Page 74 of Arrogant Puck

She shakes her head. “I can’t fall back asleep.”

“Count yourself lucky if reality is better than sleeping,” I say and mean it. “I’m going to close my eyes.”

“Wait.” Her voice stops me, so I open my eyes again. “Sleeping is better than your reality? You have a nice house, a nice car, you play hockey at a really good college and––”

“So, I should be happy? Because of the material things I have?”

Her eyes widen with something that looks like horror. “Oh, God. That sounded so bad. I’m so sorry, Slater. I didn’t mean it like that. I just... don’t you love hockey?”

I nod. Hockey is the one constant in my life, the one thing that makes sense. “Doesn’t mean my life’s dandy.”

“What is it then?”

I shrug, deflecting. “You moved to a new city. Got a good job. You have a car. Why aren’t you happy?”

“Point proven,” she says, her gaze lowering. “Tell me why you’re so...”

“So, what?”

“Brooding.”

My expression softens despite myself. Of all the words people use to describe me—dangerous, volatile, ruthless—brooding isn’t one I hear often. “Brooding? That’s a first.”

“You are though. There’s this... weight you carry. Like you’re angry at the world.”

She’s more perceptive than I gave her credit for. “Maybe I am.”

“Why?”

The simple question hangs between us. I could deflect again, change the subject, make another joke about sleeping. But something about the way she’s looking at me, the genuine curiosity in her voice, makes me consider telling her the truth.

Not all of it. She’s not ready for all of it. But maybe a piece.

“You ever lose someone you couldn’t live without?” I ask instead.

Her face shifts, understanding flickering across her features. “Your brother.”

It’s not a question. She remembers the photo in my room, the way I went quiet when she mentioned him.

“Archer was my younger brother. My best friend. He was a better hockey player than me. We…” I stop, the words catching in my throat. “He’s been gone three years, and I still wake up expecting him to be there.”

She doesn’t say she’s sorry. Doesn’t give me some bullshit about him being in a better place. She just watches me with those honey-colored eyes, waiting.

“Hockey was our thing. We were going to play together, get drafted together, win the Cup together.” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Instead, I’m here alone, and he’s…”

She touches my fingers.

“Gone.” The word tastes wrong. Even after all these years. After all this time, it still hits the same. “So yeah, I’m brooding. Sue me.”

She shifts closer, her hand finding mine in the darkness. Her fingers are small and warm, and she threads them through mine.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “That you have to carry that alone.”

Something cracks open in my chest at her words. Not because she’s sorry—everyone’s sorry when they find out about Archer. But because she said ‘alone.’ Like she understands that grief is a solitary prison, and no amount of success or money or material things can unlock the door.

“I’m not alone anymore,” I say quietly.

She looks up at me, and I can see the moment she understands what I mean. Her cheeks flush, but she doesn’t pull away.

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