Page 37 of Arrogant Puck

Every drop of sweat, not enough.

I don’t belong here. Not in this room. Not on this team. Not in my skin.

But I need to suffer.

I suffer every day for Archer.

Pain’s the only thing that reminds me I’m still alive. The only thing that doesn’t lie.

Pleasure’s a lie. Sex is a lie. Those girls texting me? They’re all a lie. They don’t know a damn thing.

I deserve the silence.

I deserve the agony.

The gym gets louder, but I don’t hear a thing anymore. Just the quiet grind of steel on steel and the voice in my head telling me to keep going.

Don’t stop.

Don’t breathe.

Don’t feel.

Chapter 13

I wake up too early, the kind of early where the light is soft but unwelcome. The apartment is finally quiet—no Emma stomping through the kitchen in heels or leaving perfume trails like territory markings. Just silence. It’s rare. I soak it up.

I hit the grocery store with a false sense of calm, throwing things into my basket like I’m not spiraling. Oat milk, bananas, overpriced protein bars I’ll probably forget to eat. I move slow. Pretend this life is mine and stable.

Back home, I toss everything into the fridge and pull out my laptop to finish some charts. Ankle sprain, shoulder tightness, another sore wrist from a bad fall. All things I know how to fix. All things that don’t make my stomach clench.

My phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: You can run, but you can’t fucking hide.

I freeze. The blood in my veins turns to slush. Another message comes through—a screenshot of the team website. My name is circled in red.

Every part of me goes still.

I block the number, delete the message, throw my phone across the couch like that’ll somehow erase the chill running down my spine.

He found me.

Another text comes through, notifying my laptop.

Unknown number: I miss you, you fucking slut. Unblock me, so we can talk.

I swear under my breath, press the heels of my hands to my eyes. I’m not doing this. Not again. I won’t let it wreck me this time.

I slam my laptop shut.

This job is supposed to be my clean slate. My second chance. No more assholes in gym shorts. No more being gaslit. No more athletes with dollar signs in their eyes and power trips in their fists.

Definitely no more athletes.

But even as I say that, Slater’s face flashes behind my eyelids—sharp jaw, sharp voice, sharp hands.

I shake it off.

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