Page 51 of Exes That Puck
The diner buzzes with the usual Sunday night crowd when we arrive. Our booth in the back corner has become routine. Carter sits across from me, Matt beside him, Dylan, Rocky, and Westley filling out the rest of the space. The conversation flows easily between forecheck schemes and complaints about the ref from last week’s game.
“So I’m officially subletting the third room,” Westley announces, stealing a fry from Carter’s plate. “Fair warning, I’m fining anyone who leaves protein shakers in the sink.”
“What’s the going rate for dishes violations?” Matt asks.
“Five bucks per offense. I’m not running a frat house.”
Carter grins. “Speaking of which, Dylan’s got a hot personal trainer.”
Dylan’s cheeks flush red. “I do not.”
“Bring her to the party this weekend,” Rocky says, leaning back in his chair. “Everyone should bring their girls this weekend. Celebrate the win properly.”
“We haven’t won yet,” Carter points out.
“We will. I can feel it.”
Carter starts to turn toward me. “So, you and Ka—”
I lift my hand before he can finish. “I’m good.”
The subject closes without argument. Westley smoothly transitions into a story about his teammate’s ridiculous pregame superstitions, and the conversation moves on.
We’re back home by 10:15. I go through my evening routine. Foam rolling on the living room floor, a long shower, proteinshake while reviewing notes from practice. The apartment settles into quiet around me, Dylan already in his room with music playing softly.
I open the counseling website again and fill in my name and student ID. The cursor blinks in the “Reason for seeking services” box, and I stare at it for a long time. Finally, I type, “Athletic performance and personal growth.” It feels honest without being too heavy.
I save the draft and close the laptop.
My phone sits face down on the nightstand, silent. I put on game film at low volume, letting the familiar sounds of skates and sticks wash over me. If Kara doesn’t text, I won’t double-message. The pattern has to break somewhere, and it might as well be with me.
At 11:56, my phone buzzes once. I glance at it—team schedule update from Coach, nothing urgent. I leave it where it is and focus on the screen, where players move through power play formations with mechanical precision.
Do the work. Let her set the pace.
The thought settles in my chest like a mantra as I drift toward sleep.
20
At 8:02, I close our door and sit on my bed with my palms open on my knees. Payton sits across from me on her bed, arms crossed, but her expression is softer than this morning.
“I’m sorry about this morning and the sneaking around,” I start. “I’m not trying to upset you.”
She uncrosses her arms, sighing. “It’s not about me, Kare. I don’t want to see you cry anymore. I don’t want you to get hurt. It’s a vicious pattern.” Her voice cracks slightly. “I’ve held you through too many nights. It wrecks me.”
The weight of that settles in my chest. All those phone calls, all the times she left class to walk me home, all the soup deliveries when I couldn’t eat.
“You did so much for me. I know. I’m grateful for you. I hate that I keep putting you in that position.”
“Then why do you keep going back?”
I look down at my hands. “I’m not asking you to approve of Zeke. I’m asking you to still be my best friend.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then nods slowly. “I’ll always be your bestie. But if he makes you miserable again, I’m pulling the fire alarm.”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Deal.”
“Let me hook you up with someone normal,” she says, leaning forward with renewed energy. “Low-drama. Smart. Cute.”
