Page 8 of Puck It

“Can we help you get your things together?” It's surreal, having to ask that. Being in this situation. Knowing this is the end.

“I don't know if I have it in me right now to go through all of that. I might go home, get myself together, then come back early in the morning when nobody else is here.”

She stands, looking mournful as she takes in her surroundings. “Besides, there's not all that much to pack up. It won't take long.” She sounds like she's on the verge of tears again, like she's all alone and doesn't know which way to go. I don't like the idea of her being alone at a time like this. I open my mouth, prepared to offer to meet her at her place, but she beats me to it. “I think it would be best for me to be alone for a while.”

“You can't punish yourself.” Ash tucks a strand of hair behind her ear before stroking her cheek. “You don't need to be alone. We want to be with you.”

“I know. That's not what I want right now. No offense or anything. I just need to be on my own and do some thinking.”

“Fair enough.” I make it a point to look at both of them and hold their gazes until they look away. I'm not fucking around. She's doing what she feels is best, and I'm not going to let them talk her out of it.

Even if I sort of wish I could.

7

HARLOW

I'll say one thing for being in the deepest, most all-consuming depression of my life, I've gotten a hell of a lot done around the house.

After all, once the team's owners make it official and kick me out of town, I won't be here anymore. I even jeopardized my home by fooling around when I knew it was wrong. The team set me up with this place. No way I'll be able to keep it after I've been fired.

Though I haven't been fired yet. I'm sure somebody is waiting for the perfect time. Maybe the team owners don't want to make it a public situation just yet. The team is doing so well, after all. The negative PR wouldn't help anybody. As far as I know, I'm still on the payroll.

If only I could step foot in the building without feeling like I might burst into flames at any second. Like a sinner walking into church. At the end of the day, I’m too chicken to risk showing up. I wouldn't want to goad the coach into going on a tirade in front of the team.

He obviously doesn't think there's anything out of the ordinary about me staying home this past week, since he hasn't reached out. Neither has anybody else aside from my guys, who've made it a point to text every day and check in on me. I appreciate it. I love them for it. And I try to pull it together and sound positive, or at least like I'm not falling apart.

Whether I'm successful or not, I don't know. But nobody has shown up at my door to, like, stage an intervention or anything. So I'm guessing I have them somewhat convinced, at least.

The aroma of sugar and cinnamon fills the air, and I'm humming to myself while scrubbing the sink. How many times have I scrubbed it this week? I've lost track. There's something satisfying about it, about coming downstairs in the morning and seeing it gleam in all its stainless steel glory while sunshine streams in through the sliding doors. Besides, I've always found cleaning to be meditative. I can turn my brain off for a little while and focus on nothing but scrubbing out every last stain, every spot, every imperfection.

I'm even humming to myself when there's an unexpected chime from the doorbell.

And right away, I freeze like a deer in headlights. My heart decides to take off at a sickening rate and my stomach… let's just say I'm glad I don't have much of an appetite, or else I would end up filling the sink I just finished cleaning. Immediately, the image of Coach Kozak standing on the other side of the door makes my insides go all hot and shaky. Is this what he was waiting for? To lull me into relaxing before bringing the death blow?

Joke’s on him. I haven't been relaxed all week.

“Harlow? Are you home?” The bell rings again, followed by an insistent knock. It's Corey. I don't think I've ever been so relieved.

My relief doesn't last long. By the time I reach the door, all the texts she sent me that I haven't bothered to answer come rushing back. I've missed skating sessions, too. I didn't have it in me to respond, especially when I knew she'd ask questions. There was no way I could go through that, not at first. I'm not even sure I can do it now.

But it's too late to go back, because the door is unlocked and I'm already opening it. She throws her hands into the air and heaves a sigh. “Thank God. I thought you were dead. What did I do to end up on the pay no mind list?”

“You didn't do anything. Come on in.”

She blows out a whistle on entering. “This is not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“An episode ofHoarders,” she admits. “You don’t avoid the rest of the world for a week and come out of it with a sparkling clean house. Did you have a cleaning crew come in here? I could eat off the floor. And it smells like pine cleaner and... apple pie?”

As if on cue, the timer on the oven goes off. “There's nothing wrong with your sense of smell,” I tell her on my way to the kitchen, where I grab a pair of pot holders to lift the pie from the rack and place it on the stove to cool. I wasn't feeling ambitious enough to try a lattice crust, but it's still beautiful thanks to a brush of cream and a sprinkle of sugar during the last ten minutes of baking.

“Looks like I got here right in time.” Corey joins me, giving me a nudge that means business. “Spill. Where have you been? Why didn't you answer any of my texts or calls? I was worried sick.”

“I'm sorry. I really am. I was just a mess.”

“Over what?”

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