Page 106 of The Puckable Playbook

I grab his hand and pull him to a loveseat nearby. “Zaiah, I didn’t tell you because I was sure it wasn’t going to come to anything, but I wrote this piece on professional sports and up-and-coming athletes. You inspired me to do it with all the research about getting you a chance, and it’s the first piece that I sent off to major magazines.”

He blinks. “Oh.”

“I’ve heard back from the editor of Athletics, Inc… He likes it! He wants to talk.”

“That’s great,” Zaiah says, but his voice still sounds confused. “I thought you weren’t interested in writing about hockey?”

“It’s not about hockey, it’s about individual athletes.”

“Oh, so sports? I thought that was the sort of topic you would shy away from?”

The electricity zinging through me starts to fade. “It’s more of a human-interest piece. Sports is the background, the goal—the need, in some people’s case. Like yours.” I clear my throat. “You’re actually in the article. Your perseverance moved me, and I wanted to write about it.”

“Wow.” He sits back, staying silent. The longer it stretches, the worse I feel.

I should’ve let him read it, but I honestly thought nothing was going to come of this. It was a longshot. The kind of Hail Mary you take when the clock is winding down.

I sit back too, staring out over the lake. This is not how I expected to celebrate my first win. It’s not an offer of publication per se, but it could be. Editors don’t carve time out of their day for writers they’re not interested in.

“I’ll let you read the article,” I state.

“I wish you’d told me. How did you find out about it?”

“What do you mean? I researched editors and sent off a query along with the article.”

“No, here. How did you find out about it?”

“I got on the Wi-Fi to tell you where I was sitting and it popped up.”

He nods his head slowly, still not looking at me.

I stand, agitation building. Doesn’t he see how happy I am…was? I’m not going to sit here and let him dictate my mood. “You know, if you’d come running out of that locker room to tell me you had even one view on your YouTube video, I would’ve been jumping up and down with you.”

Fierce eyes finally meet mine. “Thanks for reminding me there aren’t any.”

My mouth drops. He can’t be serious. “You missed my point. The point is, it’s not the Zaiah show twenty-four fucking seven.”

I turn on my heels and make for the exit. I have absolutely no place to go besides the RV, but I’m not going to let him ruin my moment. This is bullshit.

“Hey,” he says, running up behind me. “I’m sorry. I—”

“Stop saying sorry and fix it,” I fume without looking back.

“Woah,” he grinds out, his sneakers crunching the gravel right behind me.

I stop with him, crossing my arms over my chest. It’s possible that was a little harsh—maybe—but he needs a reality check. Turning, I stare him down. “Zaiah, I just had great news, and you made it about you. I have dreams too, you know. What’s happening to me is the equivalent of you getting a call from a farm team. It’s a shot.”

His jaw clenches. Gaze stormy. “I don’t know what you wrote about me, and I’m embarrassed.”

“You think I would embarrass you? Really? Me?”

He runs his hands through his hair. “No, I guess not.”

“I’ve been nothing but supportive. I’ve been doing so much research for you. I took the initiative with your coach and got the laptop for the video. I’ve done nothing but try to help you, and you think I would write something that painted you in a bad light? Maybe my next article should be about unsupportive boyfriends.”

I turn, about to walk away again when he grabs my hand. “Lenore…” His voice cracks. “I had no idea I was coming across like that. Please. You have to believe me. You’re so smart. So talented. I feel like second string next to you, and I allowed it to get to my head.”

My shoulders deflate. Slowly facing him again, I see the regret in his eyes.

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