Page 32 of The Puckable Playbook

“That’s it?”

“This is it,” she says, settling on the opposite end of the couch. She points to her head. “The magic happens in here.”

Her words trigger goose bumps up and down my arms. She gets right to work—head down, fingers flying across the keyboard. I can only stare.

The magic happens in here.

I like it. I love it, actually. I go back to watching tape with that in mind, tomorrow’s game starting to look like an amazing opportunity.

CHAPTER NINE

Len

All hockey arenassmell the same. It’s the ice. The chill in the air. The required snacks on offer. It’s familiar and brings up memories I’d rather forget. I doubt anyone else could’ve gotten me here but him.

Zaiah James.

His name alone brings up a torrent of conflicting thoughts. Ex-best friend’s ex-boyfriend. New roomie. Sweet. Caring. Off-limits.

Heartbreaker.

One thing is for sure, though, I always step outside my comfort zone when it comes to him.

He was at practice when I woke this morning, so I didn’t receive his expertise in dressing or makeup. I ended up copying what we did yesterday. One of the shirts I enjoy wearing paired with leggings. My trusty notebook is completing the ensemble, of course. I’m here to write a story, after all.

I spot Izzy in line for some popcorn, and I wave to get her attention. She calls me over. “We got your seat ready.”

My stomach dips. “Ready?”

“Oh, oh, oh, just you wait. You’re going to wish Z never saved you a ticket. It’s slightly mortifying. I’m glad he goes to school hours away now so my friends don’t have to witness my humiliation.”

I blink, the smile dropping off my face.

She must recognize the look of absolute horror because she laughs. “Yes, it’s that bad.”

What has he gotten me into? Should I run away now?

No wonder he smirked when he told me he had a ticket for me. And the near glint in his eyes last night when he said he’d see me at his game… It all makes sense now. He was pucking with me.

Well, joke’s on him because hockey practically raised me. When Zaiah was watching game tape, it was all I could do to keep my mouth shut and pretend I didn’t know anything. The truth is, my parents brought me home from the hospital in a hockey onesie—a gift from my father’s team. His actual team that heowns.

Yes, my father owns a professional hockey team. A pretty damn good one, too.

I attended practices when I was little. The players treated me like their good luck charm. When I was older, I sat in the fancy owner’s box, staring down at the excitement of competition below. I loved it…until it became apparent that I came second to a stick and a puck.

Absent due to business meetings and long trips to away games, my father missed dance recitals and school plays. My mother must’ve felt the same way because she split when I was two. I don’t even remember her.

So, I started caring less and less about hockey and found writing.

Sirens would be blaring in the background, the crowd cheering, and my attention would firmly stay on the paper in my lap. People would hug and slap hands over top of me, and I still wouldn’t move.

My stomach squeezes as mixed emotions roil through me. It’s been ages since I’ve actually watched a game on purpose, since I cheered for the players on the ice, since I cared about who won or lost.

I offer Izzy a worried smile. “Your brother seems to really love the game.”

“Obsessed is more like it. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do.”

I take a breath, reminding myself that cheering on Zaiah and being with my father in the box are two different things. I’m not giving in. I’m not forgiving my father’s neglect. I’m supporting a friend.

---