But Yas, you know it’s practically impossible, right? It can’t work. Like that story— what’s his name? From the myth. The guy with the rock he’s always pushing uphill?”

“Sisyphus?” I ask.

Skylar nods against me.

“Yeah. Trying to date a hockey guy, it’s like pushing that rock. Only the hill is coated in ice. Endless struggle.” Skylar huffs out a sigh. “How many times have you heard Dad say they take too many hits to the head? That's why they’re so hopeless when it comes to romance. Mom always laughs— but she never corrects him.”

I smile at that. Skylar’s mom and dad are still happily married after thirty years and three kids. A far cry from my own parents, who broke the news of their divorce to me via text. I was in the sixth grade then, and already knew that I was expected to become a surgeon at my mother’s plastic surgery practice. According to her, women don’t belong in sports medicine.

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