Page 96 of Arrogant Puck

Her voice is quiet, uncertain. For a second, I almost stop. Almost explain that I need space to cool down before I do something that burns everything to the ground.

Instead, I don’t answer. Don’t even look at her. I walk out and slam the door hard enough that the sound echoes through the entire house.

The drive to campus is a blur of red lights and sharp turns. My mind won’t shut up. What did I do wrong? Was I too aggressive? Not aggressive enough? Should I have just taken what I wanted instead of asking permission like some kind of rookie?

By the time I park at the dorms, I’ve made a decision. I’m not going back tonight. I can’t face her, can’t pretend this push-and-pull bullshit doesn’t make me want to fucking rip someone’s head off.

Henderson better have alcohol, because I plan on drowning every thought of Sage until morning.

We play Fortnite until the early morning hours, the blue glow of the screen burning into my retinas. Davis passes out first, sprawled across Henderson’s roommate’s empty bed. Henderson follows around 1 AM, his controller slipping from his hands as he curls up on his own mattress.

I lean back in the bean bag Henderson uses as a desk chair, staring at the ceiling. The room is quiet except for their snoring and the distant hum of the building’s air conditioning. My mind keeps circling back to Sage, trying to decode what the hell happened.

She wanted me. I know she did. The way she kissed me back, the sounds she made, the way her body responded to mine—none of that was fake. So, what changed? What made her run?

I must fall asleep eventually because the next thing I know, Henderson is tripping over my legs.

“Shit, you’re still here, man?”

I stretch, my hip screaming in protest from sleeping on a bean bag all night. “Yeah, I’ll drive us to practice.”

Henderson doesn’t question it, just starts getting ready. Davis joins us twenty minutes later, looking like death warmed over. I drive us to the arena in silence, grateful they’re too tired to ask why I spent the night on their floor.

Once inside, I know I won’t run into Sage until later. We hit the locker room to gear up, and that’s when I see her round the corner with her new boss. The woman looks normal enough—mid-forties, professional, everything Sage probably wishes to be later in life.

Sage’s eyes find mine across the hallway, but I look away and head for the ice.

The first drill, I slam into Mitchell so hard he goes down and doesn’t get back up for ten seconds. Coach blows his whistle, but I’m already skating to the next position.

During scrimmage, I check Thompson into the boards with enough force to rattle the glass. The sound echoes through the arena like a gunshot. He bounces off and falls to his knees, gasping.

“Castellano! What the hell was that?” Coach yells.

I ignore him. Line up for the next play. When Davis tries to steal the puck, I drive my shoulder into his chest, sending him sprawling across the ice. My stick work is vicious—slashing at ankles, cross-checking anyone who gets too close.

“Jesus, Slater, chill out,” Belinsky pants during a water break.

I don’t respond. Just grab my stick and head back out.

The next shot I take flies past the goalie’s head and slams into the glass behind him so hard it spider-webs. Coach’s whistle is screaming now, but the sound just makes me skate harder. My hip is on fire, but I push through the pain, using it to fuel every brutal hit, every reckless play.

When practice ends, I strip off my gear, my mind already tracking Sage’s movements through the arena. She’s with the new PT. They’re making their rounds, checking on players, pretending everything’s normal.

I know Sage’s routine. Equipment room is always last.

The hallway stretches empty before me, fluorescent lights humming overhead like trapped insects. I position myself where the corridor narrows, where she’ll have to pass me. Where she can’t run.

My shoulders ache from the brutal practice, but it’s nothing compared to the weight sitting on my chest. The image of her pulling away last night plays on loop—the way she couldn’t get away fast enough.

Footsteps echo off the concrete walls. She rounds the corner with her eyes glued to those damn clipboards. Her head down, focused on whatever meaningless paperwork she’s carrying. When she looks up and sees me, she stops dead.

For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. I can see her calculating—looking for escape routes, ways around me. But there aren’t any.

“It’s a bad time, Slater.” Her voice is steady, professional. Like we’re strangers. “I need to get these reports to—”

“Your new boss can wait.” I step closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes.

“I can’t do this with you.” She tries to slip past me, but I shift my weight, blocking her path without touching her. “I’m at work.”

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