Page 99 of Exes That Puck
“Promise?”
“Promise. Even when it gets hard. Even when you mess up, or I mess up. I’m not running anymore.”
I pull her closer, memorizing the weight of her against me, the way she fits perfectly in the space between my arm and my chest. For the first time in months, maybe years, I’m not worried about tomorrow or next week or what might go wrong.
I’m just here, with her, and that’s more than enough.
Epilogue
Finals week is always so chaotic. I look up from my laptop where I’m studying the hell out of my notes, watching a group of stressed freshmen argue over a psychology assignment. One girl looks close to tears. I can’t take it anymore, so I stand up.
“Mind if I help?” I ask, approaching their table.
Ten minutes later, they understand attachment theory well enough to tackle their essays. As they pack up, the crying girl stops by my table.
“Thank you so much. I don’t want to fail this class.”
“You’ve got this,” I tell her. “Psychology’s supposed to be hard. It’s about understanding people, and people are complicated.”
She nods and hurries off. I return to my studies, smiling at the irony of me giving advice about understanding people.
My phone buzzes.
Zeke:Game ends at 9. Pick me up at 9:30?
Kara:Good luck, baby. See you then.
I close my textbook and head back to our apartment. The place still smells like the dinner I burned last night—ambitious attempt at homemade pizza that ended up being cereal for dinner instead. Zeke pretended it was fine, which is how I know therapy’s actually working on him.
I’m changing into jeans when Payton calls.
“Are you watching the game tonight?” she asks.
“Going to pick him up after. Why?”
“Because there are scouts there. Like, NHL scouts. Emma saw it on the team’s Instagram.”
My stomach does a small flip. We haven’t talked much about what happens after graduation, mostly because we’re still figuring out how to be good at this relationship thing in the present. But NHL means leaving town. Maybe leaving the state.
“He didn’t mention it,” I say.
“Maybe he doesn’t know?”
“Or maybe he does and doesn’t want to jinx it.”
After we hang up, I sit on our bed staring at my phone. The smart thing would be to text him good luck again, maybe with some encouragement about the scouts. The old me would’ve called him fifteen times demanding to know why he didn’t tell me.
The current me recognizes this feeling in my chest—that familiar panic about being left behind—and does what my therapist has taught me. I name it. I acknowledge it. Then I choose what to do with it.
I’m scared he’ll get drafted and leave without me. I’m scared I’ll hold him back if he does get drafted. I’m scared of being proud of him and terrified for our future at the same time.
All of this can be true. None of it means I need to create a crisis about it tonight.
I grab my keys and head to the rink.
The parking lot is packed, which is unusual for a Tuesday night game. Inside, the energy feels different too—sharper, more electric. I spot the men in suits immediately, clipboards out, watching warm-ups with the kind of focus that makes my palms sweat.
I find a seat halfway up the bleachers and try to watch the game like a normal girlfriend instead of someone whose boyfriend might be about to have his entire life change.
