Page 75 of Arrogant Puck

“Slater...”

“I know. Friends.” I bring our joined hands up and press a kiss to her knuckles. “I’ll take it. For now.”

She’ll figure out eventually that friendship isn’t enough for me, that I want everything she has to give. But for tonight, this is enough.

She pulls me in closer, holding me. And I let her, even though every instinct is telling me to stay closed off, not allow anyone in. We lay in the dark as my mind races about Archer, HU, hockey, and her.

After a few minutes, her breathing evens out. I stay awake, watching the rise and fall of her chest, memorizing the way she looks peaceful in my arms.

Tomorrow we’ll go back to the careful distance, the professional boundaries she insists on maintaining. But tonight, she’s mine to hold. Tonight, the demons can’t touch either of us.

The next morning, I slip away before anyone can catch me in her room, before Sage wakes up. The hallway is empty at 5 AM, and I make it back to my room without running into coaches or teammates who might ask questions I don’t want to answer.

Mitchell is still passed out when I get back, one arm hanging off the bed and snoring like a zoo animal. I grab my shower kit and head to the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away the intimacy of the night before. By the time I’m dressed and packed, I’ve got my game face back on.

Downstairs at breakfast, I grab coffee and a protein bar, scanning the room for Sage. She’s sitting with the coaches, looking professional in her team polo and taking notes while Morrison explains something about the game plan. She looks rested, which is good. She needed the sleep.

The bus ride to Milwaukee is routine—guys talking shit, music playing, the usual pre-game energy building. I’m sitting toward the back when Sage boards, and she smiles at me as she walks past. A real smile, not the careful professional one she usually gives me in public.

It throws me off. I thought she was trying to hide whatever this is between us, but that smile was genuine, warm. Like she’s actually glad to see me.

Halfway through the drive, I pull out my phone and text her.

Slater: I see you

She looks down at her phone, then back at me with a small smile before typing back.

Sage: Thanks for last night

I stare at the message for a long moment, then put my phone away and close my eyes. She’s thanking me like I did her some kind of favor, but the truth is I needed it as much as she did. Holding her, feeling her trust me enough to fall apart in my arms—it meant everything.

The moment I step off the bus at the arena, it hits me like a punch to the gut. This place. This fucking place.

Archer and I came here when we were sixteen to watch the Bruins play Milwaukee’s AHL team. We sat in the nosebleeds with our dad, eating overpriced nachos and arguing about which players we’d replace when we made it to the pros. Archer said he’d play center, I’d play wing, and we’d be unstoppable.

He never made it past seventeen.

The memory crashes over me without warning, and suddenly I can’t breathe. The noise of the team unloading equipment, Sage trying to say something to me as I walk past—it all becomes background static. I walk past her, past the coaches, past my teammates, because I can’t stop moving or I’ll fall apart.

My hip is screaming, but my mind is louder. The guilt, the rage, the fucking emptiness that never goes away—it’s all there, clawing at my chest like it happened yesterday instead of three years ago.

I’m going to play this game like a fucking animal.

In the locker room, the guys are going through plays and strategy, their voices blending into white noise.

“Castellano, you’re going to start on the second line with Henderson and Davis,” Coach says, pointing at the whiteboard. “We want you crashing the net, creating chaos in front of their goalie.”

Henderson nods, adjusting his shoulder pads. “Their defense is weak on the left side. If we can get the puck behind their net, Slater can cycle it back to Davis for the shot.”

“What about their power play?” Davis asks, lacing up his skates. “They’ve been scoring on over sixty percent of their opportunities.”

“That’s why we stay disciplined,” Morrison answers. “No stupid penalties, no unnecessary hits after the whistle.”

They keep talking, mapping out scenarios and contingencies, but their voices sound like they’re coming from underwater. I’m suiting up—pads, jersey, skates—while Archer’s voice echoes in my head.

You’re going to be legendary, Slater. Both of us are.

“Castellano.” Morrison’s voice cuts through the fog. “You got all that?”

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