Page 78 of One Pucking Life

I turn toward the booth where the girls have already claimed a corner—Anna, Iris, Penny, Ari, Elena, and Miranda are waving me over. But just as I start toward them, Beckett intercepts me, beer in one hand and a crumpled pink Post-it in the other.

“Hey, Laney,” he says casually, handing me the note. “I think you dropped this.”

I blink at the handwriting. It’s mine.

Don’t forget—C’s doc appointment is at 10. I’ll meet you there.

A note I left for Max last month. “Wait, what?”

Beckett just winks and walks away.

Dropped it? From where?Maybe it fell out of Max’s jeans? I honestly have no idea.

I barely take a step before Cade stops me next.

“Hey, this yours?” He holds out a blue Post-it.

Get some sleep. You’re a beast on zero hours, but I like when you’re rested.

“What is going on? Where did you get this?” I ask, eyebrows drawing together.

Before he can answer, Jaden slides by with a grin and hands me a yellow one.

Chickpea salad and salmon for dinner. You’re going to love it.

“Okay, seriously… what in the hell?” I say, though I’m laughing now. My heart’s picking up speed.

One by one, players keep stopping me, handing me notes.

You’ve got this. I’m proud of you.

Don’t forget that I’m winning by fifty points.

You’re doing amazing.

I love the way you make this house feel like home.

Have I told you today that you’re hot?

Spinach, tahini, pickles, ranch, and baby wipes.

Had to be at the gym earlier. Miss you already.

Hope your legs are still trembling.

Condiments are a food group.

I’ll miss you today.

All these notes… they’re ours. A Post-it parade of our story. Notes I’ve written to him or he’s written to me over the past eight months. Some are sweet. Some silly. Some deeply personal. A few are mundane. But every single one is familiar.

They’re a timeline. A paper trail of our love story.

I don’t know where he found them all. Some of the meaningful ones were tucked inside the box on my dresser, others I’d stuffed in drawers or left stuck to books or cabinets, thinking they’d been forgotten. But they weren’t.

I’m holding a dozen or more now, fanned out in my shaking hands, when Miles strolls up with one last note.

He stops in front of me, smile softer than usual. “Hey, Laney,” he says gently, holding out the final sticky. “I think you dropped this one too.”

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