Page 13 of Arrogant Puck

“You from around here?”

“No,” I say. “Grew up in San Diego. USC for undergrad.”

“Nice. I went to Oregon State for a year. Dropped out.”

I glance at her. “Why?”

“Didn’t like who I was becoming.”

She says it so casually it almost slips past me.

I nod again, sipping the tea.

“I work in marketing now,” she adds. “Freelance. Lot of fashion stuff. Honestly, this apartment was supposed to be just me, but rent’s a bitch.”

“Tell me about it.”

We lapse into a comfortable-enough silence.

Then she says, “So what made you come here?”

It’s not a nosy question. Just one of those things people ask when they’re trying to be normal.

But my answer isn’t simple.

I stir my tea. “Needed a reset.”

“That sounds dramatic,” she smiles.

I don’t smile back. “It wasn’t. More like survival.”

She doesn’t push. Just nods and looks back at her phone.

And I’m grateful.

Later, after she goes to bed and the apartment finally goes quiet, I step out onto the tiny balcony with my tea and breathe in the stillness.

This city doesn’t feel like mine yet.

But it doesn’t feel like San Diego did, either. Or my old life. Or the clinic where I made my last mistake.

That’s something.

I close my eyes and press the rim of the cup to my lips.

I’ll make this work.

I have to.

Chapter 6

The ice feels like the only honest thing left.

It doesn’t lie. Doesn’t pretend. You move wrong, it punishes you. You hesitate, you bleed. You lose your edge, you’re done.

I like it better than people.

Practice ends with a scrimmage that turns into a brawl—nothing serious, just mouthguards and a couple bruised egos. I don’t bother getting involved. Not worth my time.

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