Page 40 of Exes That Puck
She nods and disappears inside. I wait until the door closes behind her, then drive home without checking my phone.
Back in my room by 1:30, I open the windows to air things out, I throw the towels I used to clean up in the washer and replace my flask with fresh water. The routine feels important somehow. Like I’m honoring what happened without trying to preserve it like a shrine.
A line burns on my tongue—something about how perfect tonight was, how much I missed her, how I hope she felt it too.Instead, I write it on a sticky note and stick it to my lamp:Listen first.
Morning comes early with practice, and I’m grateful for the structure. The familiar rhythm of skates on ice, the sharp bite of cold air in my lungs. I track the puck through traffic, call out clean communications.
“Mine.”
“Wheel.”
“Reverse.”
Fewer barks, more cues. The difference feels significant.
Coach gives me a chin lift during video review. His approval lands different than it used to. Like I earned it instead of demanding it.
“You finally slept?” Carter chirps as we’re changing out of gear.
I just grin and towel off my hair.
In the video session, I ask a neutral, team-first question instead of showing off. “Can we pinch weak-side if center’s under?”
Coach nods thoughtfully. “Good catch. Let’s work that in tomorrow.”
When the guys start jabbing Matt about his blown backcheck, I don’t pile on. Just listen, learn, let the moment pass without needing to be part of every conversation.
Dylan’s making eggs when I get home.
He says, “Hey, man, I wanted to talk to you about the extra room.”
“Yeah? Found someone?”
He nods. “Westley needs a place.”
“Nice, dude. Rent will be split three ways now?”
He nods, and I high-five him. “Fuck yeah. Sick.”
“He’s in there now.”
I laugh. “Okay.”
“Did I miss something?” he asks, studying my face. “You’re doing good.”
I shrug. “Yeah.”
“Well, whatever you’re doing, keep it up.” He puts the eggs on a plate.
Stats lecture passes without incident. I take actual notes, email the professor a clarifying question instead of just skipping. Lunch solo at the dining hall, avoiding the Instagram rabbit hole that would inevitably lead me to searching Kara’s stories.
Small wins add up.
Crossing the quad after my afternoon class, I spot familiar figures on the lawn. Kara with Payton and Emma, laughing at something on one of their phones. My pulse kicks up, hands automatically moving toward my pockets.
I keep walking. Don’t wave, don’t approach, don’t create an excuse to be in their orbit. Just pass by like any other student heading to his next destination.
The restraint burns, but it feels right.
