Page 83 of Arrogant Puck

He’s got a dark soul. She’s got dark eyes.

Trying hard not to look but she wonders why.

He keeps his distance when she wants him near.

Fighting demons that she’ll never hear.

My breath catches in my throat. The words are too fucking perfect, too specific to be coincidence. I turn it up.

“Okay, brother,” I say, my voice rough. “I’m listening. I hear you.”

I listen to the rest of the song, letting the lyrics wash over me like some kind of permission slip. Maybe I can do this. Maybe I can be her friend first. Once upon a time, before everything went to shit, I actually had friendships. I didn’t just use women for pussy and meaningless hookups. I had real conversations, cared about people and their feelings.

Maybe I can be that guy again. But just for Sage. Not for anyone else.

When the song ends, I finally get out of the car and head inside, carrying this strange new plan with me. I’m going to prove to her that I’m more than just the monster everyone thinks I am.

Starting now.

Chapter 31

I stare at the guestroom, my belongings scattered across the hardwood floor like evidence of my complete lack of direction. The space is beautiful—floor-to-ceiling windows, crown molding, enough square footage for a small apartment—but it’s also painfully bare. No dresser, no chair, no hangers in the closet. Just a nightstand and a queen bed with expensive-looking linens and my entire life spread out in chaotic piles.

I sink onto the ground and start sorting through everything, creating organized piles. Work clothes in one pile, casual clothes in another, underwear and workout gear stacked neatly near the window where the afternoon light streams in.

It takes me hours to organize everything properly, my back aching from sitting on the floor. I search my phone for those plastic drawers that fall apart easily. But then I remember that this is temporary, and spending money on something dumb seems foolish.

My phone chimes with an email notification, and I’m grateful for the distraction. It’s from HR—formal language about Riley being replaced. I appreciate the heads up. They are requesting that I help her ease into the role. Yes!

After another twenty minutes of arranging and rearranging, my throat feels like sandpaper. I need water, and probably some food, though the thought of navigating Slater’s kitchen feels like entering awkward territory.

I pad down the hallway in my socks, the hardwood floors cool beneath my feet. The house is quiet except for the soft hum of appliances and the distant sound of someone typing.

Slater is sitting at the kitchen island with his back to me, hunched over his laptop in a way that suggests he’s been there for a while. His shoulders are broad, tapering to a waist that’s all lean muscle under his gray t-shirt. His dark hair is still slightly damp from a shower, curling at the edges.

I try to move quietly, not wanting to disturb whatever he’s working on, but the kitchen is unfamiliar. I open the first cabinet. Plates and bowls. The second reveals an impressive collection of protein powders and supplements. The third is filled with matching storage containers that have never seen a leftover.

“Cups are there,” Slater says pointing to the cabinet on the far right.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

I grab a glass carefully as I make my way to the refrigerator. It’s one of those massive stainless-steel monsters with a water dispenser in the door, and I fill my glass while ignoring Slater.

He’s focused on his screen, jaw tight with concentration, and there’s something almost vulnerable about seeing him like this. Not the cocky hockey player or the damaged bad boy, just a guy doing homework.

“Do you need a dresser for your clothes?” he asks, not looking at me.

I turn around and lean against the counter, drinking my water and considering the question. “This is only temporary, so I won’t need one.”

He shrugs, finally leaning back in his chair and meeting my eyes. “I’ll have it arranged.”

“Arranged?” I can’t help but mock the formal way he says it, like he’s ordering office supplies. “This is only temporary, so I won’t need one.”

“I’ll have it arranged,” he repeats, and this time it sounds like a demand rather than an offer.

I shrug and take another sip of water, deciding not to fight him on it. If he wants to spend his money on furniture I’ll only use for a few days, that’s his choice.

“How’s your hip?” I ask, genuinely curious. He was limping slightly when we got home from Milwaukee, though he was trying to hide it.

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