Page 32 of The Pucks We Freeze
Her voice cracked on the last word, just barely.
She dropped onto the couch and pulled her laptop onto her knees, fingers flying over the keys like she needed to make sense of this. I sat next to her—close enough that our legs touched but far enough that I could feel the distance growing inside her, like a storm building beneath the surface.
The screen glowed in the dark room, lighting up her face in soft blues and whites. She clicked through the photos she’d taken at the last game. There were dozens of them, frozen moments of speed and intensity. Blades carving ice. Faces blurred in motion. Collisions and celebrations.
We studied them together in silence. Frame after frame. But nothing jumped out.
No hidden faces. No shadows lurking in the crowd. No clues.
“Nothing,” I muttered. My jaw clenched as I sat back. “If they’re hiding in plain sight, they’re damn good at it.”
Willow reached over and nudged my knee. “You need sleep. If you’re going to face them tomorrow, you need to be sharp and not running on fumes.”
I looked at her, and for a second, I wanted to argue. Tell her there wasn’t time to rest, not when everything felt like it was slipping through my fingers. But then she gave me that look, the one that was soft but firm, the one that always made my resistance crumble.
“You win,” I said finally, shutting the laptop. “But I’m calling a team meeting first thing.”
She gave a small nod and leaned into me, letting her forehead rest against my shoulder. We didn’t say anything else as we got ready for bed, both too tired and too wound up to do anything more than breathe through the tension.
By the time I finally collapsed beside her, the sky outside had started to shift, the earliest shades of blue creeping into the black.
Willow was asleep before I was, her face turned toward me, lashes brushing her cheek. She looked peaceful in a way that made my throat tighten. I didn’t want this to end. Not the night. Not the week. Not whatever the hell this was between us.
I reached over, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, then leaned in and kissed her temple.
“I gotta go,” I whispered.
She stirred, not fully awake, her voice a drowsy mumble. “You coming back?”
I smiled against her skin. “After the game.”
Her eyes cracked open, heavy but clear. “I’ll be there. Camera in hand.”
I hesitated. “Your dad too?”
She nodded, pulling the blanket higher over her shoulder. “He wants to see you play. So does your mom.”
Something about that hit me hard. The idea of them sitting in the stands, cheering for me like we were already family. For a moment, none of the chaos surrounding us mattered.
I exhaled slowly. “Then I better make it count.”
She gave me the faintest smile when I repeated her words from the night before, her eyes slipped closed again.
And as I pulled on my jacket and stepped quietly into the morning light, the puck still burned in my pocket. Its message was clear.
I pulled into the hockey house driveway a few minutes later, gravel crunching beneath my tires as the sun barely peeked over the tree line. Owen’s Jeep was parked crooked in his usual spot like he’d come flying in half asleep. The whole place had that early morning hush, the kind that feels too calm before something blows.
Inside, Rowdy was slumped against the counter, hair a mess, nursing a half-empty shake like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His eyes tracked me from the moment I walked in.
Talon sat at the table, elbows braced and eyes locked on his phone. His thumb tapped rhythmically against the screen, the only sound in the room aside from the low hum of the fridge. He didn’t look up when I entered, but the tension in his shoulders said he’d been waiting.
“Everyone here?” I asked, shutting the door behind me and locking it out of habit.
“Just waiting on you,” Owen said, tossing me a chilled water bottle from the fridge. He was perched on the edge of the couch, his knee bouncing like he couldn’t sit still.
I caught the bottle and set it on the table. “Someone shattered my truck window last night. Launched a puck through it. Number twelve written across it in Sharpie.”
Rowdy straightened so fast he nearly knocked over his shake. “You’re kidding.”
