Page 50 of Exes That Puck
I change Kara’s text tone back to default and delete the custom lockscreen photo—the one of her laughing at something I said after a home game. Small changes that feel bigger than they should.
The rink is quiet when I arrive forty minutes early. I settle into a corner of the film room with my tablet, rewatching penalty kill clips from last week’s game. The systematic breakdowns help quiet my brain, give me something concrete to focus on. I jot bullet notes in the margins: better gap control, tighter passing lanes, earlier pressure.
Carter walks in with coffee and sleep-messed hair. “Look who found religion.”
I smirk but keep my eyes on the screen. “Just trying to be ready.”
“For what, the NHL draft? We already know you’re good, Wilshire.”
I rewind a sequence where our PK unit got caught in a bad rotation. “Not good enough yet.”
Carter sits beside me, squinting at the footage. We watch three more clips in comfortable silence before Coach Mitchell appears in the doorway.
“Early birds,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Good to see.”
Practice flows better when I’m prepared. The focus drills feel natural—clean entries, crisp passes, reading the developing play instead of forcing it. I turn the puck over once on a bad angle pass and immediately skate to Coach for the rep again.
“Better,” he says after I complete it clean. “More of that.”
In the locker room, the group chat lights up with dinner plans. Matt’s complaining about his girlfriend again, something about her getting mad that he went out with us Friday night instead of staying in to watch movies.
“Stop texting paragraphs, dude,” Carter says, reading over his shoulder. “Girls hate essays.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re single.”
Carter turns to me with a knowing look. “What about you, Wilshire? You ghosting us for a date tonight?”
“Film, lift, sleep.” The words come out honest instead of defensive. For once, I actually mean them.
After practice, I sit in my truck with my phone in my hands. Kara’s message thread stares back at me, the cursor blinking in the empty text box. My fingers hover over the keyboard, muscle memory wanting to type something—anything—to maintain the connection.
I close the thread and send Dylan a TikTok of a guy failing at a trick shot instead. He responds with a shrug emoji and “leg day at 5?”
The weight room is nearly empty when we arrive. Dylan’s surprisingly focused today, working through his sets with more intensity than usual. Between his squats, I catch a whiff of something different—cologne, subtle but definitely new.
“You seeing someone?” I ask while loading plates onto the bar.
Dylan grins and deflects. “I’m seeing the gains.”
“Come on, man. I won’t say shit. You know my secret, so I’ll keep yours.”
He shakes his head, but there’s something lighter in his expression. “I have a personal trainer.”
“Oh, shit. Really?”
“Yeah.”
I rack the weight and face him fully. “Bring him out this weekend. We’re gonna win Friday, I can feel it. We’ll celebrate at Rocky’s.”
Dylan laughs, and there’s something different about it. “We’ll see.”
At home, I channel restless energy into cleaning. Laundry gets sorted and started. Dishes go in the dishwasher. I vacuum my room and toss a broken phone charger that’s been cluttering my desk for weeks. The new one I buy fits better anyway.
I clear everything off my nightstand except the essentials: flask, lamp, and a small notebook where I’ve been writing down things I want to remember.
While folding clean clothes, I find myself googling campus counseling services. The sports psychology page loads, and I stare at the “Request Intake” form for several minutes. Mycursor hovers over the first field. Name, student ID, simple stuff. I close the tab, then reopen it five minutes later.
This time I leave it up. Baby steps.
