Page 108 of The Puckable Playbook

No. What’s up?

Nothing. I was only wondering.

Well, obviously, there’s something. You don’t write me random things, Z.

She’s been in her room all morning.

Maybe because you’re an idiot

My heart pounds.

Did she say something to you?

No, I just forgot the question mark. Are you an idiot? What did you do? You know she’s the best girlfriend you’ve ever had. Smart. Funny. Pretty. The trifecta.

When I don’t write anything, she texts again.

Why did you assume she said something to me? I really hope you didn’t do anything to her.

Geez, whose side would you be on?

Hers!

Never mind. Forget it.

Ha. I’m sure nothing’s wrong, big bro. She’s probably writing or something. The whole world doesn’t revolve around you.

That last comment sucker punches me in the gut. Talking to Iz isn’t helping at all. I put my phone away, sighing. I have to leave in ten. Iz is probably right. Maybe she’s writing. Maybe she doesn’t want to be disturbed this morning because she’s working on another article.

The convo she had with the editor from that magazine went really well, and they’re going to publish it. Not only that, but I also read it and it was phenomenal. She was right about it not being a hockey piece. It was a piece about goals and dreams and the determination of people to do those things with sports as a backdrop. The way she portrayed me was amazing. It was the kind of thing you would want people to write about you. She described me as driven and passionate, and not the loser I’d built up in my mind.

I turn the headphones off, the meditation clearly not working, then stretch a little before grabbing my bag. I can try again on the bus over to the rink.

Walking toward her room, I hear her voice. It’s soft, and I can’t tell if it’s muted because the door is closed or if she’s intentionally trying to be quiet. Without thinking, I knock and walk in.

Her gaze flies up to meet me. “That’s fantastic. Thank you so much,” she says into the phone before hanging up. She beams at me. “Hey.”

“Who was that?”

“Oh.” She hesitates. “My dad.”

My stomach drops. At least it’s good to know that she’s a terrible liar. “Yeah? What did he want?”

“To see how I was. You know, the usual.”

She’s collecting up stuff on her bed and putting them together, casually closing her laptop. On the comforter, her phone pings with a text, and I see the nameClarkbefore she swipes the message away.

Okay, what? This is so not like her. Before I can ask her if everything is okay, she says, “I’m going to be a little late for the game. I have to meet with Clark about the, um, paper, but I’ll be there.”

My shoulders slump. If she looked at me at all, she’d see there’s something wrong, but she doesn’t. Instead, she gets up from the bed, making sure everything is tidy and put away, all the while avoiding my gaze.

“What about the paper?”

“Oh, there’s some sort of emergency. You know how he is.”

“I thought you weren’t letting him walk all over you anymore?”

She finally peers up at me. “I’m not. This might actually be an emergency. If it’s not, I’ll be at the game earlier.”

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